Our hero entered the institution September 23, 1854. It did not take him long to discover that the institution, like that at West Point, is controlled by the most rigid discipline possible. No stricter rules can be devised than those that prevail at the two institutions. I have heard it said by a West Point graduate that a cadet cannot sit down and breathe for twenty-four hours without violating some rule. The fact that a few men do escape being "skinned" -- that is, punished for derelictions of duty -- does not prove that they have not committed any indiscretions, but that they have escaped detection.

Hard, however, as was the road for Dewey to travel, he never shrank or turned aside, for he knew the same path had been traveled by all who had gone before him, and he reasoned that what man had done man could do, and he did it.

It will be noted that the future Admiral entered the Naval Academy at a stirring period in the history of our country, over which the coming Civil War already cast its awful shadow, and, as the months and years passed, the shadow darkened and grew more portentous until the red lightning rent the clouds apart and they rained blood and fire and woe and death.

At the Annapolis Academy the lines between the cadets from the North and the South were sharply drawn. They reflected the passions of their sections, and, being young and impulsive, there were hot words and fierce blows. As might be supposed, George Dewey was prominent in these affrays, for it has been said of him that there was never a fight in his neighborhood without his getting into the thickest of it.

One day a fiery Southerner called him a dough-face, whereupon Dewey let go straight from the shoulder and his insulter turned a backward somersault. Leaping to his feet, his face aflame with rage, he went at the Green Mountain Boy, who coolly awaited his attack, and they proceeded instantly to mix it up for some fifteen minutes in the most lively manner conceivable. At the end of that time the Southerner was so thoroughly trounced that he was unable to continue the fight.

It was not long before Dewey had a furious scrimmage with another cadet, whom he soundly whipped. He challenged Dewey to a duel, and Dewey instantly accepted the challenge. Seconds were chosen, weapons provided and the ground paced off. By that time the friends of the two parties, seeing that one of the young men, and possibly both, were certain to be killed, interfered, and, appealing to the authorities of the institution, the deadly meeting was prevented. These incidents attest the personal daring of Admiral Dewey, of whom it has been said that he never showed fear of any living man. Often during his stirring career was the attempt made to frighten him, and few have been placed in so many situations of peril and come out of them alive, but in none did he ever display anything that could possibly be mistaken for timidity. He was a brave man and a patriot in every fibre of his being.

A youth can be combative, personally brave and aggressive, and still be a good student, as was proven by the graduation of Dewey, fifth in a class of fourteen. As was the custom, he was ordered to a cruise before his final examination. He was a cadet on the steam frigate Wabash, which cruised in the Mediterranean squadron until 1859, when he returned to Annapolis and, upon examination, took rank as the leader of his class, proof that he had spent his time wisely while on what may be called his trial cruise. He went to his old home in Montpelier, where he was spending the days with his friends, when the country was startled and electrified by the news that Fort Sumter had been fired on in Charleston harbor and that civil war had begun. Dewey's patriotic blood was at the boiling point, and one week later, having been commissioned as lieutenant and assigned to the sloop of war Mississippi, he hurried thither to help in defence of the Union.

The Mississippi was a sidewheel steamer, carrying seventeen guns, and was destined to a thrilling career in the stirring operations of the West Gulf squadron, under the command of Captain David Glasgow Farragut, the greatest naval hero produced by the Civil War, and without a superior in all history.



Chapter II.

Dewey In The War For The Union.


No one needs to be reminded that the War for the Union was the greatest struggle of modern times. The task of bringing back to their allegiance those who had risen against the authority of the National Government was a gigantic one, and taxed the courage and resources of the country to the utmost. In order to make the war effective, it was necessary to enforce a rigorous blockade over three thousand miles of seacoast, open the Mississippi river, and overcome the large and well-officered armies in the field. The last was committed to the land forces, and it proved an exhausting and wearying struggle.

Among the most important steps was the second -- that of opening the Mississippi, which being accomplished, the Southwest, from which the Confederacy drew its immense supplies of cattle, would be cut off and a serious blow struck against the armed rebellion.

The river was sealed from Vicksburg to the Gulf of Mexico. At the former place extensive batteries had been erected and were defended by an army, while the river below bristled with batteries and guns in charge of brave men and skilful officers.

While General Grant undertook the task of reducing Vicksburg, Captain Farragut assumed the herculean work of forcing his way up the Mississippi and capturing New Orleans, the greatest commercial city in the South. Knowing that such an attack was certain to be made, the Confederates had neglected no precaution in the way of defence. Ninety miles below the city, and twenty miles above its mouth, at the Plaquemine Bend, were the forts of St. Philip and Jackson. The former, on the left bank, had forty-two heavy guns, including two mortars and a battery of four seacoast mortars, placed below the water battery. Fort Jackson, besides its water battery, mounted sixty-two guns, while above the forts were fourteen vessels, including the ironclad ram Manassas, and a partially completed floating battery, armored with railroad iron and called the Louisiana. New Orleans was defended by three thousand volunteers, most of the troops formerly there having been sent to the Confederate army in Tennessee.

The expedition against New Orleans was prepared with great care, and so many months were occupied that the enemy had all the notice they could ask in which to complete their preparations for its defence. The Union expedition consisted of six sloops of war, sixteen gunboats, twenty mortar schooners and five other vessels. The Mississippi, upon which young Dewey was serving as a lieutenant, was under the command of Melanethon Smith. The land troops numbered 15,000, and were in charge of General Benjamin F. Butler, of Massachusetts.

Farragut arrived in February, 1862, nearly two months after the beginning of preparations to force the river. When everything was in readiness the fleet moved cautiously up stream, on April 18, and a bombardment of Forts St. Philip and Jackson was opened, which lasted for three days, without accomplishing anything decisive. Farragut had carefully studied the situation, and, confident that the passage could be made, determined it should be done, no matter at what cost. On the night of the 23d his vessels were stripped of every rope and spar that could be spared, the masts and rigging of the gunboats and mortar vessels being trimmed with the limbs of trees, to conceal their identity from the Confederate watchers.

At two o'clock in the morning the signal was hoisted on the Hartford, Captain Farragut's flagship, and the fleet started in single line to run the fearful gauntlet. The Cayuga led, the Pensacola followed, and the Mississippi was third. The rebels had huge bonfires burning on both shores, and as the Pensacola came opposite the forts they opened their furious fire upon her.

A good deal of uneasiness prevailed in the Union fleet regarding the rebel rams. It was known they were formidable monsters, which the Confederates believed could smash and sink the whole Union squadron. While it was known that much was to be feared from the forts, it was the ironclads that formed the uncertain factor and magnified the real danger in many men's minds.

The Mississippi was hardly abreast of Fort St. Philip when the dreaded Manassas came plunging down the river out of the gloom at full speed, and headed directly for the Mississippi. She was not seen until so close that it was impossible to dodge her, and the ironclad struck the steamer on the port side, close to the mizzenmast, firing a gun at the same time. Fortunately the blow was a glancing one, though it opened a rent seven feet long and four inches deep in the steamer, which, being caught by the swift current on her starboard bow, was swept across to the Fort Jackson side of the river, so close indeed that her gunners and those in the fort exchanged curses and imprecations.

The passage of the forts by the Union vessels forms one of the most thrilling pictures in the history of the Civil War. The Hartford, like all the vessels, was subjected to a terrible fire, was assailed by the Confederate ironclads, and more than once was in imminent danger of being sent to the bottom. Following with the second division, Captain Farragut did not reply to the fire of the forts for a quarter of an hour. He hurled a broadside into St. Philip and was pushing through the dense smoke when a fire-raft, with a tug pushing her along, plunged out of the gloom toward the Hartford's port quarter. She swerved to elude this peril and ran aground close to St. Philip, which, recognizing her three ensigns and flag officer's flag, opened a savage fire, but luckily most of the shot passed too high.

There was no getting out of the way of the fire-raft, which, being jammed against the flagship, sent the flames through the portholes and up the oiled masts. The perfect discipline of the crew enabled them to extinguish the fire before it could do much damage, and the Hartford succeeded in backing into deep water and kept pounding Fort St. Philip so long as she was in range.

Without attempting to describe the battle in detail, we will give our attention to the Mississippi. Within an hour and a quarter of the time the leading vessel passed the forts, all had reached a safe point above, where they engaged in a furious fight with the Confederate flotilla, the smaller members of which were soon disabled or sunk.

Meanwhile the ironclad Manassas had been prowling at the heels of the Union squadron, but being discovered by the Mississippi, the steamer opened on her with so destructive a fire that the ram ran ashore and the crew scrambled over the bows and escaped. The Mississippi continued pounding her until she was completely wrecked. The loss of the Union fleet was thirty-seven killed and one hundred and forty-seven wounded, while the Confederate land forces had twelve killed and forty wounded. The Confederate flotilla must have lost as many men as the Unionists. Having safely passed all obstructions, Captain Farragut steamed up to the river to New Orleans, and the city surrendered April 25, formal possession being taken on May 1.

It will be admitted that Lieutenant Dewey had received his "baptism of fire."

It is the testimony of every one who saw him during the turmoil of battle that he conducted himself with the coolness and courage of a veteran. At no time during the passage of the forts and the desperate fighting with the Confederate flotilla above did he display the first evidence of nervousness or lack of self-possession.

The next engagement in which Lieutenant Dewey took part was the attempt by Farragut to pass the battery of nineteen guns, mounted on the hundred-foot high bluff of Port Hudson, on a bend of the Mississippi, below Vicksburg. The position was the most difficult conceivable to carry from the river, because of the plunging shots from the enormous guns on the bluff above.

Captain Farragut had no thought of reducing these batteries, which would have been impossible with a fleet double the strength of his, but he wished to get his vessels past in order to blockade the river above the bend. The attempt was made on the night of March 14, 1863, with the Hartford in the lead, and followed by the Richmond, Monongahela and Mississippi, with the smaller boats. The first three boats had as consorts the Albatross, Kineo and Genessee. Captain Mahan, in "The Gulf and Inland Waters," gives the following vivid description of this historical incident:

"As they drew near the batteries, the lowest of which the Hartford had already passed, the enemy threw up rockets and opened their fire. Prudence, and the fact of the best water being on the starboard hand, led the ships to hug the east shore of the river, passing so close under the Confederate guns that the speech of the gunners and troops could be distinguished. Along the shore, at the foot of the bluffs, powerful reflecting lamps, like those used on locomotives, had been placed to show the ships to the enemy as they passed, and for the same purpose large fires, already stacked on the opposite point, were lit. The fire of the fleet and from the shore soon raised a smoke which made these precautions useless, while it involved the ships in a danger greater than any from the enemy's guns. Settling down upon the water in a still, damp atmosphere, it soon hid everything from the eyes of the pilots. The flagship leading had the advantage of pushing often ahead of her own smoke; but those who followed ran into it and incurred a perplexity which increased from van to rear. At the bend of the river the current caught the Hartford on her port bow, sweeping her around with her head toward the batteries, and nearly on shore, her stern touching the ground slightly; but by her own efforts and the assistance of the Albatross she was backed clear. Then, the Albatross backing and the Hartford going ahead strong with the engine, her head was fairly pointed up the stream, and she passed by without serious injury. Deceived possibly by the report of the howitzers in her top, which were nearly on their own level, the Confederates did not depress their guns sufficiently to hit her as often as they did the ships that followed her. One killed and two wounded is her report; and one marine fell overboard, his cries for help being heard on board the other ships as they passed by, unable to save him."

If the capture of the batteries was impossible, their passage was almost equally so. The Richmond was so badly injured that she was compelled to turn down stream, having suffered a loss of three killed and fifteen wounded, while the Monongahela had six killed and twenty-one wounded before she was able to wrench herself loose from where she had grounded and drift out of range.

Now came the Mississippi, whose tragic fate is graphically told by Admiral Porter in his "Naval History of the Civil War":

"The steamship Mississippi, Captain Melancthon Smith, followed in the wake of the Monongahela, firing whenever her guns could be brought to bear. At 11:30 o'clock she reached the turn which seemed to give our vessels so much trouble, and Captain Smith was congratulating himself on the prospect of soon catching up with the flag officer, when his ship grounded and heeled over three streaks to port.

"The engines were instantly reversed and the port guns run in in order to bring her on an even keel, while the fire from her starboard battery was reopened on the forts. The engines were backed with all the steam that could be put upon them, and the backing was continued for thirty minutes, but without avail.

"It was now seen that it would be impossible to get the ship afloat.

"Captain Smith gave orders to spike the port battery and throw the guns overboard, but it was not done, for the enemy's fire was becoming so rapid and severe that the Captain deemed it judicious to abandon the ship at once in order to save the lives of the men.

"While preparations were being made to destroy the ship, the sick and wounded were lowered into boats and conveyed ashore, while the men at the starboard battery continued to fight in splendid style, firing at every flash of the enemy's guns. The small arms were thrown overboard, and all possible damage was done to the engine and everything else that might prove of use to the enemy.

"The ship was first set on fire in the forward storeroom, but three shots came through below her water-line and put out the flames. She was then set afire in four places aft, and when the flames were well under way, so as to make her destruction certain, Captain Smith and his first lieutenant (George Dewey) left the ship, all the officers and crew having been landed before.

"The Mississippi was soon ablaze fore and aft, and as she was now relieved of a great deal of weight -- by the removal of her crew and the destruction of her upper works -- she floated off the bank and drifted down the river, much to the danger of the Union vessels below. But she passed without doing them any injury, and at 5:30 o'clock blew up and went to the bottom."

When the time came for the crew to save themselves as best they could, all sprang overboard and struck out for shore. A little way from the blazing steamer a poor sailor was struggling hard to save himself, but one arm was palsied from a wound, and he must have drowned but for Dewey, who swam powerfully to him, helped him to a floating piece of wreckage and towed him safely to land.

The lieutenant was now transferred to one of the gunboats of Admiral Farragut's squadron and engaged in patrol duty between Cairo and Vicksburg.

The latter surrendered to General Grant July 4, 1863, and the river was opened from its source to the Gulf. Early in 1864 the lieutenant was made executive officer of the gunboat Agawam, and when attached to the North Atlantic squadron, took part in the attack on Fort Fisher, one of the strongest of forts, which, standing at the entrance of Cape Fear river, was so efficient a protection to Wilmington that the city became the chief port in the Confederacy for blockade runners. Indeed, its blockade was a nullity, despite the most determined efforts of the Union fleet to keep it closed. The Confederate cruisers advertised their regular days for departure, and they ran upon schedule time, even women and children taking passage upon the swift steamers with scarcely a fear that they would not be able to steam in and out of the river whenever the navigators of the craft chose to do so.

The first attempt against Fort Fisher was in the latter part of December, 1864, but, though the fleet was numerous and powerful, and the greatest gallantry was displayed, the attack was unsuccessful. General Butler, in command of the land troops, after a careful examination of the Confederate works, pronounced capture impossible and refused to sacrifice his men in a useless attack. Nevertheless the attempt was renewed January 12, when General Alfred Terry had charge of the land forces. The garrison made one of the bravest defences of the whole war, and the hand-to-hand fight was of the most furious character. It lasted for five hours, when the fort was obliged to surrender, the garrison of 2,300 men becoming prisoners of war. It was in this fearful struggle that Ensign "Bob" Evans, who was with the naval force that charged up the unprotected beach, was so frightfully wounded that it was believed he could not live. When the surgeon made ready to amputate his shattered leg, Bob, who had secured possession of a loaded revolver, swore he would shoot any man who touched the limb with such purpose. Perforce he was left alone, and in due time fully recovered, though lamed for life.

Lieutenant Dewey was one of the most active of the young officers in the attack on Fort Fisher, and conducted himself with so much bravery and skill, executing one of the most difficult and dangerous movements in the heat of the conflict, that he was highly complimented by his superior officers.

But peace soon came, and a generation was to pass before his name was again associated with naval exploits. In March, 1865, he was promoted to the rank of lieutenant-commander and assigned to duty on the Kearsarge, the vessel that acquired undying glory for sinking the Alabama, off Cherbourg, France, during the previous July. Early in 1867 he was ordered home from the European station and assigned to duty at the Kittery Navy Yard, at Portsmouth, New Hampshire.

While at this station he became acquainted with Miss Susan B. Goodwin, daughter of the "war Governor" of New Hampshire. She was an accomplished young woman, to whom the naval officer was married, October 24, 1867. Their all too brief wedded life was ideally happy, but she died December 28, 1872, a few days after the birth of a son, named George Goodwin, in honor of his grandfather.

From 1873 to 1876 Dewey was engaged in making surveys on the Pacific coast; he commanded the Juniata on the Asiatic squadron in 1882-83, and the following year was made captain and placed in charge of the Dolphin, one of the original "white squadron." Next came service in Washington as Chief of the Bureau of Equipment and Recruiting, as member of the Lighthouse Board and president of the Board of Inspection and Survey (he being made commodore February 28, 1896), until 1897, when he was placed in command of the Asiatic squadron, much against his will.



Chapter III.

Dewey In The War With Spain.


While engaged with his duties in Washington, Commodore Dewey found his close confinement to work had affected his health. Naturally strong and rugged, accustomed to the ozone of the ocean and toned up by the variety of the service, even in times of peace, the monotony of a continual round of the same duties told upon him, and his physician advised him to apply for sea service. He knew the counsel was wise and he made application, which was granted.

Assistant Secretary of War Theodore Roosevelt, after a careful study of the record of the different naval commanders, was convinced that George Dewey deserved one of the most important commands at the disposal of the Government. The impetuous official was certain that war with Spain was at hand, and that one of the most effective blows against that tyrannous power could be struck in the far East, where the group of islands known as the Philippines constituted her most princely possessions.

The assignment, as has been stated, was not pleasing to Dewey, because he and others believed the real hard fighting must take place in European or Atlantic waters. We all know the uneasiness that prevailed for weeks over the destination of the Spanish fleet under Admiral Cervera. Dewey wanted to meet him and do some fighting that would recall his services when a lieutenant in the Civil War, and he saw no chance of securing the chance on the other side of the world, but Roosevelt was persistent, and, against the wishes of the Naval Board, he obtained his assignment as flag officer of the Asiatic squadron.

Commodore Dewey felt that the first duty of an officer is to obey, and after a farewell dinner given by his friends at the Metropolitan Club in Arlington, he hurriedly completed his preparations, and, starting for Hong Kong, duly reached that port, where, on January 3, 1898, he hoisted his flag on the Olympia.

The official records show that the Olympia was ordered home, but Roosevelt, in a confidential dispatch of February 25, directed Commodore Dewey to remain, to prepare his squadron for offensive operations, and, as soon as war broke out with Spain, to steam to the Philippines and hit the enemy as hard as he knew how. Meanwhile ammunition and supplies were hurried across the continent to San Francisco as fast as express trains could carry them, and were sent thence by steamer to Hong Kong, where they were eagerly received by the waiting Commodore.

Reverting to those stirring days, it will be recalled that the Queen Regent of Spain declared war against the United States on April 24, 1898, to which we replied that war had begun three days earlier, when the Madrid government dismissed our minister and handed him his passports. Then followed, or rather were continued, the vigorous preparations on the part of our authorities for the prosecution of the war to a prompt and decisive end.

Commodore Dewey's squadron lay at anchor in the harbor of Hong Kong, awaiting the momentous news from Washington. When it reached the commander it was accompanied by an order to capture or destroy the enemy's fleet at Manila. Almost at the same time Great Britain issued her proclamation of neutrality, the terms of which compelled Dewey to leave the British port of Hong Kong within twenty-four hours. He did so, steaming to Mirs Bay, a Chinese port near at hand, where he completed his preparations for battle, and on the 27th of April steamed out of the harbor on his way to Manila.

The city of Manila, with a population numbering about a quarter of a million, lies on the western side of Luzon, the principal island, with a magnificent bay in front, extensive enough to permit all the navies of the world to manoeuvre with plenty of elbow room. The entrance to the immense bay is seven miles wide and contains two islands, Corregidor and Caballo, both of which were powerfully fortified, the works containing a number of modern guns. Torpedoes were stretched across the channel and the bay abounded with enough mines and torpedoes, it would seem, to blow any fleet of ironclads to atoms as soon as it dared to try to force an entrance into the waters. Some twenty miles beyond lay the city of Manila, and about ten miles to the south was Cavité, constituting the strongly fortified part of the city proper.

Of course the Spanish spies were on the watch in Hong Kong, and while the American squadron was steaming out of the bay the news was telegraphed to the authorities at Manila, who knew that the real destination of the enemy was that city. Every effort was made to keep the matter a secret, but it was impossible, and it soon became known to everybody that the American "pigs" were coming, and that Manila must fall, if the Spanish fleet were unable to beat off the enemy.

The Spaniards proclaimed that they would send every one of the American vessels to the bottom; but they had made similar boasts before, and their bombast did not quiet the fears of the people, among whom a panic quickly spread. Those who were able to do so gathered their valuables and took refuge on the merchant ships in the harbor and thanked heaven when they bore them away. Many others fled from the city, but the majority stayed, grimly determined to be in at the death and accept whatever fate was in store for them.

The distance between Hong Kong and Manila is 630 miles, and it needed only a little figuring on the part of the inhabitants to decide that the dreaded squadron would be due on the following Saturday evening or early the next morning, which would be the first of May. The self-confidence of Admiral Montojo and his officers was almost sublime. All they asked was a fair chance at the "American pigs." They hoped that nothing would occur to prevent the coming of the fleet, for the Spaniards would never cease to mourn if the golden opportunity were allowed to slip from their grasp. They were not disappointed in that respect.

It is proper to give at this point the respective strength of the American and Spanish fleets. The squadron under the command of Commodore Dewey was as follows:

Olympia -- Protected cruiser (flagship), 5,500 tons. Speed, 21.7 knots. Complement, 450. Armor, protected deck, 2 inches to 4-3/4 inches. Guns, main battery, four 8-inch, ten 5-inch, rapid-fire; secondary battery, rapid-fire, fourteen 6-pound, seven 1-pound, four Gatlings, one field gun and five torpedo tubes. Captain Charles V. Gridley.

Baltimore -- Protected cruiser, 4,400 tons. Speed, 20.1 knots. Complement, 386. Armor, 2-1/2 inches to 4 inches. Guns, main battery, four 8-inch, six 6-inch, slow-fire; secondary battery, rapid-fire, four 6-pound, two 3-pound, two 1-pound, four 37 MM. Hotchkiss, two Colts, one field gun and five torpedo tubes. Captain N.M. Dyer.

Raleigh -- Protected cruiser, 3,213 tons. Speed, 19 knots. Armor, 1 inch to 2-1/2 inches. Guns, one 6-inch, rapid-fire, ten 5-inch; secondary battery, eight 6-pounders, four 1-pounders, and two machine guns. Complement, 320. Captain J.B. Coghlan.

Boston -- Protected cruiser, 3,189 tons. Speed, 15.6 knots. Complement, 270. Armor, 1-1/2 inch deck. Guns, main battery, two 8-inch and six 6-inch rifles; secondary battery, rapid-fire, two 6-pounders and two 3-pounders. Captain F. Wildes.

Petrel -- Fourth-rate cruiser, 890 tons. Speed, 13.7 knots. Guns, four 6-inch, two 3-pounder rapid-fire, one 1-pounder, and four machine guns. Commander E.P. Wood.

Concord -- Gunboat, 1,710 tons. Speed, 16.8 knots. Armor, 3/8-inch deck. Guns, main battery, six 6-inch rifles. Commander Asa Walker.

Hugh McCulloch -- Revenue cutter, light battery of rapid-fire guns.

Zafiro -- Auxiliary cruiser: supply vessel.

The vessels under command of Admiral Montojo were the following:

Reina Cristina -- Cruiser (flagship). Built in 1887, iron, 3,090 tons, 14 to 17.5 knots, according to draught, and a main battery of six 6.2-inch rifles.

Castilla -- Cruiser, built in 1881, wood, 3,342 tons, 14 knots, and four 5.9-inch Krupps and two 4.7-inch Krupps in her main battery.

Velasco -- Small cruiser, built in 1881, iron, 1,139 tons, and three 6-inch Armstrongs in her main battery.

Don Juan de Austria -- Small cruiser, completed in 1887, iron, 1,152 tons, 13 to 14 knots, and four 4.7-inch rifles in her main battery.

Don Antonio de Ulloa -- Small cruiser, iron, 1,152 tons. Four 4.7-inch Hontoria guns; two 2.7-inch, two quick-firing; two 1.5-inch; five muzzle loaders.

Gunboats Paragua, Callao, Samar, Pampagna, and Arayat, built 1881-6, steel, 137 tons, 10 knots, and each mounting two quick-firing guns.

Gunboats Mariveles and Mindoro, built in 1886 and 1885, iron, 142 tons, 10 knots, each mounting one 2.7-inch rifle and four machine guns.

Gunboat Manileno, built in 1887, wood, 142 tons, 9 knots, and mounting three 3.5-inch rifles.

Gunboats El Cano and General Lezo, built in 1885, iron, 528 tons, 10 to nearly 12 knots, and each mounting three 3.5-inch rifles.

Gunboat Marquis Del Duero, built in 1875, iron, 500 tons, 10 knots, and mounting one 6.2-inch and two 4.7-inch rifles.

*    *    *    *    *

Through the bright sunshine and when the stars twinkled in the sky or the full moon rode overhead, the American ships steamed to the southeast across the heaving China Sea. The Stars and Stripes fluttered in the breeze and there was a feeling of expectancy on board the grim engines of war, that had laid aside every possible encumbrance, and like prize-fighters were stripped to the buff and eager for battle.

The run was a smooth one, and as the sun was sinking in the sky Commodore Dewey, peering through his glass, caught the faint outlines of Corregidor Island, and dimly beyond the flickering haze revealed the Spanish fleet in the calm bay. The Commodore had been in that part of the world before, and while waiting at Hong Kong had gathered all the knowledge possible of the defences of Manila. He knew the fort was powerfully fortified and the bay mined, and knowing all this, he remembered the exclamation of his immortal instructor in the science of war, the peerless Farragut, when he was driving his squadron into Mobile Bay. Recalling that occurrence, Commodore Dewey joined in spirit in repeating the words:

"D --  --  the torpedoes!"

It was still many miles to the entrance, and night closed in while the squadron was ploughing through the sea that broke in tumbling foam at the bows and spread far away in snowy wakes at the rear. All lights were put out, the full moon again climbed the sky and the shadowy leviathans plunged through the waters straight for the opening of the bay, guarded by the fort and batteries, with the Spanish fleet beyond, defiantly awaiting the coming of the American squadron.

Suddenly from Corregidor Island the darkness was lit up by a vivid flash, a thunderous boom traveled across the bay, and the heavy shot tore its way screaming over the Raleigh, quickly followed by a second, which fell astern of the Olympia and Raleigh. The Spaniards had discovered the approach of the squadron. The Raleigh, Concord, and Boston replied; all the shots being fired with remarkable accuracy.

One may imagine the consternation in Manila when the boom of those guns rolled in from the bay, for none could mistake its meaning. Women and children ran to the churches and knelt in frenzied prayer; men dashed to and fro, not knowing what to do, while the Spanish soldiers, who had not believed the American ships could ever pass the harbor torpedoes and mines, were in a wild panic when they learned that the seemingly impossible had been done. To add to the terror, rumors spread that the ferocious natives were gathering at the rear of the city to rush in and plunder and kill.

When at last the morning light appeared in the sky, the Americans saw tens of thousands of people crowded along the shore, gazing in terror out on the bay where rode the hostile fleets, soon to close in deadly battle. Commodore Dewey coolly scanned the hostile vessels, and grasping the whole situation, as may be said, at a glance, led in the attack on the enemy.

While approaching Cavité two mines exploded directly in front of the Olympia. The roar was tremendous and the water was flung hundreds of feet in the air. Without swerving an inch or halting, Dewey signalled to the other vessels to pay no attention to the torpedoes, but to steam straight ahead. It was virtually a repetition of the more emphatic command of Farragut in Mobile Bay, uttered thirty-four years before.

The batteries on shore let fly at the ships, and the first reply was made by Captain Coghlan of the Raleigh. The Olympia had led the way into the harbor, and she now headed for the centre of the Spanish fleet. Calmly watching everything in his field of vision, and knowing when the exact moment arrived for the beginning of the appalling work, Commodore Dewey, cool, alert, attired in white duck uniform and a golf cap, turned to Captain Gridley and said in his ordinary conversational tone:

"Gridley, you may fire when ready."

A series of sharp, crackling sounds followed, like exploding Chinese crackers, and then the thunderous roars and a vast volume of smoke rolled over the bay and enveloped the warships that were pouring their deadly fire into the Spanish vessels. The American ships, in order to disconcert the aim of the batteries of the enemy, moved slowly in their terrible ellipses or loops, their sides spouting crimson flame and answered by the shots of the Spaniards, who fought with a courage deserving of all praise. The manoeuvring of the American ships led the breathless swarms on shore to believe they were suffering defeat, and an exultant telegram to that effect was cabled to Madrid, nearly ten thousand miles away, where it caused a wild but short-lived rejoicing.

At half-past seven there was a lull. Commodore Dewey drew off to replenish his magazines, of whose shortness of supply he had received disturbing reports. Advantage was taken of the cessation to give the men breakfast, for it is a well accepted principle that sailors as well as soldiers fight best upon full stomachs. As the wind blew aside the dense smoke, it was seen that the Reina Cristina, the Spanish flagship, was in flames. Hardly two hours later the American squadron advanced again to the attack, and Admiral Montojo was observed to transfer his flag from the doomed Reina Cristina to the Isla de Cuba, which soon after was also ablaze. Amid the crash and roar of the ponderous guns sounded the shrieks and cries of mortal agony from the Spanish crews, victims to the matchless gunnery of the Americans.

The latter pressed their advantage remorselessly. The Don Juan de Austria was the centre of the heaviest fire, and suddenly a part of the deck flew upward in the air, carrying with it scores of dead and wounded. A shot had exploded one of her magazines, and at the sight of the awful results Admiral Montojo threw up his arms in despair. The crew refused to leave the blazing ship, and cursing and praying they went down with her. Then the Castilla burst into one mass of roaring flame, and the rest of the defeated fleet skurried down the long narrow isle behind Cavité. Others dashed up a small creek, where they grounded, and those that were left ran ashore. By half-past eleven the batteries of Cavité were silenced, the Spanish fleet was destroyed, and the victorious Americans broke into ringing cheers. The battle of Manila, one of the most remarkable in naval annals, was won and Commodore Dewey took rank among the greatest of all the heroes of the sea.

What a marvellous record! Of the Spaniards, the dead and wounded numbered nearly a thousand, while not a single life had been lost by the American squadron. Several were wounded, but none seriously. No such victory between ironclads has thus far taken place in the history of the world. In the face of mines, torpedoes and shore batteries, Commodore Dewey had won an overwhelming and crushing victory. The power of Spain in the Philippines was forever destroyed, and another glorious victory had been added to the long list that illumines the story of the American navy.

It was easy for Dewey to compel the surrender of Manila, but with the prudence that always guides him, he decided that since his force was not strong enough to occupy and hold the city, to await the arrival of reinforcements from the United States. They reached Manila the following August, and, under command of General Wesley Merritt and aided by the fleet, Manila surrendered, almost at the same hour that the representatives of Spain and our own officials in Washington signed the protocol that marked the cessation of war between the two countries.

Now came long and trying weeks and months to Rear Admiral Dewey, he having been promoted upon receipt of news of his great victory. Peerless as was his conduct during offensive operations, it was surpassed in many respects by his course throughout the exasperating period named. Germany and France were unfriendly and Aguinaldo treacherous, though Great Britain and Japan were ardent in their sympathy for the United States. Germany especially was a constant cause of irritation to Admiral Dewey, whose patience was often tried to the utmost verge. To his tact, prudence, self-control, firmness, diplomacy and masterful wisdom were due the fact that no complication with foreign powers occurred and that the United States escaped a tremendous war, whose consequences no one could foresee or calculate.

Everybody instinctively felt that Admiral Dewey was the real hero of our war with Spain. The wish was general that he should return home in order that his countrymen might have opportunity to show their appreciation of him and to give him fitting honors.

And nothing could be more repugnant than all this to the naval hero, who is as modest as he is brave. Besides, he felt that his work was by no means finished in the far East, for, as has been shown, there was need of delicate diplomacy, prudence and statesmanship. He asked to be allowed to stay, and he did so, until, the main difficulty being passed, and his health feeling the result of the tremendous strain that was never relaxed, he finally set sail in the Olympia for home, leaving Hong Kong in May, and, one year after his great victory, proceeding at a leisurely rate that did not bring him to his native shores until the cool breezes of autumn. On the long voyage hither he was shown the highest honors everywhere, and Washington or Lincoln could not have received more grateful homage than was paid to him by his countrymen, whom he had served so long, so faithfully and so well.

Meanwhile, it should be added, that the rank of full Admiral of the navy, hitherto borne only by David Glasgow Farragut and David Dixon Porter, was revived and bestowed, in February, 1899, upon George Dewey, and of the three none has worn the exalted honor more worthily than the Green Mountain Boy, who has proven himself the born gentleman and fighter, the thorough patriot and statesman and the Chevalier Bayard of the American navy.



The Revolutionary Battles.



Chapter IV.


Birth of the American Navy -- The Privateers -- Capture of New Providence, in the Bahamas -- Paul Jones -- A Clever Exploit -- A Skilful Escape -- Fine Seamanship -- An Audacious Scheme.



When, on April 19, 1775, the battle of Lexington opened the Revolution the Colonies did not possess a single ship with which to form the beginning of a navy. They had for many years been actively engaged in the coasting trade and some of their vessels did valiant service on the side of England in the wars against France and Spain. We had a good many hardy, skilled seamen, who formed the best material from which to man a navy, and before long Congress undertook the work of building one. That body ordered the construction of thirteen frigates -- one for each State -- and some of these did noble work, but by the close of the war few of them were left; nearly all had been captured or destroyed.

It was far different with the privateers, which were vessels fitted out by private parties, under the authority of Congress, to cruise the seas wherever they chose and capture English vessels wherever they could. When a prize was taken the lucky officers and crews divided the plunder. It was a very tempting field for the brave and enterprising Americans and when, in March, 1776, Congress gave them permission to fit out and sail privateers, they were quick to use the chance of securing prize money as it was called. Those swift sailing vessels and their daring crews sailed out of Salem, Cape Ann, Newburyport, Bristol and other seacoast towns, and they did not have to hunt long before they found the richest sort of prizes. In the single year 1776 these privateers captured 342 British vessels and wrought great havoc among the English shipping.

In January, 1778, one of these privateers entered the harbor of New Providence, in the Bahamas, and captured the fort and a sixteen-gun man-of-war. Many other valiant exploits were performed and before long some of the more daring privateers boldly crossed the Atlantic and by their deeds threw the coast of Great Britain into consternation.

Among the most remarkable of these naval heroes was a young Scotchman, not quite thirty years old.

He had been trained in the merchant service and had become a skilful sailor before he removed to Virginia, where he made his home. He devotedly loved his adopted country, and, when the war broke out between the colonies and Great Britain, and the long, hard struggle for independence began, he was among the very first to offer his services on the side of liberty. His character was so well known and appreciated that he was appointed a first lieutenant. I am sure you have all heard of him, for his name was John Paul Jones, though since, for some reason or other, he dropped his first name and is generally referred to simply as Paul Jones.

His first service was on the Alfred, which helped in the capture of the fort at New Providence, already spoken of. Jones with his own hands hoisted the first flag displayed on an American man-of-war. It was of yellow silk, with the device of a rattlesnake, and bore the motto, "Don't tread on me."

Jones attracted such favorable attention during this enterprise that on his return he was made commander of the twelve-ton brig Providence and was employed for a time in carrying troops from Rhode Island to New York. Since he was by birth a citizen of Great Britain, which then insisted that "once a British subject always a British subject," the English cruisers made determined efforts to capture him. Many of the officers declared that if they could lay hands on the audacious freebooter, as they called him, they would hang him at the yard arm. But, before doing so, they had to catch him, and that proved a harder task than they suspected. He was chased many times and often fired into, but the Providence was always swift enough to show a clean pair of heels to her pursuers and Jones himself was such a fine sailor that he laughed at their efforts to take him prisoner.

One of the cleverest exploits of Jones was performed in the autumn of 1776. He saw an American brig returning from the West Indies, heavily laden with supplies for Washington's army, which was badly in need of them. A British frigate was in hot pursuit of the American, which was straining every nerve to escape, but would not have been able to do so except for Jones, who ran in between the two, and, firing into the frigate, induced her to let the American go and chase him. Taking advantage of the chance thus offered, the brig got safely away and then Jones himself dodged away from the frigate, which thus lost both.

In the month of October, 1776, Jones was promoted to the rank of captain and ordered to cruise between Boston and the Delaware. I must tell you an anecdote which illustrates his wonderful seamanship.

Some weeks before he was made a captain, and while cruising off Bermuda, he saw five sail far to the windward and he beat up, doing so carefully and with the purpose of finding out whether there was a chance for him to strike an effective blow. He picked out what looked like a large merchant ship and gave chase. He gained fast, but to his dismay, when he was quite close, he discovered that instead of a merchant ship he had almost run into a twenty-eight gun frigate of the enemy.

Finding he had caught a Tartar, Jones did the only thing left to him. He hauled off and put on every stitch of sail and the frigate did the same. She proved the better sailer, and, though she gained slowly, it was surely, and in the course of a few hours she had approached within musket shot of the brig's lee quarter. There seemed no possible escape for Jones, knowing which, he did a remarkable thing. He veered off until the frigate was almost astern, when he put about dead before the wind, with every yard of canvas set.

The Englishman was dumfounded by the daring manoeuvre, which brought the American within pistol shot, for he did not fire a gun until Jones was beyond reach of his grape. The pursuit was continued hour after hour, but the brig was now at her best and finally left her pursuer hopelessly astern. When the Providence ran into Newport in October she had captured or destroyed fifteen prizes.

Jones's bold and skilful seamanship drew attention to him and he was now given command of the 24-gun ship Alfred, while Captain Hacker took charge of the Providence. The two vessels started on a cruise in company and some days later the Alfred fell in with three British vessels, and, after a brisk action, captured them all. One proved to be a transport with 150 men and a large amount of supplies for Burgoyne's army, which was at that time organizing in Montreal for its notable campaign through New York, where it was captured by General Gates, at Saratoga.

This transport was so valuable that Jones, instead of putting a prize crew on board, determined to take her into port, and, if in danger of capture from pursuit, he meant to sink her. It began snowing the following night and the Providence and Alfred were obliged to separate.

Jones was making for Boston when he was discovered by the frigate that he had outwitted two months before, when the Providence narrowly escaped capture. Night was closing in and the frigate being to windward, her outlines were indistinct. Captain Jones ordered his prizes to steer southward and to pay no attention to the signals displayed on his own vessel. At midnight he hoisted a toplight and tacked to the west, knowing the others would continue to the southward as he had directed. The strategem was successful, for at daylight the frigate was pressing hard after the Alfred, while the prizes had disappeared. The Alfred eluded her enemy as before, and, upon reaching Boston, Jones found his captives awaiting him.

An idea of the effectiveness of the privateers may be gained by the statement that during the year 1777 nearly 500 vessels were captured by them. By that time Paul Jones had proven himself to be the finest officer in the American Navy. He had every quality to make him such. No one could surpass him in seamanship. He was cool and daring and was animated by the highest patriotism for his adopted country. Such a man was sure to be heard of again, as Great Britain learned to her cost.

France had shown a strong liking for the American colonies from the first. No doubt this liking was influenced by her hatred of England, for the nations had been bitter rivals for years. We had sent several commissioners to Paris, and they did a good deal for our country. The commissioners had a heavy, single-decked frigate built in Holland, which was named the South Carolinian and was intended for Paul Jones, but some difficulties occurred and he was sent to sea in the 18-gun ship Ranger, which left Portsmouth, N.H., at the beginning of November. She was so poorly equipped that Jones complained, though he did not hesitate on that account.

On the way to Nantes, in France, the Ranger captured two prizes, refitted at Brest, and in April, 1778, sailed for the British coast. Having made several captures, Captain Jones headed for the Isle of Man, his intention being to make a descent upon Whitehaven. A violent wind that night baffled him, and, hoping to prevent his presence in the section from being discovered, he kept his vessel disguised as a merchantman. Sailing hither and thither, generally capturing all vessels that he sighted, he finally turned across to the Irish coast and in the latter part of the month was off Carrickfergus, where he learned from some fishermen that the British sloop-of-war Drake was at anchor in the roads. Jones was exceedingly anxious to attack her, and planned a night surprise, but again the violent wind interfered and he was forced to give up the scheme, so well suited to his daring nature.

This brave man now set out to execute one of the most startling schemes that can be imagined. Whitehaven at that time was a city of 50,000 inhabitants and the harbor was filled with shipping. His plan was to sail in among the craft and burn them all. It seemed like the idea of a man bereft of his senses, but there was not the slightest hesitation on his part. Such enterprises often succeed through their very boldness, and his belief was that by acting quickly he could accomplish his purpose and strike a blow at England that would carry consternation to the people and the government.

Captain Jones had in mind the many outrages committed by British vessels along our seacoast, for, describing his purpose in a memorial to Congress, he said his intention was, by one good fire in England of British shipping, "to put an end to all burnings in America."



Chapter V.


A Daring Attempt by Captain Paul Jones -- Why It Failed -- A Bold Scheme -- Why It Did Not Succeed -- The Fight Between the Ranger and Drake.



Paul Jones waited until midnight. Then, when no one was dreaming of danger, his men silently pulled away from the Ranger in two boats, one commanded by himself and the other by Lieutenant Wallingford. It was a long pull, and when they reached the outer pier of the harbor it was beginning to grow light in the east. They now parted company, and Jones directed his men to row for the south side of the harbor, while the Lieutenant was to make for the north shore. The object of the two was the same: the burning of the shipping.

Wallingford reached the north side, and then, strangely enough, gave up the attempt, his reason being that the candle on which he counted to start the fire was blown out. The reader must remember that in those days matches were unknown and the task of relighting had to be done with the steel, flint and tinder. Though the contrivance is an awkward one, we cannot help thinking the excuse of the Lieutenant was weak, but the result was a failure on his part to carry out the important work assigned to him.

Captain Jones was a different kind of man. Although day had fully dawned, he kept his men rowing rapidly. Reaching the south side of the harbor, he came upon a small fort garrisoned by a few soldiers. Leaping out of the boat, the American dashed forward, bounded over the walls and captured the sentinels before they knew their danger. The guns were spiked and the garrison made prisoners.

"Set fire to the shipping!" he commanded to his men, while he, with only a single companion, ran for a second fort some distance away and spiked the guns in that. Then he hurried back to the first fort and found to his surprise that the fire had not been started.

"The candles have given out," was the reply to his angry inquiry.

It being broad daylight, his men expected him to jump into the boat and order them to return with all haste to the ship; but, instead of doing so, he darted into one of the nearest houses, procured some tinder and candles and began himself the work of destruction. Fixing his attention upon a large vessel, he climbed quickly aboard and started a fire in her steerage. To help matters, he flung a barrel of tar over the flames and in a few minutes they were roaring fiercely. It meant prodigious damage, for the vessel was surrounded by more than a hundred others, none of which could move, since they were aground and the tide was out.

As may be supposed, there was great excitement by that time. The alarm had been given. Men were running to and fro, and a number hurried toward the burning ship with the purpose of extinguishing the flames. All the Americans had entered the small boat and were impatiently awaiting their commander. Instead of joining them, Jones drew his pistol, and, standing alone in front of the crowd, kept them back until the fire burst out of the steerage and began running up the rigging. Backing slowly with drawn pistol, he stepped into the boat and told his men to row with might and main for the vessel.

The instant this was done the crowd rushed forward and by desperate efforts succeeded in putting out the blaze before it had done much damage. Then the forts attempted to fire on the Americans, but their guns were spiked. Some cannon on the ships were discharged at the boats, but their shots went wild. When the Ranger was reached Captain Jones made the discovery that one of his men was missing. The reason was clear. He was a deserter and had been seen by his former comrades running from house to house and giving the alarm. Such was the narrow chance by which one of the most destructive conflagrations of British shipping was averted.

As may be supposed, this daring act caused alarm throughout England. Jones was denounced as a freebooter and pirate, and every effort was made to capture him. Had his enemies succeeded, little mercy would have been shown the dauntless hero.

England was very cruel to many of her American prisoners, and Captain Jones fixed upon a bold and novel plan for compelling her to show more mercy toward those unfortunate enough to fall into her power. It was to capture some prominent nobleman and hold him as a hostage for the better treatment of our countrymen. It must be remembered that Jones was cruising near his birthplace and when a sailor boy had become familiar with the Scottish and the English coasts. The Ranger was a fast vessel, and, as I have shown, Jones himself was a master of seamanship. It would seem, therefore, that all he had to do was to be alert, and it need not be said that he and his crew were vigilant at all times.

The Earl of Selkirk was a Scottish nobleman who had his country seat at the mouth of the Dee, and Jones made up his mind that he was just the man to serve for a hostage. At any rate, he could not be put to a better use and certainly would not suspect the purpose of the American vessel which, as night was closing in, anchored offshore. Indeed, no one dreamed that the vessel was the terrible American "pirate," which had thrown the whole country into terror.

Fortunately the night was dark and the men rowed to land without being noticed. The task was an easy one, for there was no one to resist them. They walked silently through the darkness to the fine grounds, and, having surrounded the handsome building, the officer in charge of the party presented himself at the door and made known his startling errand. He was informed that the Earl was absent. A careful search revealed that such was the fact, and all the trouble of the Americans went for naught.

It was a keen disappointment and the party decided to compensate themselves so far as they could. The Earl was wealthy and the house contained a great deal of valuable silver plate. A quantity of this was carried to the Ranger.

Captain Jones was angered when he learned what had been done. He knew the Earl and Lady Selkirk well and personally liked them both. The singular scheme he had in mind was solely for the benefit of his adopted countrymen.

"I am accused of being a pirate, robber and thief," he exclaimed, "and you are doing all you can to justify the charges. Every ounce of plate shall be returned."

He kept his word. The messengers who took back the silver carried a note from Captain Jones apologizing to Lady Selkirk for the misconduct of his men.

Now, if there was anything which Paul Jones loved it was to fight. It was simply diversion for him to capture merchantmen or vessels that could make only a weak resistance, and he longed to give the enemy a taste of his mettle. It may be said that his situation grew more dangerous with every hour. His presence was known and a score of cruisers were hunting for him.

The British sloop of war Drake, which the gale prevented him from attacking, was still at Carrickfergus, and Jones sailed thither in the hope of inducing her to come out and fight him. Being uncertain of his identity, the captain of the Drake sent an officer in a boat to learn the truth. Captain Jones suspected the errand and skilfully kept his broadsides turned away until the officer, determined to know his identity, went aboard. As soon as he stepped on deck he was made a prisoner and sent below.

Captain Jones reasoned that the captain of the Drake would miss his officer after awhile and come out to learn what had become of him. He, therefore, headed toward the North Channel, the Drake following, with the tide against her and the wind unfavorable until the mid-channel was reached, when, to quote Maclay, Paul Jones "in plain view of three kingdoms, hove to, ran up the flag of the new Republic and awaited the enemy."

In reply to the demand of the Drake's captain, Jones gave the name of his vessel and expressed the pleasure it would give him to engage him in battle. The American was astern of the Drake, and, to show his earnestness, Captain Jones ordered his helm put up and let fly with a broadside. The Drake replied and then the battle was on. There was little manoeuvring, the contest being what is known as a square yardarm and yardarm fight.

The comparative strength of the two vessels was as follows: The Ranger carried 18 guns and 123 men, the Drake 20 guns and 160 men, a number of the latter being volunteers for the fight, which lasted one hour and four minutes, at the end of which time the Ranger had lost two killed and six wounded and the Drake forty-two killed. The latter was so badly damaged by the well directed fire of the American that the captain called for quarter. Ceasing her firing, Captain Jones lowered a boat and sent it to the Drake to take possession.

As an evidence of the effect of the fire of the Ranger, the following words may be quoted from Jones's official report: "Her fore and maintopsail yards being cut away and down on the caps, the topgallant yard and mizzen gaff both hanging up and down along the mast, the second ensign which they had hoisted shot away and hanging on the quarter gallery in the water, the jib shot away and hanging in the water, her sails and rigging cut entirely to pieces, her masts and yards all wounded and her hull very much galled."

The damages to the Ranger were so slight they were repaired by the close of the following day, when she got under sail with her prize. Despite the swarm of cruisers that were hunting for him, Jones passed unscathed through North Channel, along the western coast of Ireland and arrived at Brest, in France, within a month of the day he left the port, his cruise having been one of the most remarkable in naval history.



Chapter VI.


One of the Most Memorable Sea Fights Ever Known -- The Wonderful Exploit of Captain Paul Jones.



I have taken Paul Jones as the highest type of the infant American navy. There were others who fought with great bravery and did much to aid in the struggle for American independence, but none combined in such perfection the qualities of perfect seamanship, cool but dauntless courage and skill in fighting.

Of course, no matter how daring our cruisers, they did not always escape disaster. At the close of the Revolution there had been twenty-four vessels lost, carrying 470 guns. Several of these met their fate through shipwreck. Contrast with this the loss of Great Britain, which was 102 war vessels, carrying in all 2,624 guns. The total vessels of all kinds captured from the English by our cruisers and privateers was about 800.

Captain Jones had made so successful a cruise with the Ranger that he felt, upon returning to Brest, in France, he was entitled to a better ship. He wrote to Benjamin Franklin, expressing himself plainly on that point, and the American commissioner, after several months' delay, had a ship of 40 guns placed under the command of Jones. Her original name was the Duras, but at Jones's request it was changed to the Bonhomme Richard. This was in compliment to Franklin, who was often called "Poor Richard" by his admiring countrymen, because for many years he had published "Poor Richard's Almanac," filled with wise and witty sayings.

This ship was an old Indiaman, in which 42 guns were placed, and the final number of her crew was 304. The 32-gun frigate Alliance, Captain Landais, was put under the orders of Captain Jones and a third, the Pallas, was bought and armed with thirty guns. A merchant brig and a cutter were also added to the squadron. It was found very hard to man these vessels and any other captain than Jones would have given up the task as an impossible one. It seemed as if about every known nation in the world was represented and some of the men of the most desperate character. Maclay says in his "History of the American Navy" that the muster roll of the Bonhomme Richard showed that the men hailed from America, France, Italy, Ireland, Germany, Scotland, Sweden, Switzerland, England, Spain, India, Norway, Portugal, Fayal and Malasia, while there were seven Maltese and the knight of the ship's galley was from Africa. The majority of the officers, however, were American.

This squadron sailed from L'Orient on June 19, 1779. Almost immediately trouble occurred. Captain Landais, without any show of reason, claimed that the command, by right of seniority of commission, belonged to him. On the first night out the Alliance and Bonhomme Richard collided and were obliged to return to port for repairs. Vexatious delays prevented the sailing of the squadron until August 14.

One of the consorts captured an English war vessel in the latter part of June, but was compelled to abandon her on the appearance of a superior force of the enemy, and the squadron put into L'Orient for repairs. A piece of good fortune came to the Bonhomme Richard while in this port. About a hundred exchanged American prisoners volunteered and did a great deal to improve the discipline and strengthen the crew of Jones's ship.

The valiant American, however, met with difficulties that were of the most exasperating nature. A boat's crew deserted and spread the news of the arrival of the squadron off the English coast. Captain Landais, commander of the Alliance, refused to obey the signals of the flagship, and conducted himself so outrageously that Jones more than suspected his brain was askew. The Bonhomme Richard was old and in bad condition, but Jones told Benjamin Franklin in a letter that he meant to do something with her that would induce his Government to provide him with a better ship. He sailed almost completely around Great Britain, during which he captured seventeen vessels, most of which were destroyed though the more valuable were sent into port in charge of prize crews.

This depletion of his crew so weakened it that Captain Jones wisely refrained from remaining long in one place. Doubling Flamborough Head, he came up with his companions, the Pallas and the Alliance, the latter having been out of his company for a fortnight.

This was on September 23, 1779. It was near noon, while the American squadron was chasing a British brigantine and was approaching Flamborough Head from the south, that a large sail was discovered, rounding that promontory from the south. Another and another followed, the astonished Americans counting them until the number had mounted up to forty-two.

It was a startling sight, for if these vessels were ships of war nothing could save the American squadron, or, if most of them were merchantmen, under a strong escort, the peril of Captain Jones and his crews would be almost as great. The commander studied the fleet through his glass, allowing it to come closer and closer and holding himself ready to flee, should it be necessary to do so. Finally, after a long scrutiny, Jones's face lit up with exultation. There were only two vessels of war in the fleet, and he immediately gave the signal for pursuit.

The Serapis, commanded by Captain Pearson, knew that he was confronted by the redoubtable Paul Jones, and he welcomed a fight with him, for the British captain was one of the bravest of men. He signalled for the merchantmen to scatter, and they did so with the utmost haste, while the frigate with her consort, the Countess of Scarborough, boldly advanced to engage the American squadron.

It was at this critical moment that the captain of the Alliance once more showed his insubordination. He refused to obey Jones's signal to fall to the rear of the Bonhomme Richard and the Pallas for a time was equally disobedient. Soon, however, she changed her conduct and gallantly advanced to engage the Countess of Scarborough. Captain Landais, however, sullenly kept out of the battle, and, as we shall presently learn, did even worse than that.

Captain Pearson, of the Serapis, waited until his convoy was beyond danger, when he tacked inshore. Fearing he would get away, Jones ran in between him and the land. It was now growing dark, and it was hard for the American commander to follow the movements of his enemy. But the latter was not fleeing, and, although dimly visible to each other, the two antagonists began cautiously approaching, both on the alert for any advantage that might present itself. Nothing but the rippling of water made by the vessels broke the profound, expectant hush that rested upon both.

Suddenly from the gloom came the voice of the captain of the Serapis:

"What ship is that?"

Jones wished to get nearer before opening fire and replied:

"I do not understand you; speak louder."

"What ship is that?" repeated the other in a louder voice through his trumpet. "Answer or I shall fire into you."

Jones made no reply, knowing that it was useless, but continued to edge near his antagonist. A minute later both ships discharged a broadside at the same moment, the gloom being lit up by spouts of crimson flame, while the thunder "shook the mighty deep" and the sulphurous smoke rolled slowly upward and drifted through the rigging. Then again came a minute or so of impressive stillness, while the crews of both looked around to learn the results of the awful tempest of round shot, grape and canister of which they had been the targets.

Sad work, indeed, had been done, for from each vessel rose the cries of the wounded and dying -- cries that inspired their companions to revenge and caused them to hasten the reloading and firing of the cannon. But unfortunately the Bonhomme Richard suffered from her own guns as well as from those of the enemy. On the lower gun deck was an improvised battery of six 18-pounders, two of which burst, killing most of the men at work there and tearing away the deck above them. The remainder of the men refused to serve the other guns, and thus the Bonhomme Richard was deprived of the services of her heaviest battery, in addition to the serious loss in dead and wounded.

Captain Jones forged ahead, crossing his enemy's bow, while the latter came up on his port quarter. They were within a biscuit's toss of each other, wrapped in dense smoke, lit up by the jets of flame which were continuous. Mingled with the terrific booming was the spiteful rattle of musketry from the tops and yells and cries of the wounded. The decks of the Bonhomme Richard were slippery with blood, which increased until the men, as they ran to and fro, splashed in it, like children playing in a mud puddle, and it was the same on the Serapis. It found its outlet through the scuppers and crimsoned the deep blue of the ocean.

Some of the shots from the Serapis pierced the Bonhomme Richard under the water line, causing her to leak badly. Deprived of his 18-pound guns by reason of the accident mentioned, Jones was forced to rely upon his 12-pounders. They were worked for all that was in them, but the whole fourteen were silenced in little more than half an hour and seven of the quarter deck and forecastle guns were dismounted. She was left with three 9-pounders, which, being loaded and aimed under the eye of Jones himself, did frightful execution on the deck of the enemy.

An hour had passed and the men were fighting furiously, when the full moon appeared above the horizon and lit up the fearful scene. The Serapis attempted to cross the bow of the Bonhomme Richard, but miscalculated and the Bonhomme Richard shoved her bowsprit over the other's stern. In the lull that followed, when each expected his antagonist to board, Captain Pearson called out:

"Have you struck?"

"Struck!" shouted back Jones; "I am just beginning to fight!"

The Serapis made another effort to get into position to rake the American, but in the blinding smoke she ran her jibboom afoul of the starboard mizzen shrouds of the Bonhomme Richard. Captain Jones himself lashed the spar to the rigging, knowing that his only chance was in fighting at close quarters, but the swaying of the ships broke them apart. At that instant, however, the spare anchor of the Serapis caught on the American's quarter and held the two vessels, as may be said, locked in each other's arms.

They were so close, indeed, that the English gunners could not raise the lower port lids, and they blew them off by firing their cannon through them. The men on each ship in loading were forced to push their rammers into the ports of the other vessel. The Bonhomme Richard was set on fire by burning wads, but the flames were speedily extinguished.

The explosion of the American's lower guns at the opening of the battle had made her helpless against the corresponding battery of the enemy, which pounded away until a huge, yawning gap was opened. Some of the shots went clean through the battered hull and splashed into the water, hundreds of feet distant. The disadvantage was more than offset by the concentration of the Americans on the upper deck and in the rigging. The fire of the Bonhomme Richard became so terrible that every officer and man of the enemy kept out of sight, observing which an American seaman crawled out on the main yard, carrying a bucket of hand grenades which he threw wherever he saw a man. He did this with such excellent aim that he dropped one through the main hatchway and into the gunroom. It fell into a heap of powder and produced an explosion that was awful beyond description, for it killed and wounded thirty-eight men and really decided the battle.

At that moment, when it all seemed over, Captain Landais fired a broadside from the Alliance into the Bonhomme Richard. Captain Jones called to him in God's name to desist, but he circled about the two ships and fired again and again into his ally, killing and wounding a number of men and officers. It was believed that the Alliance had been captured by the enemy and had joined in the attack on the Bonhomme Richard, which was so injured that she began slowly to sink. Having wrought this irreparable damage, the Alliance drew off and ceased her murderous work.

Jones incited his prisoners to desperate pumping by the report that the Serapis must soon go down and that the only way to save themselves from drowning was to keep the Bonhomme afloat. An officer ran to the quarter deck to haul down the colors, but they had been shot away. He then hurried to the taffrail and shouted for quarter. Jones, being in another part of the ship, did not hear him. The British commander mustered his men to board the American, but they were driven back by the firing from the rigging of the Bonhomme Richard. The condition of the latter could not have been more desperate. She was so mangled that she began to settle, most of her guns had been disabled, a fire that could not be checked was already close to her magazine and several hundred prisoners were stealing here and there, waiting for a chance to strike from behind.

A deserter had slipped on board of the Serapis in the confusion and acquainted the commander with the frightful plight of the American. After firing with renewed ardor for several minutes Captain Pearson again called to know whether Jones had surrendered. He shouted back a defiant negative, and, pistol in hand, ordered his men to the guns, threatening to kill the first one who refused. All knew his temper too well to hesitate, and the battle was renewed with greater fury than before. Captain Pearson could not believe the condition of the Bonhomme Richard as bad as was represented by the deserter. He had lost a great many men, all his guns were silenced, and, being utterly unable to make any further defence, he hauled down his flag with his own hands.

The surrender was just in time to save the Bonhomme Richard, which was in danger of going down and blowing up. The united efforts of both crews were necessary to extinguish the flames before they reached the magazine. She was kept afloat through the night, while the wounded and prisoners were transferred to the Serapis. Then the battered and riddled old hulk plunged downward bow foremost into the depths of the German Ocean.

This battle has never been surpassed in heroism. Both sides fought with a bravery that has given the conflict a place by itself in naval annals, and it will always stand as a proof of the dauntless courage of the Anglo-Saxon beyond the reach of those of the Latin race. The Bonhomme Richard had 42 guns and the Serapis 50; the American crew numbered 304 and the English 320. The killed on each side was 49; the wounded on the Bonhomme Richard was 116 and on the Serapis 117, there being a difference of only one in the total of killed and wounded. The battle lasted three hours and a half.

The Countess of Scarborough made a gallant resistance for two hours, when she was so crippled that she was compelled to surrender to the Frenchman. An investigation into the treacherous conduct of Captain Landais caused many to believe him insane, though others were convinced that he was inspired by intense jealousy of Captain Jones. He was discharged from both the French and American navy. Benjamin Franklin was among those who believed he deserved punishment for his perfidy.

The Serapis and Countess of Scarborough were refitted and given to France, while Captain Jones was placed in command of the Alliance. He was loaded with honors in France, the king presenting him with a gold sword, and when he sailed for the United States he gave another exhibition of his superb seamanship by eluding the blockaders that were waiting for him outside of Texel, running through the Straits of Dover and then defiantly standing down the English Channel in full view of more than one of the largest British fleets. He reached the United States in June, 1780, without mishap.

Congress gave Captain Jones a vote of thanks, and, had the war continued, no doubt he would have rendered more brilliant service for the country he loved so well, but before he could be given a fitting command hostilities ceased. He had won a world-wide reputation and accepted the appointment of rear-admiral in the Russian navy, but gained no opportunity to display his marvelous prowess. He died in Paris in 1792.



Chapter VII.


Our Naval War with France -- The Tribute Paid to the Barbary States by Christian Nations -- War Declared Against the United States by Tripoli -- Bainbridge, Decatur, Stewart, Dale and Preble.



Now I suspect that if my young readers were asked to name the nations with which, at one time or another we have been at war, they would not be likely to include France in the list. All the same, we have had a war with her, though it was confined to the ocean and there was no formal declaration on either side.

A few years after the close of our Revolution one of the most appalling uprisings in the history of the world took place in France. The kings and nobility ground the people into the very dust until they were goaded into revolt, which overturned the throne and was marked by atrocities that shocked the world. Incredible as it may seem, there were a million people put to death during the awful days of the Reign of Terror.

The mad rulers, not satisfied with deluging their own country with blood, were at war with most of the neighboring nations. They seemed to wish to array themselves against all mankind and began a system of action toward us which soon became unbearable.

They seemed to think we could be scared into paying the rulers immense sums of money for the privilege of being left alone. They encouraged their naval officers to capture American vessels, and when we sent commissioners to France to protest they were coolly told that outrages upon our commerce would not be stopped until we paid the leaders several hundred thousand dollars in the way of bribes. Then it was that one of our commissioners made the memorable reply: "Millions for defence, but not one cent for tribute."

Our representatives were driven out of France and the capture of our vessels by French cruisers continued. So Congress met, cancelled all treaties with France, formed an army, placed Washington, then an old man, at the head, formed a new navy and told the men-of-war to go out and give the insolent nation a lesson she very much needed.

And France got the lesson. The fighting on the ocean, beginning in 1798, continued for two years and a half. The French cruisers succeeded in capturing only one vessel from the American navy, while 84 armed French ships, mostly privateers, mounting more than 500 guns, were captured by our vessels. In February, 1801, a treaty of peace was signed with France, which brought our troubles with her to an end.

Now, if you will examine your map of Africa, you will notice a group of countries along the southern coast of the Mediterranean that are known as the Barbary States. Their names are Morocco, Algiers, Tunis, and Tripoli. I remember when I was a boy how easy it was to learn the names of the capitals of those countries, for each one was the same as the country itself.

The people of the Barbary States are only half civilized or barbarous, but they have always had a mighty high opinion of themselves, though it can hardly be as high to-day as it was a hundred years ago. They looked upon the "dogs of Christians" as heathen nations, only fitted to be their slaves, and it must be admitted that it was quite natural they should hold the leading maritime nations of Europe as well as ourselves in contempt, for all deserved it.

The favorite business of those barbarians was playing pirate. Their corsairs roamed up and down the Mediterranean, eagerly hunting for Christian merchant vessels, that they might kill the crews and divide the plunder among themselves. Sometimes, by way of variety, they would throw their captives into dungeons and then notify the governments to which they belonged that they would be set free upon the payment of a large sum of money to their captors. If the government did not choose to pay the ransom, why their captors would give themselves the pleasure of putting the prisoners to death.

Now, it would have been an easy thing for any one of the Christian nations interested to send a fleet into the Mediterranean, which, speaking figuratively, would have wiped those miscreants off the face of the earth; but such an enterprise would have cost a good deal of money, so, instead of punishing the wretches as they deserved, the countries paid them a yearly sum of money on their promise not to disturb vessels when they ran across them.

So it was that, year after year, we sent a good round gift to those barbarians. You know our Government is often slow in meeting its obligations, and it happened now and then we were late in sending our tribute to the swarthy rulers. When that occurred, the Dey, or Bashaw, imposed a heavy fine to remind us of the expense of trifling with him. We meekly bowed our heads, paid it, and tried to be more prompt afterward. Then, too, the mighty ruler sometimes expressed a wish to receive naval stores instead of money, and we were happy to oblige him. Of course, he set his own valuation on what he received, which was generally about one-half of what they cost our Government, but we made no complaint.

It came about that the Dey of Tripoli got the idea into his head that we were not paying him as much as we did his neighbors. In his impatience, he decided to give us a lesson as badly needed as it was in the case of France, to which I have alluded. So he declared war against the United States. It would be interesting to know what ideas the Dey had of the Republic on the other side of the Atlantic.

One good thing resulted from our flurry with France. A number of good ships had been added to our navy. Better still, many young officers, brave, skilful and glowing with patriotic ardor, were serving on those ships. They eagerly welcomed the chance of winning glory. To them the war with Tripoli offered the very opportunity for which they longed.

Among these was William Bainbridge, who was born in 1774 and died in 1833. He began life as a sailor at the age of fifteen, and was in several engagements before he was appointed to the navy in 1798, during our war with France.

Another was Stephen Decatur, born in Maryland in 1779 and killed in a duel with Commodore Barron in 1820. His father was a gallant officer in the Revolution, and his two sons were among the bravest officers who ever trod the quarter deck. Both entered the service in 1798, and Stephen is generally regarded as the best type of the young American naval officer during the early years of the present century.

Still another was Charles Stewart, born in Philadelphia in 1778, and, like those whom I have named, he entered the navy as lieutenant in 1798. It will always be one of my pleasantest recollections that I was well acquainted with Stewart, and spent many hours talking with him about the stirring scenes in which he took part. He lived to be more than ninety years of age, dying in 1869, and for a good many years occupied a modest little home, just below Bordentown, New Jersey. When eighty-eight years old he was as active as a man of half his years. I came upon him one wintry day, when he was of that age, and found him in the barn, shoveling corn into a hopper, of which a sturdy Irishman was turning the crank. The old admiral kept his hired man busy and enjoyed his own work. He was of small figure, always wore an old-fashioned blue swallow-tail with brass buttons, took snuff, and would laugh and shake until his weatherbeaten face was purple over some of his reminiscences of the early days of the Republic.

Think of it! He remembered seeing Benedict Arnold burned in effigy in Philadelphia in 1781; he recalled Paul Jones, and had drunk wine and talked with Washington.

Stewart and Decatur were of about the same age, and attended the old Academy in Philadelphia. They were bosom friends from boyhood. Stewart told me that Decatur was a good student, but there was hardly a boy in the school, anywhere near his own age, with whom he did not have a fight. He would "rather fight than eat," but he was not a bully, and never imposed upon any one younger or weaker than himself.

A great many of my talks with old Admiral Stewart related to the war with Tripoli, which began in 1801 and lasted nearly four years. As you will learn, Stewart had a great deal to do with that war, and most of the incidents that follow were told to me by him, a fact which insures their truthfulness and interest.

Among others to whom I shall refer was Commodore Richard Dale, who was born in 1756, and died in 1826. He was older, as you will notice, than the three whom I have mentioned. As to his bravery, it is enough to say that he was first lieutenant on the Bonhomme Richard during her terrible fight under Paul Jones with the Serapis, and served with that wonderful naval hero on the Alliance and the Ariel. Had he not been made of the right stuff he never could have held such a position when a very young man.

Another hero was Commodore Edward Preble, born in 1761 and died in 1807. When only sixteen years old he joined a privateer, and at eighteen was active in the attacks of the Protector on the British privateer Admiral Duff. He was on the Winthrop, and fought bravely in the battle which resulted in the capture of a British armed brig. He was commissioned lieutenant in 1798, and the year following commanded the Essex.

From what I have told you, it will be seen that it was a gallant band that our Government sent into the Mediterranean in 1801 to chastise the barbarians and compel them to respect the Stars and Stripes.



Chapter VIII.

The First Serious Engagement -- Loss of the Philadelphia -- The Scheme of Captain Bainbridge -- Exploit of Lieutenant Decatur.


Andrew Sterrett was executive officer of the Constellation, which captured the French frigate L'Insurgente, in 1799, and La Vengeance, in 1800. It fell to his lot, while in command of the Enterprise, a vessel of 12 guns, to have the first serious fight in the war with Tripoli. When off Malta, he met a Tripolitan vessel of 14 guns, and they fought furiously for two hours, at the end of which time the enemy hauled down his flag. The Americans left their guns and broke into cheers, whereupon the Tripolitan fired a broadside. Nothing loath, Lieutenant Sterrett resumed the battle. The Tripolitans ran in close and attempted to board, but were repulsed, and, under the fierce fire of the Enterprise, they again hauled down their flag.

"I guess they mean it this time," remarked Lieutenant Sterrett, but the words were hardly spoken when the enemy let fly with another broadside.

As may be supposed, this exhausted the patience of the American commander. He ordered his men to their guns, and mentally resolved to finish the job without fail. Circling round his antagonist, he raked her from stem to stern, shot away the mizzen mast, made a sieve of the hull and killed and wounded fifty men. He was still at it, when, through the smoke, he caught sight of the swarthy captain, leaping up and down on the deck, swinging his arms and shrieking in broken English that he had surrendered. To show he was in earnest, he flung his colors overboard.

"Now throw your guns and powder after your flag," shouted Sterrett.

He was promptly obeyed; and, resolved to take no chances, Sterrett then compelled him to cut away his masts, after which he was permitted to rig a jury mast and a single sail.

"Now go home to your Dey," said his conqueror, "and give him my compliments."

Not a man was killed on board the Enterprise, though, as has been shown, the loss of the enemy was severe.

The American squadron in that part of the world was increased, and a number of engagements took place, with the advantage invariably on the side of our countrymen. By the opening of 1803 there were nine of our ships, carrying two hundred and fourteen guns, in the Mediterranean waters. The fine frigate Philadelphia captured a Moorish cruiser upon which were found papers signed by the Governor of Tangier authorizing the commander to destroy American commerce. Commodore Preble sailed into the harbor and demanded an explanation of the emperor. He denied having given any such authority to his subordinate, and in making his denial undoubtedly told a falsehood. Nevertheless, he was so scared that he signed anew the treaty of 1786, deprived the governor of his commission and confiscated his estates.

Captain William Bainbridge was in command of the Philadelphia, and was detailed to help in blockading Tripoli. His companion vessel was sent in pursuit of a corsair, so that the Philadelphia was left alone to perform blockade duty. On the last day of October, 1803, Captain Bainbridge observed a Tripolitan vessel trying to make port. He gave chase, but the coast was dangerous, abounding with shoals and reefs, with which the fugitive vessel was familiar, while Captain Bainbridge had to keep sounding and regulating his speed in accordance with the degree of danger.

In the midst of the pursuit, and while every precaution was taken, the crew, to their dismay, heard a dull, grating sound, whose meaning they well knew; the bow of the frigate rose six feet out of the water, and the stoppage was so sudden that nearly every one was thrown off his feet.

A hurried examination showed that the Philadelphia was inextricably fast, and could not be freed until the tide rose. Meanwhile the corsairs would issue from the harbor near at hand, and, choosing their own position, batter the frigate to pieces and kill or make prisoners of the crew.

Every possible effort was made to release the ship, but she was too firmly spiked on the jagged reef to be budged, and the dreaded peril speedily appeared. The Tripolitans soon discovered the plight of the American, and nine gunboats hurried out from the harbor. Fire was opened on both sides, but neither was effective, the position of the frigate preventing an effective aim. The sea drove her higher upon the rocks, and she careened so much that all the guns became useless. The Tripolitans, seeing her helplessness, now came closer and increased their fire.

There was no help for Captain Bainbridge. Unable to deliver an effective shot, the enemy could kill every one of his men. He therefore flooded his magazine, blocked the pumps, bored holes through the bottom of the ship in order to sink her if his enemies succeeded in releasing her, and then struck his flag. Distrustful at first, though they ceased firing, the Tripolitans finally came aboard, plundered the officers and men of their personal property, and then took them -- three hundred and fifteen in all -- to the city, where they were lodged in prison.

Some days later a powerful northerly wind partly lifted the Philadelphia off the rocks, and by united efforts her captors succeeded in getting her into deep water. The holes in the bottom were plugged, and the guns and anchors that had been thrown overboard in the shallow water were easily recovered and replaced on the ship. Thus the Bashaw secured a most valuable prize.

The disaster gave a serious aspect to the war, for it not only added material strength to the enemy, but increased their courage and insured a more determined resistance on their part. While the loss was a severe one to the American navy, it was not difficult to replace it.

One day a letter reached Commodore Preble. Apparently it was nothing but a blank sheet of paper, but knowing that lemon juice had been employed for ink, the Commodore held it before a flame and brought out the following, in the handwriting of Bainbridge:

"Charter a small merchant schooner, fill her with men and have her commanded by fearless and determined officers. Let the vessel enter the harbor at night with her men secreted below deck; steer her directly on board the frigate, and then let the men and officers board, sword in hand, and there is no doubt of their success. It will be necessary to take several good rowboats in order to facilitate the retreat after the enterprise has been accomplished. The frigate in her present condition is a powerful auxiliary battery for the defence of the harbor. Though it will be impossible to remove her from her anchorage and thus restore this beautiful vessel to our navy, yet, as she may and no doubt will be repaired, an important end will be gained by her destruction."

Captain Bainbridge had sent several similar letters to Preble, his good friend, the Swedish consul, being the man who secured their delivery. The plan suggested by Bainbridge was a good one, for, since it was impossible to add the Philadelphia to our navy, the next best thing was to prevent her remaining with that of Tripoli. It may as well be stated here that the court martial which investigated the particulars of the loss of the Philadelphia acquitted Captain Bainbridge of all blame and declared that he had done everything possible under the circumstances.

Fortunately, the American squadron succeeded about this time in capturing a Tripolitan gunboat, which would serve admirably to disguise the purpose of the Americans. Preble then told Lieutenant Decatur of the suggestion made by Bainbridge. No sooner was the young lieutenant acquainted with the plan than he volunteered to lead in the perilous enterprise. Nothing could have suited the daring fellow better.

Lieutenant Charles Stewart, who arrived a short time before in the Siren, not knowing of the scheme that had been formed, proposed with the Siren's men to cut out the Philadelphia. Preble informed him the honor had been given to Decatur. Stewart was disappointed, but expressed his honest pleasure that the management of the affair was entrusted to such worthy hands.

"He is the best man that could have been selected," he said heartily, "and there isn't a shadow of doubt that he will succeed."

Every one in the fleet was eager to volunteer, but Decatur selected sixty-two men, to which were added six officers from the Enterprise and six from the Constitution, with a native pilot. Knowing the daring nature of Decatur, he was given strict orders not to attempt to cut out the Philadelphia, but to destroy her.

Late in the day, February 9, 1804, the ketch left Syracuse for Tripoli, accompanied by the Siren, Lieutenant Stewart, to cover the retreat. The weather became so bad that the attempt had to be postponed, since the ketch was sure to be dashed to pieces on the rocks. The impatient crew was compelled to withdraw and wait for a week before the weather moderated. On the 15th, everything being favorable, the crew of the ketch bade good-by to their friends and set out on their perilous mission.

The night was clear and starlit, and at nine o'clock the ketch was in full view of the city and its twinkling lights, with the dark shores crowded with batteries, while far ahead, under the guns of the Bashaw's castle, lay the Philadelphia. The wind fell and the little craft crept slowly through the water, seemingly into the very jaws of death, until the outlines of the silent frigate loomed to sight through the gloom. Following Decatur's guarded orders, the men lay flat on the deck, all concealing themselves as best they could, while five or six, dressed as Maltese sailors, lounged about in plain sight.

The quartermaster at the wheel, obeying the directions of Decatur, steered so as to foul the Philadelphia, from which there suddenly came a hail. Lieutenant Decatur whispered to the pilot to say they had just arrived from Malta, and, having lost their anchor, wished to make fast to the Philadelphia's cables until another could be got from shore. A brief conversation followed, during which the ketch edged closer, but the Tripolitans soon discovered the men in the stargleam, and the alarm was sounded; but with great coolness and haste the ketch was worked into position and Decatur gave the order to board.

The eager Americans, with cutlass and boarding pike in hand, dashed through the gun ports and over the bulwarks. In a twinkling the quarter deck was cleared and all the Tripolitans on the forecastle were rushed overboard. The noise brought up a number of Turks from below, but the moment they saw what was going on they either leaped into the sea or hid themselves in the hold. They were pursued, and within ten minutes the frigate was captured, without a shot having been fired or an outcry made.

An abundance of combustibles had been brought, and they were now distributed and fired so effectively that nothing could save the fine vessel. Then the Americans scrambled back to the ketch, Lieutenant Decatur being the last to leave the doomed frigate, from which the dazzling glare lit up the harbor and revealed the smaller boat straining to get away. The batteries on shore opened fire, but, in their excitement, they aimed wildly, and no harm was done. Every American safely reached the Siren, waiting anxiously outside. The two made sail for Syracuse, where Captain Preble was vastly relieved to hear the news. The ketch was renamed the Intrepid, and Decatur, for his daring exploit, was promoted to the rank of captain and presented with a sword by Congress.

The Philadelphia was totally destroyed, and its remains still lie at the bottom of the harbor of Tripoli. In referring to this exploit, the great English naval commander, Lord Nelson, said it was "the most bold and daring act of the age."



Chapter IX.

Bombardment of Tripoli -- Treacherous Act of a Turkish Captain -- A Quick Retribution at the Hands of Captain Decatur.


The Bashaw of Tripoli was not yet subdued. He treated his American prisoners with greater harshness and refused to believe their nation was strong enough to bring him to terms.

On August 3, Commodore (as the senior officer of every squadron was then called) Preble sailed into the harbor of Tripoli with his fleet and opened the bombardment of the city. At the same time, several of his gunboats engaged those of the enemy. Lieutenant James Decatur, brother of Stephen, made chase of a Tripolitan vessel, reserving his fire until the two almost touched, when he poured in such a destructive discharge of musketry and grape that the terrified enemy surrendered. Lieutenant Decatur sprang aboard of his prize, when, at that instant, the Turkish commander, a man of massive strength and build, fired his pistol in the American officer's face and killed him. In the confusion caused by this treacherous act the enemy's boat got away and started for the city.

Meanwhile, Captain Decatur had been doing characteristic work. With three gunboats he attacked a force three times as numerous as his own. Impetuously boarding the first craft, after a discharge from his long boat, he engaged the numerous crew in a furious hand-to-hand struggle, in which all were made prisoners or forced to leap into the sea to save themselves. Then Decatur began towing away his prize, when he was told of the murder of his brother.

The grief-stricken and enraged captain instantly cast his prize adrift and started after the "unspeakable Turk." The boat was easily recognized, and, delivering a destructive fire, the pursuer ran alongside and the Americans rushed aboard, with Decatur in the lead. The enormous size and gorgeous uniform of the Turkish captain made him so conspicuous that Decatur knew him at once, and, rushing forward, lunged at him with his boarding pike. The Turk must have felt contempt for the American who dared thus to assail him, for his assailant was but a boy in size compared to him. He speedily proved his physical superiority over Decatur, for he not only parried the lunge of the pike, but wrenched it from his hand. He in turn drove his pike at Decatur's breast, but his blow was also parried, though its violence broke off the American's sword at the hilt. The active Turk came again, and his second blow was only partly turned aside, the point of the pike tearing through Decatur's coat and inflicting a bad wound in his chest.

Before the Turk could strike a third time, Decatur ran in, and the two instantly engaged in a fierce wrestling bout. The American was the most skilful, but by sheer strength his enormous antagonist threw him to the deck, and, gripping him by the throat with one hand, he reached down to draw a small curved knife, known as a yataghan. It was behind the sash in his waist and directly in front. Decatur threw both legs over the back of the Turk and pressed him so close that he could not force his hand between their bodies to reach his weapon. Decatur's pistol was at his hip. He was able to withdraw it, and he then did the only thing that could possibly save his life, though the chances were that the act would hasten his death.

Reaching over the back of the Turk, he pointed the weapon downward toward his own breast and pulled the trigger. In most cases the bullet would have passed through both bodies, but, fortunately, the ball encountered some obstruction and did not reach the imperiled American. He shoved off the bulky form, which rolled over on its back, dead.

It must not be supposed that while this furious hand-to-hand encounter was under way the respective crews were idle. They, too, were fighting fiercely, and, closing about the struggling commanders, each side endeavored to help its own. The crowd surged back and forth and became mixed in inextricable confusion. One of the Turks saw a chance to help his captain and made a vicious blow at his opponent with his scimiter. Reuben James, a sailor, who was so wounded in his arms that he could not use them, thrust his head forward and received the stroke upon his skull. The wound was a frightful one, but, beyond dispute, it saved the life of Decatur, who never forgot the man that had done him this inestimable service.

Reuben James was one of the volunteers who helped Decatur destroy the Philadelphia. He recovered from his terrible wound and did excellent service in the war of 1812. In one battle he was three times wounded before he would allow his comrades to carry him below. He lived fully twenty years after the death of his beloved commander, dying at a good old age, though he was scarred with sabre cuts, wounded times innumerable by bullets, and compelled to suffer the amputation of a leg.

The bombardment of Tripoli was less successful than expected. The shells were of such poor quality that no impression was made on the defences. All naval operations have proven that, as a rule, ships are comparatively powerless for aggressive work against forts and batteries on shore.

An investigation into the cause of the failure of so many shells sent into Tripoli brought out several interesting facts. Captain Bainbridge, who carefully noted the results of the bombardment while a prisoner in the city, stated that out of forty-eight thrown on one day only one exploded. It was found that the fuses in many of the bombs had been choked by lead that was poured into them. This was probably done by French agents in Sicily.

At the beginning of hostilities, the Tripolitans placed great reliance upon their ability to fight at close quarters. Undeniably, they did better in such position than in handling their ships. They had all the viciousness of wild cats, and it has been shown how fiercely they fought in hand-to-hand encounters; but their experience with the Americans taught them that they were to be dreaded in any situation where their anger was aroused, and, as a consequence, the Turks became less eager for tests of individual strength, skill and bravery.



Chapter X.

The Bomb Ketch -- A Terrible Missile -- Frightful Catastrophe -- Diplomacy in Place of War -- Peace.


Whenever a war is under way a number of persons on each side are certain to come forward with ingenious schemes for injuring their opponents, through improvements upon the accepted methods of conducting hostilities. So it came about, after the slight success attained in bombarding Tripoli, that a plan was formulated for creating consternation in the blockaded city and bringing the defiant Bashaw to his senses.

The new scheme was to fix up the Intrepid as a bomb ketch, send her into the harbor at night and there explode her. While a few had no faith in the plan, others believed it would cause great destruction and spread dismay among the Tripolitans.

In the forward hold were stowed one hundred barrels of gunpowder, and on the deck above were piled one hundred and fifty shells and a lot of shot and scrap iron. The plan was to give this floating volcano the appearance of a blockade-runner. Two small boats were taken along, to be used by the crews after setting off the fuse that was to blow the ketch into a million atoms. It will be seen that the task was of the most dangerous nature conceivable, and yet when Captain Preble called for volunteers it seemed as if every one was eager to go.

The command was given to Master-Commandant Richard Somers, who was of the same age as Decatur and Stewart, and had established a reputation for coolness and intrepidity in the operations of the fleet. Midshipman Henry Wadsworth, an uncle of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, the poet, was the second in command. They were accompanied by another midshipman named Israel, who begged so hard to be allowed to go that he could not be refused, and ten of the best seamen.

After waiting for several days, the night of September 4 was found to be just what was desired. A fog lay like a blanket on the sea, but it was so clear overhead that the stars shone with brilliant splendor. Before the start was made, Decatur, Stewart and Somers, all the most intimate of friends, had a long talk in the cabin of the ketch, no one else being present. Each felt the gravity of the situation. Somers, though cool and composed, seemed to feel a presentiment that he would not return. He took a ring off his finger, and breaking it apart, gave one portion to Decatur, one to Stewart, and kept the other for himself. He told his friends what he wished done in case of his death, and they assured him that every wish should be respected.

During that last impressive interview Stewart asked Somers what he would do if discovered and attacked by the enemy.

"Blow us all up together!" was the instant response; "I shall never be taken prisoner."

I may remark here that no writer has recorded this expression of the gallant Somers, and I give it because Admiral Stewart assured me of its truth. His recollection of the incident, more than sixty years afterward, was as vivid as on the succeeding day. Indeed, Stewart, as is often the case with aged persons, remarked that his memory of occurrences a half century old was unerring, while of quite recent incidents it was unreliable.

It was comparatively early in the evening when the ketch got under way with a favoring breeze. Stewart, with the Siren, by order of Preble, stood toward the northern passage, through which the ketch was to pass. His purpose was to remain in as close as was safe, and hold himself ready to pick up the men as they returned in their boats. Stewart turned his night glass toward the Intrepid and watched her slowly fading from sight, until she melted into the gloom and not the slightest trace of her outlines was discernible.

Nothing could be more trying than the waiting of the craft outside, for Somers' own vessel and two small ones were near at hand. The stillness was so profound that men heard the suppressed breathing of their comrades. If one moved, he did so on tiptoe. Few words were spoken, and all in guarded undertones. The rippling of the water against the prows and cables was an annoyance, and on more than one forehead great drops of cold perspiration gathered.

Slowly and painfully the long minutes wore away, until it seemed as if several hours had passed, when in reality the interval was but a small part of that period. Every nerve was in this tense state, when suddenly the boom of a cannon came rolling through the fog from the direction of the city, followed soon by the rapid firing of artillery. The approach of the Intrepid had been discovered, and it seemed as if all the enemy's batteries were blazing away at her. But what of the ketch itself?

Stewart, like all the rest, was peering into the black mist, when he saw a star-like point of light, moving with an up and down motion, in a horizontal line, showing that it was a lantern carried by a man running along the deck of a ship. Then it dropped out of sight, as if the bearer had leaped down a hatchway. For a moment all was profound darkness, and then an immense fan-like expanse of flame shot far up into the sky, as if from the crater of a volcano, and was crossed by the curving streaks of fire made by shells in their eccentric flight. Across the water came the crashing roar of the prodigious explosion, followed a few moments later by the sounds of wreckage and bodies as they dropped into the sea. Then again impenetrable gloom and profound stillness succeeded. The batteries on shore were awed into silence by the awful sight, and the waiting friends on the ships held their breath.

The hope was that Lieutenant Somers and his companions had fired the fuse and then rowed away in their boats, but as minute followed minute without the sound of muffled oars from the hollow night reaching the straining ears, suspense gave way to sickening dread. The vessels moved to and fro about the entrance, as if the inanimate things shared in the anxiety that would not allow them to remain still. At intervals a gun was fired or a rocket sent up to guide the missing ones, but none appeared. Every man had been killed by the explosion of the ketch.

Investigations made afterward seemed to establish that Somers was attacked by three gunboats, and, finding escape impossible, it was he who ran along the deck, lighted lantern in hand, and deliberately blew up the Intrepid, destroying not only himself and companions, but many of the enemy. The mangled remains of several bodies were found some days later and given burial on shore, but not one could be recognized. Captain Bainbridge and some of his brother officers, who were prisoners in Tripoli, were allowed to view them. He said: "From the whole of them being so disfigured, it was impossible to recognize any feature known to us, or even to distinguish an officer from a seaman."

In November, Commodore Samuel Barron arrived, and succeeded Captain Preble in command of the American squadron. He brought with him the President and Constellation, thereby increasing the force to ten vessels, carrying two hundred and sixty-four guns.

Having failed to bring the Bashaw to terms by force of arms, the Americans now resorted to what may be termed diplomacy. The reigning Bashaw of Tripoli was a usurper, having displaced his elder brother, who had fled to Upper Egypt. He had a good many friends, who, if they dared, would have been glad to replace him on his throne. The American consul, who understood all the particulars, proposed to our government to use the deposed ruler as an instrument to compel the usurper to make terms. The Government authorized the consul to go ahead.

Accordingly, he made his way to Alexandria, sought out the banished ruler, proposed his plan, and it was eagerly accepted. He furnished the consul with a cavalry escort, enlisted a number of Greek soldiers, the party marched a thousand miles across the flaming Barcan desert, and in April appeared before Derne, one of the seaports of the reigning monarch, who was also advancing upon the place. With the help of the American fleet, the town was captured, and, for the first time in its history, the Stars and Stripes were given to the breeze above a fortification on the eastern side of the Atlantic.

By the enlistment of the mongrel population of the neighborhood, the American consul gathered a formidable force, with which the enemy were again defeated. Then they boldly set out for Tripoli.

Meanwhile the usurper was shivering with fear, and was more than ready to make a treaty of peace with the terrible barbarians from the other side of the ocean. The treaty was signed on June 2, 1805. The Bashaw, who had demanded a princely sum for the release of his American prisoners, was now glad to set them free for $60,000. It was agreed, furthermore, that no more tribute should be paid, and thus ended all our troubles with Tripoli.

These proceedings left the rightful ruler in the lurch. He had been promised that he should be restored to his throne on condition of helping the Americans, and he had given the most valuable sort of aid, but the treaty declared that no assistance should be given him. It was a gross injustice on the part of our Government, which did no special credit to itself, when, after the deposed ruler had made a pitiful appeal to Congress, that body presented him with a beggarly pittance of $2,400.



The War Of 1812.


Chapter XI.

Cause of the War of 1812 -- Discreditable Work of the Land Forces -- Brilliant Record of the Navy -- The Constitution -- Captain Isaac Hull -- Battle Between the Constitution and Guerriere -- Winning a Wager.


Probably no hostilities in which the United States was ever engaged so abound with stirring, romantic and remarkable exploits as those upon the ocean in the War of 1812.

Now, as to the cause of the war between England and our country: Great Britain was engaged in a tremendous conflict with France, at the head of which was the greatest military leader of the world, Napoleon Bonaparte. England needed every soldier and sailor she could get. Some of them deserted to our ships, so her officers began the practice of stopping such vessels on the ocean, searching them for deserters, and if found they were taken away. Sometimes she took Americans, because she knew they were good seamen, and, to excuse her action, she declared they were deserters from the British navy.

This action was against the law of nations. She had no more right to molest an American vessel than she had to land a force on our coast, march inland and search the house of a private family. We protested, but she paid no attention. It happened more than once that when our vessels refused to be searched the English fired into them and killed and wounded some of the American crews. If any nation acted that way toward England to-day she would declare war at once, and so would any other nation.

Finding there was no peaceable way of stopping the unbearable conduct of Great Britain, our country, in the month of June, 1812, declared war against her, and it lasted until the early part of 1815.

There was one feature of that war which it is not pleasant for Americans to recall. It opened with a cowardly surrender by General William Hull of Detroit to the English army, and for two years our land forces did very little to their credit. They set out to invade Canada several times, but in every instance were beaten. The leading generals were "poor sticks," quarreled among themselves, and for a time failed to gain any advantage. The trouble was not with the soldiers. They were among the best in the world, but their leaders were of no account. By and by, however, the poor officers were weeded out and good ones took their places. Then something was accomplished in which we all could feel pride.

It was just the other way on the ocean. From the very start our naval vessels and privateers won the most brilliant of victories. This was the more remarkable when several facts are kept in mind. Great Britain had been at war so long that she had the most powerful navy by far in the world. It numbered one thousand and thirty-six vessels, of which two hundred and fifty-four were ships-of-the-line, not one of which carried less than seventy guns of large calibre. This prodigious navy was manned by one hundred and forty-four thousand sailors, and eighty-five of her war vessels were on the American coast, equipped and ready for action.

In amazing contrast to all this, we had only twenty large war vessels and a number of gunboats that were of little account. The disparity was so great that our Government, after looking at the situation and discussing the matter, decided that it would be folly to fight England on the ocean, and it was decided not to do so. When Captains Stewart and Bainbridge learned of this decision, they went to President Madison and his advisers and insisted that the American navy, weak as it was, should be given a chance of showing what it could do. Consent was finally given, and then opened the wonderful career of our cruisers and privateers.

Among the frigates that had been built during our war with France was the Constitution, which carried 44 guns. She earned the name of being one of the luckiest ships in the navy, and because of her astonishing record was named "Old Ironsides." The old hulk of this historical ship is still carefully preserved in remembrance of her brilliant record, which in some respects has never been equalled.

Sailors are superstitious, and the good name which the Constitution gained made it easy to get all the seamen needed. When you come to look into the matter you will find that the Constitution was a lucky ship, because it was always officered by the best men we had, and they were wise enough to choose the finest crews.

The captain of the Constitution, when the war broke out, was Isaac Hull, a nephew of General William Hull, who made the cowardly surrender of Detroit. He was born in Connecticut in 1773, and died in 1843. He was one of the brilliant young officers who received his commission in 1798, and was commander of the Argus during the war with Tripoli. He was made a captain in 1806, and the following year was given command of the Constitution.

Upon learning that the war had broken out, Captain Hull left the Chesapeake, with orders to join the squadron under the command of Captain Rodgers at New York. When off Barnegat, New Jersey, he was sighted by the blockading squadron of Captain Philip Bowes Vere Broke, which gave chase. The ingenuity and skill displayed by Captain Hull in escaping from the enemy, when all escape seemed hopeless, is still referred to as one of the most remarkable exploits in the history of the American navy. The chase lasted for more than two days and three nights, and it is safe to say that very few commanders placed in the situation of Captain Hull would have been able to save themselves from capture.

Captain Hull sailed on a cruise from Boston on August 21, just in time to dodge an order from Washington to remain in port until further orders. On the afternoon of August 19, when several hundred miles to the eastward of Halifax, he sighted the British frigate Guerriere. Her commander, Captain James E. Dacres, was an old acquaintance of Hull, and the two had made a wager of a hat during peace that if they ever met in battle the other would run.

The British officer was as anxious as Hull for a fight, and they drew near each other, both confident of winning the wager made half in jest a brief time before.

Great interest attaches to this naval battle, for it was the first of its kind and a fair test of the respective prowess of ships of and crews of that nature. The Constitution was somewhat the superior, carrying 55 guns and four hundred and sixty-eight men, while the Guerriere had 49 guns and two hundred and sixty-three men, but all of the latter were under fine discipline, while most of the Americans were green hands. Captain Dacres was confident of his superiority, and had no doubt that when the two frigates met the Constitution would be compelled speedily to strike her colors. He waited for the American to come up, each having cleared for action.

A little after four o'clock the two exchanged broadsides, but they were so far apart that no damage was done. Dacres manoeuvred for a raking position, but Hull would not permit it, nor could he obtain one for himself. There was much wearing and manoeuvring, which prevented the firing on either side from being effective. Each was wary of the other and took the utmost pains to prevent his securing any advantage.

When it became certain that the battle was to be one at close range, Hull ordered the firing to cease, in order that the fullest preparation could be made for the next broadside. He knew the skill of his men in marksmanship, and determined to hold his fire until the most advantageous position was reached. As he drew near his enemy, the latter continued firing, and some of her shots were so effective that the crews cheered. The Americans, most of them barefooted and stripped to the waist, were standing beside their guns eager and impatient for the order to fire, but Hull, when appealed to, shook his head. It was a proof of the fine discipline of the American crew that when they saw two of their comrades killed by the fire of the enemy, they silently waited without murmur for the order whose delay they could not comprehend.

Not until about a hundred feet distant and in the exact position desired did Captain Hull give the order to fire as the guns bore. To quote Maclay: "In an instant the frigate belched forth a storm of iron hail that carried death and destruction into the opposing ship. The effect of this carefully aimed broadside at short range was terrific. The splinters were seen to fly over the British frigate like a cloud, some of them reaching as high as the mizzen top, while the cheers of her men abruptly ceased and the shrieks and groans of the wounded were heard. The Americans had struck their first earnest blow, and it was a staggering one. The Englishman felt its full weight, and perhaps for the first time realized that this was no child's play."

The Americans displayed remarkable skill in their gunnery, as it may be said they have always done. The main yard of the enemy was shot away in the slings, and hull, rigging and sails were badly mangled. A shot passing through the mizzenmast close to the deck, added to the stress from the sails, caused it to break in two and fall over the quarter. One curious effect of this dragging in the water was to make the wreckage act like a rudder, bringing her up to the wind in spite of the opposition of the helm. While the damage on the Constitution was less, it clogged her action, but she secured a position from which she delivered two raking broadsides. Then as the vessel see-sawed, the jibboom of the Guerriere crossed the Constitution's quarter deck. Both crews made ready to board, but each found the other so fully prepared that neither attempted it. Meanwhile the riflemen in the rigging were working with destructive energy. In each of the Constitution's tops were seven marines, six loading for the seventh, who was the best marksman. A good many officers were wounded and killed on both sides.

Although the vessels had been lashed together, their lurching broke them apart, and the Englishman gained a chance to use his broadsides. A fire broke out on the Constitution, but it was quickly extinguished, and the shot of the American soon made a complete wreck of the enemy. When it became clear that the Guerriere could make no further resistance, Captain Hull drew off to repair the damages to his own ship. Another English frigate was likely to appear at any moment, and she would make short work of the Constitution in her crippled condition. It took but a short time to complete the work, when she returned to her former position beside the wallowing Guerriere. A lieutenant was sent on board to receive the surrender, which Dacres gave with painful reluctance. When brought to the side of the Constitution, Hull assisted him up the rope ladder. Dacres extended his sword.

"No" replied Hull, "I will not take it from one who knows so well how to use it, but I must trouble you to pay me that hat I have won."



Chapter XII.

Jacob Jones -- The Wasp and the Frolic -- James Biddle -- The Hornet and the Penguin -- A Narrow Escape.



I must now tell you something about another gallant young officer who entered the American navy at the close of the century, when he was hardly thirty years old. He was Jacob Jones, who lived until 1850. He was a lieutenant on the Philadelphia for two years, and was with that frigate when she ran on the rocks in the harbor of Tripoli. He was given command of the 18-gun sloop of war Wasp, which sailed from the Delaware in October, 1812, and headed eastward, with the intention of intercepting some of the enemy's merchantmen plying between Great Britain and the West Indies.

About a week after sailing he sighted five merchantmen, several of which were well armed, while all were convoyed by a brig of war. Jones stood toward them, when the brig signalled to her companions to make all sail before the wind, while she dropped back to attend to the stranger. The American came up quite close, and hailing, demanded the name of the other. For a reply, the brig lowered the Spanish colors, ran up the British flag, and let fly with a broadside and volley of musketry.

The Wasp was expecting something of that nature and returned the compliment, the vessels working nearer each other and firing as rapidly as possible. The action had hardly begun when the Wasp lost her main topmast, and a few minutes later the mizzen topgallant mast and the gaff were shot away. These mishaps so crippled her that she became almost unmanageable. The Frolic, as the enemy was named, was also damaged, but not so badly as the Wasp, but, unfortunately for the Frolic, the heavy sea and the twisting about of the hull threw her into position to be raked by the Wasp, and Captain Jones was quick to seize the advantage, the vessels being so close that the ramrods were pushed against each other's sides while the gunners were loading. The sea was so heavy that the guns of the Wasp frequently dipped under water.

The intention of the Americans was to board, and Lieutenant James Biddle held himself and men ready to take instant advantage of the moment the roll of the sea brought them near enough to do so.

Captain Jones did not believe himself warranted in boarding, since he held the advantage of position, and he issued orders for the men to wait, but their ardor could not be checked. Among his sailors was one who had been impressed into the British service, where he was brutally treated. Springing upon his gun, he grasped the bowsprit of the brig, swung himself upon the spar and ran as nimbly as a monkey to the deck of the enemy. Imitating his enthusiasm, Lieutenant Biddle and his boarders took advantage of a favorable lurch at that moment and sprang upon the deck of the Frolic. There, every man stopped and repressed the cheer that rose to his lips, for the scene was one of the most dreadful that imagination can picture.

The quartermaster stood grimly clutching the wheel, a lieutenant, bleeding from several wounds, was leaning against the companionway, unable to stand without its support, while all along the deck were strewn the dead and dying. Silently the victors stepped over the prostrate forms to the quarter deck, where the officer weakly dropped his sword to signify his surrender. Lieutenant Biddle walked to where the colors were still fluttering and pulled them down. A few minutes later the mainmast and foremast fell.

Maclay gives the strength of the two vessels as follows: Wasp, 18 guns, Frolic, 22; crew of the Wasp, 138, of the Frolic, 110. On the Wasp 5 were killed and 5 wounded; on the Frolic 15 were killed and 47 wounded, the latter being completely riddled. The cause of this frightful difference in results was brought about by the Americans discharging their broadsides when their ship was on the downward roll, the shot landing in the hull of the enemy, while the latter fired on the rise, her broadsides mainly passing into and through the rigging.

As soon as Captain Jones learned of the fearful plight of the Frolic he sent his surgeon on board, and everything possible was done to assist the sorely smitten enemy.

The Wasp was so badly injured that Captain Jones gave his attention to repairing her, and was thus engaged when a sail appeared. It proved to be the British 74-gun ship of the line Poictiers, which, surmising what had taken place, bore down, took possession of both ships and carried them to Bermuda.

This battle, one of the most fiercely contested of the war, naturally caused much rejoicing throughout the United States. Congress voted $25,000 to the officers and crew of the Wasp as prize money, and gave a gold medal to Master-Commandant Jones and a silver one to each of his officers, while the Legislature of Pennsylvania presented a sword to Lieutenant James Biddle.

This gallant young officer is entitled to more notice than has been given him. He was born in Philadelphia in 1783, and died in 1848. After his exchange, he was appointed to the command of the Hornet, and sailed from New York in the month of January, 1815, in company with the Peacock and Tom Bowline, but the three became separated, each making for Tristan d'Acunha, which had been named as the rendezvous of the squadron under the command of Stephen Decatur.

This was on the last day of February, and Captain Biddle was about to drop anchor when a sail appeared, and the Hornet went out to reconnoitre. The stranger approached as if anxious to fight him, and, when within musket range, ran up the English flag and fired a shot, to which the Hornet replied with a broadside. The vessels continued firing as they drew near each other. The superior aim of the American speedily crippled the rigging of the other, and, coming together, the Penguin, as the British vessel proved to be, in preparing to board, succeeded in passing her bowsprit between the main and mizzen rigging of the Hornet on the starboard quarter. This gave the enemy the opportunity he seemed to be seeking, but his boarders did not appear.

The American sailors begged permission of Captain Biddle to board, but he would not consent, since he wished to hold the advantage already gained. Just then the heaving sea broke the vessels apart, the Penguin receiving considerable damage from the forcible rupture. The Hornet wore round to bring her broadside to bear, and was on the point of opening fire, when the surviving officer of the Penguin called out that they surrendered. His condition was so hopeless that no choice was left to him.

Captain Biddle ordered his men to stop firing, and, stepping to the taffrail, asked his enemy if they had struck. The answer was two musket shots, one aimed at the man at the wheel and the other at Biddle. The latter was hit on the chin and badly, though not dangerously, wounded, while the man at the wheel was not struck. The men who fired the treacherous shots were seen by two American marines, who shot them dead.

No doubt the action of the Englishmen was unauthorized, and probably was due to a misunderstanding; but the Americans were so incensed that it was difficult to restrain them from continuing the firing. The enemy hailed a second time and called out they had surrendered.

The strength of the Hornet was 20 guns and 132 men; of the Penguin, 19 guns and 128 men. The Hornet had 1 man killed and 11 wounded; the Penguin, 10 killed and 28 wounded. She was so badly shattered that, after taking out her stores, her captors scuttled her.

In order to complete our history of the gallant Captain James Biddle it is necessary to carry the record in advance of some of the incidents that follow.

As has been stated, the Peacock and the Hornet had gone to Tristan d'Acunha in obedience to the orders of Commodore Decatur, to wait for him and the President, but the latter never arrived, for the good reason that she had been captured by the enemy. Growing tired of waiting, Biddle and Captain Warrington, of the Peacock, started on an extended cruise, April 13, for the East Indies.

Doubling the Cape of Good Hope, they met with no incident of note until the latter part of April, when they sighted a large sail, which they believed to be a heavily laden East India merchantman. A chase immediately began. It continued a long time, and the Peacock was within a few miles, when she made the discovery that the stranger, instead of being a merchantman, was a ship of the line. Captain Warrington signalled the startling fact to Biddle, and the two turned to escape. Since the formidable vessel could not pursue both when they took different directions, she selected the Hornet for her prize.

All that Biddle could now hope to do was to out-sail his pursuer. He put forth every effort known to the most skilful seamanship. When night closed in, however, the pursuer had perceptibly gained. Since the weather was perfectly clear and the two were in plain sight of each other, the enemy could keep up the chase all night. Captain Biddle threw overboard some of his heavy spars, cut away the sheet anchor and flung several tons of kentledge into the sea.

This helped matters somewhat, but the stranger continued slowly to gain, and secured such a position that Captain Biddle was obliged to go about. Still he could not shake off the bulldog at his heels, and at daylight he was near enough to begin barking with the bow guns. Although the shot did not strike the Hornet, Captain Biddle dropped his remaining anchors into the sea, including six guns, launch, cables, and everything not absolutely necessary.

The lightening was so considerable that for the first time the Hornet began drawing away from her persistent pursuer. At the end of a few hours, however, he began creeping up again, and Captain Biddle tumbled overboard all his guns except one, most of his shot, his extra spars, cutlasses, muskets, forge and bell, and indeed everything of which he could free himself. Not only that, but the men lay down on the quarter deck to help trim the ship.

All in vain. The shot and shell whistled about the Hornet, the enemy came closer, and every American prepared to submit as gracefully as possible to the inevitable. Captain Biddle addressed his men feelingly, telling them to show the same restraint in misfortune that they had in victory, and then the gallant officer coolly awaited the moment when he should be obliged to haul down his flag to save the lives of his brave crew.

But lo! the wind changed to a quarter favorable to the Hornet, and it lasted throughout the night and the next day. The Hornet drew steadily away from the British ship of the line Cornwallis, as she proved to be, and made her way at a leisurely speed to the United States.



Chapter XIII.

Captains Carden and Decatur -- Cruise of the Macedonian -- Battle with the Frigate United States -- Decatur's Chivalry.


Before the war broke out between England and the United States the naval officers naturally were on the best of terms with one another. They exchanged visits, had dinners together and talked in the most friendly terms over the relations of their respective countries. Brave men always feel thus, and no matter how fiercely they have been fighting, they become friends again as soon as peace is declared.

You have already been told considerable about Stephen Decatur, one of the bravest and most chivalrous men that ever drew a sword. At the breaking out of the War of 1812 he was given command of the frigate United States, of 44 guns, built in 1798, and one of the finest in the American navy. While lying at Norfolk, some months before war was declared, the British frigate Macedonian, of about the same strength, was in port, and the officers and crews became well acquainted.

The commander of the Macedonian was Captain John Surman Carden, one of the finest officers in the British service. He and Decatur became fond of each other and often discussed the probable results of the impending naval contests, for it was apparent to both that their countries were on the brink of war. Captain Carden conceded the bravery and skill of the American officers and seamen, but insisted that they would be at a disadvantage, because they had not met with the experience of the Englishmen, who had been engaged in so many wars with European nations.

The Macedonian was made of oak and was without a superior in the British navy. In the latter part of September, 1812, she left Portsmouth, England. She was just off the docks and her crew, 297 in number, were such as the best officer would have been proud to command. The discipline was as near perfection as possible, Captain Carden being one of the severest of disciplinarians. His business was to look out for French merchantmen and warships, though as it was known that war had been declared with the United States, it was deemed probable that Captain Carden would have a chance of testing the mettle of her naval officers and crews.

There were two American vessels that Captain Carden was specially anxious to meet. One was the Essex, which was playing havoc among the English shipping (and of which I shall tell you something later on), and the other that of Captain Stephen Decatur, the courteous but brave naval officer who had displayed so much intrepidity in the war with Tripoli and had insisted to Carden that the American sailors were the match of the English anywhere.

While at Madeira Captain Carden learned that the Essex had sailed from the Delaware and was expected to cruise in the neighborhood of the Canary Islands. The Englishman turned southward and was within a few days' sail of the islands when, on the 25th of October, the man at the masthead reported a sail. As it approached it was carefully scrutinized and found to be a frigate bearing down on the Macedonian.

Convinced that she was an enemy, Captain Carden at once issued the command to clear for action. The most thorough preparations were made and officers were stationed with orders to shoot down the first man who flinched from his duty. On board the ship were a number of American seamen, who began speculating among themselves as to whether the approaching frigate was a Frenchman or belonged to their own country. They were in a trying position, for they were patriotic and would have given anything in the world to escape firing upon their countrymen, but there was no help for it. Such a rigid disciplinarian as Captain Carden would listen to no protests from them, and, should the stranger prove to be an American, it would be a choice between helping to fight her or being shot down by their own officers.

The approaching frigate went through a number of evolutions of such a rapid and brilliant nature that the Englishmen murmured their admiration. Through their glasses the officers could see groups of men on the quarter deck scanning them closely, while glimpses of sailors were caught as they moved about the deck and of the gun crews standing quietly at their stations. Then, when there was a change of direction, parties of marines were observed in her tops, muskets in hand, coolly awaiting the time when the ships would engage at close quarters.

While Captain Carden and his officers were in doubt whether the ship was a French one she gave her colors to the breeze. They were the Stars and Stripes of the American Republic. One of the finest of its frigates had thrown down the gage of battle to as superb a frigate as belonged to the British navy.

Since all doubt of her nationality was dispelled, one of the American seamen walked resolutely to Captain Carden, saluted and told him that he and his companions had no wish to fight the flag of their country. In reply the officer ordered him back to his station and with notice that if the request was repeated he would be shot. Sad to say, the sailor who made his wish known was one of the first killed in battle.

The two ships now began exchanging shots, but the distance was too great for any damage on either side. A little after 9 o'clock on that bright sunshiny Sunday morning they were close enough for the wonderful marksmanship of the American to display itself. The first shot that found the Macedonian entered through the starboard bulwark and killed the sergeant of marines. A minute later the mizzen topmast was sundered, and, cluttered with sails, yards and rigging, it fell into the maintop, where it hung suspended, liable to fall at any moment and crush those beneath.

The fire of the American became frightfully destructive. It seemed as if every shot splintered some part of the rigging or hull and killed and wounded men right and left. The exasperating feature of this awful business was that neither Captain Carden nor his aids, who were directing operations from the quarter deck, could discover any corresponding damage on the American ship. Her mizzen topgallant mast had been carried away, but it looked as if all the other shots sent in her direction sped past without harm. She was wrapped in an immense volume of smoke made by her own broadsides, and through it constantly shot tongues of crimson flame, while the roar of the rapidly discharged guns was incessant.

Now and then a rift appeared in the billows of vapor, through which the Stars and Stripes were seen fluttering, while the men worked as coolly at their guns as if going through manoeuvres in time of peace. Finally the smoke became so dense that the Americans were unable to see through it. Ceasing firing for a few minutes, the frigate moved far enough forward to pass from under the impenetrable blanket of vapor and then renewed the battle with more terrific effect than before. Her firing was so rapid that several times Captain Carden believed the incessant flame indicated she was on fire. The report was spread among his men to encourage them, but no such good fortune came to the Englishmen.

One of the men on board the Macedonian gave the following graphic account of his experience:

"Our men kept cheering with all their might. I cheered with them, though I confess I scarcely knew what for. Certainly there was nothing very inspiriting in the aspect of things. Grape shot and canister were pouring through our portholes like leaden hail. The large shot came against the ship's side, shaking her to the very keel, and passing through her timbers and scattering terrific splinters, which did more appalling work than the shot itself. A constant stream of wounded men were being hurried to the cockpit from all quarters of the ship. My feelings were pretty much as I suppose every one else felt at such a time. That men are without thought when they stand among the dying and dead is too absurd an idea to be entertained. We all appeared cheerful, but I know that many a serious thought ran through my mind. Still, what could we do but keep up a semblance at least of animation? To run from our quarters would have been certain death from the hands of our own officers; to give way to gloom or show fear would do no good and might brand us with the name of cowards and insure certain defeat."

In the desperate hope of warding off defeat, Captain Garden now ordered his helm aport and directed that boarders be called. The response was prompt, for the British sailor fights with unsurpassable heroism, but at the critical moment the forebrace was carried away, the ship was thrown into the wind and exposed to a raking fire. The American instantly seized the advantage and swept the decks with murderous destructiveness. In a brief time the Macedonian was completely disabled. Her rigging was in tatters and splinters and her hull had been pierced by more than a hundred shot, many of which struck between wind and water.

Finally the American ceased firing and drew off to make the few repairs that were necessary. During the lull Captain Carden called his surviving officers around him for council. There was indeed but one thing to do, and it was agreed to surrender. As the American was returning, therefore, to resume her appalling work the English colors were hauled down. The victor lay to and lowered a boat, under charge of a lieutenant, who, as he climbed aboard, gave his name and that of the American 44-gun frigate as the United States, Captain Stephen Decatur. The United States, whose crew numbered 478, had 5 killed and 7 wounded, while the 297 of the Macedonian lost 36 killed and 68 wounded.

So it was that the old friends settled the question over which they had argued many times. When the English officer came aboard of the United States and offered his sword to Decatur the latter said: "I cannot receive the sword of a man who has defended his ship with such bravery."

The chivalrous nature of Decatur was shown in a private letter in which he wrote: "One-half of the satisfaction arising from this victory is destroyed in seeing the mortification of poor Carden, who deserved success as much as we did who had the good fortune to obtain it." Everything possible was done to alleviate the sufferings of the prisoners. The private property of the officers and seamen was returned or its equivalent in money. In a letter from Captain Carden to Captain Decatur he expressed his feelings and added: "I have much gratitude to express to you, my dear sir, for all your kindnesses, and all my officers feel it equally with myself. If ever we should turn the tables we will endeavor, if possible, to improve on your unusual goodness."



Chapter XIV.

Occasional American Defeats as Well as Victories -- Captain Decatur's Misfortune -- The Chesapeake and Shannon.


You would gain a wrong impression if my account of the leading naval events in the War of 1812 were made up wholly of American victories. It was inevitable that our gallant officers and men should meet with some defeats. In order, therefore, to give as true an idea as possible of those times I shall devote this chapter to telling about some events which went the wrong way.

Enough has been related concerning Stephen Decatur to show that he was the most prominent of our naval leaders in our last war with Great Britain. He entered into the work with the same dauntless enthusiasm he showed whenever it was his privilege to serve his country, and his capture of the Macedonian was one of the most brilliant exploits of the many that took place during those memorable years.

In order to understand my use of the words "captain" and "commodore," it is necessary to explain that at the time to which I now refer the latter rank was different from what it is to-day. The commodore of a squadron was the highest ranking officer and he might be lower than a captain. Thus "Commodore" Perry, who won the remarkable victory on Lake Erie, was promoted from that rank to "captain."

Another interesting fact may be named. The Stars and Stripes used in that war was slightly different in pattern from the present, for, instead of containing thirteen stripes, as it did at the close of the Revolution and as it does to-day, it had fifteen. The first law of Congress bearing on this point was to add a stripe for every new State admitted to the Union, but after two had come in and others were making ready it became evident that before long the pattern of the beautiful emblem would be spoiled if the rule were followed. So the increase in the number of stripes stopped and remained fifteen for a few years after the close of the war, even though new States had been admitted. Then the law was changed so as to provide that the increase of States should be shown by the stars in the blue field, while the stripes should always remain thirteen in number, typical of the original colonies of the Revolution.

It was decided early in the war to send a squadron consisting of the President, Captain Stephen Decatur, and the sloops of war Peacock, Captain Warrington, and Hornet, Lieutenant Biddle, and the storeship Tom Bowline on a cruise in the Indian Ocean. This squadron was to rendezvous at Tristan d'Acunha, but failed to do so, for a reason that has been stated in the account of the exploits of the Hornet and Peacock.

Captain Decatur lay in the harbor of New York with his vessels and found himself so closely blockaded by the British squadron that it was impossible for the Americans to sail in company. He sent out the two ships named, and, on the night of January 14, 1815, when the blockading squadron had been driven to the south by a gale, he sailed down the Narrows, hoping to get to sea before it returned. There was good reason to expect success, but misfortune speedily came. The beacon lights had been removed and early in the evening the pilot ran the ship aground just before reaching Sandy Hook. It required two hours of the hardest kind of work to get her off. The President was not very seaworthy at the start, and the efforts to reach deep water so injured her that it was necessary to return to the city for repairs, but the strong contrary wind prevented and she was driven over the bar.

Meanwhile the blockading squadron had come back and, early the next morning, Decatur had four of them in full pursuit. He put on every stitch of canvas, threw overboard everything that could be spared and wet his sails, but the President was so badly crippled from having run aground that, despite all that was done, she steadily lost ground. The Endymion led the pursuers and soon drew up within range, her position such that Decatur could not reply to the shots which began to injure his ship and kill and wound his crew.

He formed a desperate scheme that was characteristic of him. The Endymion was so far in advance of the other pursuers that there was a possibility of turning about and capturing her. Then, by transferring the American crew to her, the worthless President could be abandoned and swift flight be made in the Endymion, which had already demonstrated her superior speed.

The great risk in this attempt (for no one among the Americans doubted their ability to overcome the other crew) was that before the capture could be accomplished the other vessels would come up and Decatur be assailed by an overwhelming force, but he did not hesitate. He explained his plan to his men and they responded with cheers. No commander was ever more beloved by his crew than Decatur, and they were ready to follow him to the death, for he was always their leader and the foremost in personal danger.

Since every minute was valuable, Decatur put about and made for the Endymion with the intention of engaging her at close quarters. But the British vessel suspected his purpose, for she also turned, and, being much the superior sailer, was able to hold a safe distance between the two. It was an exasperating disappointment, but Decatur opened with a heavy fire, hoping to disable his antagonist before the arrival of the others.

A furious engagement followed, in which Decatur lost several of his most valuable officers and was himself painfully wounded by flying splinters. But the American guns were served with perfect precision and the Endymion was so broken and shattered by the fire that after two and a half hours she was incapable of further resistance. She would have surrendered had the time been sufficient for Decatur to enforce the demand, but the other blockaders were hurrying up and placed the American again in grave danger. He crowded on all sail once more, but the scurrying clouds which gave him a chance of escaping were swept from the sky and the bright moon revealed him so plainly to his pursuers that they rapidly overtook the President. A running fight followed, but the President was overmatched in every respect. In his official report Decatur said: "Two fresh ships of the enemy, the 38-gun frigates Pomone and Tenedos, had come up. The Pomone had opened fire on the port bow, within musket shot, the other, about two cables' length astern, taking a raking position on our quarter, and the rest, with the exception of the Endymion, within gunshot. Thus situated, with about one-fifth of my crew killed and wounded, my ship crippled and a more than fourfold force opposed to me, without a chance of escape, I deemed it my duty to surrender."

The British senior officer of the squadron to whom Decatur offered his sword showed his appreciation of the American's gallantry and of his chivalrous treatment of Captain Carden, when the situations were reversed, by handing the weapon back to Decatur with the remark that he was proud to return the sword of an officer who had defended his ship so nobly.

Shortly after this misfortune news reached this country of the signing of a treaty of peace, though several encounters took place on the ocean before the tidings could reach the various ships.

Turning back to the earlier part of the war, mention must be made of another American hero, James Lawrence, who was born in Burlington, N.J., in 1781 and was active in the war with Tripoli. He was commander of the Hornet when she captured the Peacock in an engagement which lasted only fifteen minutes, with the loss of one American killed and two wounded. He was given the command of the frigate Chesapeake, which was repairing in Boston harbor. The ship had gained the reputation of being unlucky, and, having already passed through several accidents, Lawrence assumed command with extreme reluctance.

Among the blockading vessels of the enemy outside of Boston was the Shannon, commanded by Captain Philip Bowes Vere Broke. She was one of the most efficient ships in the British navy, carried 38 guns and had a crew of 330 men, all well disciplined and skilled in firing guns and in fighting, while Broke himself probably had no superior as an officer. That he was brave was proven not only by his sending a challenge to Lawrence, inviting him to come out and fight him, but by his conduct during the battle.

Captain Lawrence sailed out of Boston harbor before Broke's challenge reached him. He had learned that a single frigate had presumed to blockade the port, and, having been ordered to sail as soon as possible, he made unwise haste in venturing to give the Shannon battle, even though one cause was the wish to leave the port before other blockaders appeared.

The crew of the Chesapeake was inferior in every respect to that of the enemy, except that it contained ten more men. The majority had been newly enlisted and contained many foreigners, landsmen, and objectionable sailors. They were not only unaccustomed to the ship -- though they knew of its reputation as an unlucky one -- but were unacquainted with one another and nearly all were strangers to the officers. The best of these were absent from illness and other causes. Worse than all, many were in a maudlin state of drunkenness when the Chesapeake started out with flags flying to engage the well-manned Shannon.

On the way down the bay some of the Chesapeake's crew impudently notified Lawrence that they would not fight unless they received the prize money earned a short time before. It was a humiliating situation for the young commander, but he was virtually in the face of the enemy and he issued prize checks to the malcontents. Well aware of the character of the foe he was about to encounter, he must have looked upon the meeting with foreboding. Maclay uses these impressive words:

"The calm deliberation with which the American and English commanders went out to seek each other's life and the earnestness with which they urged their officers and men to steep their hands in the blood of their fellow beings form one of the sombre pictures of naval history. Lawrence was the youngest son of John Lawrence, Esquire, counselor-at-law at Burlington, N.J., and was the second in command at the celebrated capture of the Philadelphia in the harbor of Tripoli. Broke was the descendant of an ancient family which had lived in Broke Hall, England, over three hundred and fifty years and for four hundred years at Leighton. Both were men in the prime of manhood, Lawrence in his thirty-second year and Broke in his thirty-seventh. Both were models of chivalry and manly grace; both were held in the highest estimation in their profession. Lawrence had just taken an affectionate farewell of his two sons and an hour later was urging his men to "Peacock them! Peacock them!" Broke a short time before had committed his wife to God's mercy and soon afterward was urging his crew to 'Kill the men! kill the men!' Both were men of the kindliest feelings and most tender affections; both acknowledged the justice of the cause for which the Americans were contending, yet with steady determination they went out at the head of their ships' companies to take each other's life. A few hours afterward, when Captain Broke fell on the Chesapeake's decks fainting and covered with his own blood, his lieutenants, on loosening his clothes, found a small blue silk case suspended around his neck. It contained a lock of his wife's hair."

Lawrence, in accordance with his chivalrous nature, disdained to seek any unfair advantage, his purpose being to engage in what is called a fair yardarm and yardarm fight. It was toward the close of the first day of summer, with thousands crowding the hills and points of advantage and peering at the ships through glasses, that the battle opened by the fire of the Shannon. Great damage was inflicted and much execution done by the return broadside of the Chesapeake. The first fire severely wounded Lawrence in the leg, but he refused to go below. Then the firing became so close and rapid that half the American officers were killed or wounded. The most frightful confusion that can be imagined followed. When Lawrence formed his men to board after the two vessels had fouled the bugler could not be found, whereupon Captain Broke led his own men upon the deck of the Chesapeake.

It was at this critical moment that Lawrence was fatally wounded and carried below. He kept calling out his commands while in the cockpit to fight harder and to keep the guns going. His last words, often repeated in his delirium, were "Don't give up the ship!" and they formed the motto of the American navy for many years afterward.

In the wild, savage fighting, where everything was so mixed that an American lieutenant joined the British boarders under the impression that they were his own men, Captain Broke was fearfully wounded, though he afterward recovered. The Chesapeake, with a loss of 47 killed and 99 wounded to 24 killed and 59 wounded of the enemy, became the prize of the Shannon.



Chapter XV.

David Porter -- A Clever Feat -- Numerous Captures by the Essex -- Her Remarkable Cruise in the Pacific -- Her Final Capture.


David Porter was born in 1780 and died in 1842. He came from a seafaring family, and, entering the navy at an early age, did gallant service in the war with France and Tripoli. He was the father of David Dixon Porter, who, on account of his brilliant record in the war for the Union, was made vice-admiral in 1866 and admiral in 1870.

The elder Porter was appointed captain of the Essex at the beginning of the War of 1812, and, leaving New York, started on a cruise after the British 36-gun Thetis, which was on her way to South America with a large amount of specie aboard. She took several unimportant prizes, and, failing to meet the Thetis, turned northward and on the night of July 10, 1812, sighted a fleet of merchantmen.

The night was cloudy and dark and Porter with a great deal of cleverness pushed his way among the vessels without his identity being suspected. He had drawn in his guns, hidden most of his men and done all he could to give the Essex the appearance of being an inoffensive merchantman. His object was to learn whether the escort was too powerful to be attacked. He opened conversation with the captain of one of the vessels, who, unsuspicious of his identity, informed him that the fleet was carrying a thousand soldiers from Barbados to Quebec, and that the convoying vessel was the Minerva, a 32-gun frigate. In addition, several of the merchantmen were heavily armed.

Captain Porter's next act was still more audacious. He glided forward among the fleet and hailed the captain of a second vessel, but the latter became suspicious, and was on the point of signalling to the escort the appearance of a stranger among them, when Porter thrust out the muzzles of twenty cannon and warned him that if he failed to keep perfect silence and follow in his wake he would blow him out of the water. The English captain obeyed, and Porter extricated his prize with such astonishing skill that not a vessel took the alarm. When a safe point was reached, Porter found that his prize was a brig with about two hundred British soldiers on board.

Having succeeded so well, Porter again returned to the fleet for another capture. But by this time day was breaking and the character of his vessel was discovered. It being useless to attempt further disguise, he cleared for action and offered the Minerva battle. The captain, however, deemed it his duty to remain with his convoy, and continued his course to Quebec, while Porter headed southward, afterward restoring his prize to its owners for a liberal ransom.

Captain Porter had become so clever in disguising his vessel as a merchantman that some days later he lured the British 16-gun ship-sloop Alert to attack him. In the space of eight minutes the Alert was so helplessly crippled that her captain surrendered. The Essex did not suffer the slightest injury and no men were killed on either vessel.

The Essex had now five hundred prisoners aboard, and they formed an element of serious danger, for they began plotting among themselves to capture the ship from the Americans and turn her over to the enemy. Captain Porter was a severe disciplinarian, and one of his practices was to have the alarm of fire sounded at all hours of the day or night, that his crew might be taught the successful way of fighting the ever-present danger. To make such training perfect, he occasionally started a fire in the hatches.

The leader in the conspiracy to seize the ship fixed upon a night to make the attempt, and his friends were on the alert to join him the moment he gave the signal. In one of the hammocks was sleeping a midshipmite only eleven years old, but, young as he was, he was a hero. Pistol in hand, the plotter tiptoed up beside the hammock to learn whether the boy was asleep. The little fellow was never wider awake in his life; but he kept his eyes closed and breathed regularly, so as to deceive the scoundrel, who slipped away to lead his companions in their murderous uprising.

The instant the man disappeared the boy midshipman sprang out of his hammock, crept to the cabin and told Captain Porter what he had seen. That officer ran into the berth deck and loudly shouted "Fire!" The finely disciplined crew promptly answered the call, and going to the main hatch, were speedily armed and received their orders from Captain Porter. The plotters were overawed and the rebellion nipped in the bud.

Thus the Essex was saved by the wits of a boy only eleven years old. The name of that boy was David Glasgow Farragut, and he became the greatest naval officer of the American navy. Of course I shall have more to tell you about him later on.

Determined to rid himself of the dangerous prisoners, Captain Porter placed them on board the Alert and sent them to Nova Scotia on parole. In a cruise of sixty days he made nine captures, recaptured five privateers and merchantmen, and arrived in the Delaware early in September.

He sailed again in the latter part of October with the smallest frigate in the navy, but with a full complement of officers and men. Among the former, it need hardly be said, was young Midshipman Farragut. The first port at which he stopped was Port Praya, where the Portuguese governor showed them much courtesy. In December the Essex crossed the equator, and soon after overhauled a British brig of war, which strained every effort to escape. The two manoeuvred for position, but the Essex proved her superiority, and, after a volley of musketry, which killed one man, the Nocton, as she proved to be, hauled down her flag. She carried only 10 guns and 31 men, but had $50,000 in specie on board. Captain Porter placed an officer and crew in charge of the prize, with instructions to make the nearest American port. While striving to do so he was captured by the British frigate Belvidera.

Captain Porter's instructions were to meet the Constitution and Hornet, which were cruising in that part of the world. He made continued efforts to do so, and frequently got on their track, but finally had to give it up. Then Captain Porter formed the bold plan of doubling Cape Horn and entering the Pacific ocean.

This venture was more dangerous than would be supposed, for all the South American countries on that side of the continent were dominated by Great Britain, and in entering the vast expanse the American knew he would meet plenty of enemies and not a solitary friend. Like an army when it invades a country, however, he determined to live off the enemy. He knew that scores of English vessels were in the Pacific, and all Porter had to do was to capture them. He had had sufficient experience at that sort of work to give him confidence, and he liked the business.

Unfortunately, it was the most dangerous season of the year for doubling the Horn, which is always attended with peril. The Essex was caught in a tempest that lasted for three days, and was so terrific that the stoutest hearted sailors quailed. The escape of the gallant little ship could not have been narrower, and she suffered great damage, but finally the dreaded extremity of South America was weathered, and in the beginning of March, 1813, the Essex sailed into the calmer water of the Pacific, where no armed American vessel had ever before penetrated.

The first halt was made off the island of Mocha, where a hunting party secured a number of hogs, which were salted down for future use. Captain Porter wished to keep secret his presence in that part of the world until after he had secured a number of prizes, but the condition of his vessel compelled him to put into Valparaiso, where he learned that Chili had begun her war of independence against Spain.

A sail which was sighted displayed the Spanish colors, and, believing her to be one of the vessels that had been preying upon American commerce in the Pacific, Captain Porter hoisted the British flag. The stranger approached and sent an armed boat to the Essex. It was immediately sent back with orders for the Peruvian cruiser to come under the lee of the Essex. This was done, and she was compelled to strike. Upon the demand of Porter, her captain gave a list of all the vessels, so far as he could remember, that were cruising in the Pacific. Then the arms, ammunition and spars of the captive were thrown overboard and she was allowed to go.

From that time forward the captures made by the Essex were so numerous that the full story would be monotonous. The swiftest and best of the captured cruisers were fitted out with crews and added to the American vessel, until Captain Porter had under his command seven ships, carrying 80 guns and 340 men, in addition to nearly a hundred prisoners. Still more were added, and the cruise of the Essex and her companions in that part of the world became very much like a picnic.

A number of powerful British frigates were searching for the Essex, which had wrought such prodigious mischief. Porter sailed for the Marquesas Islands, reaching them in the latter part of October. There he landed, built a fort and made the repairs of which his vessel stood in sore need.

The work accomplished by Captain Porter was almost beyond computation. He literally destroyed English commerce in the Pacific, for none of the vessels not captured dared leave port, and the American merchant ships were protected. The play being over, he craved more serious business. He therefore set out to hunt up some of the British cruisers that were trying to hunt him up.

In February, 1814, the Essex and the Essex Junior, as one of the newly manned prizes had been christened, entered Valparaiso, where they learned that the 36-gun frigate Phoebe was in the neighborhood searching for them. Captain Porter gave a reception to the officials of Valparaiso, and the next morning, while half of the crew were ashore, the Essex Junior signalled from the offing that two British frigates were in sight. They came into port, the captain of the Phoebe exchanging, compliments with Porter, they being old acquaintances; but, all the same, each was distrustful of the other, and both maintained what may be termed a position of armed neutrality.

For six weeks the two frigates blockaded Porter. Learning then that other ships were expected, Porter determined to get to sea. In the attempt, his vessel was completely disabled by a storm. Despite the neutrality of the port, the two British frigates attacked him, keeping beyond range of the Essex's short guns and thus rendering her perfectly powerless to help herself. The Essex was pounded at long range until 58 of her men were killed and 66 wounded, when, to save her officers and crew from annihilation, she surrendered.



Chapter XVI.

Oliver Hazard Perry -- Prompt and Effective Work -- "We Have Met the Enemy and They Are Ours" -- Death of Perry.


Oliver Hazard Perry was born in Rhode Island in 1785, and entered the American navy as midshipman when fourteen years old, under his father, Captain Christopher Raymond Perry, who commanded the 28-gun ship General Greene, which did good service in the war against France. The son also served on the Constellation in the Tripolitan war, and afterward gave his attention to ordnance.

The surrender of Detroit by General William Hull at the opening of the war gave the British control of the Territory of Michigan and Lake Erie. They had formed the formidable plan of extending the Dominion of Canada along the Ohio and Mississippi rivers to the Gulf of Mexico, thus inserting an immense wedge between the United States and the great West, which has since become so important a part of our country. The only way of blocking this far-reaching and dangerous scheme was for the Americans to regain control of Lake Erie, and to young Perry was assigned the seemingly almost impossible task.

At the little town of Erie, Perry began the construction of his fleet, and pushed it with such vigor, in the face of every sort of obstacle, that early in July, 1813, he had ten vessels ready for sea, but only enough men to man one of them. The end of the month made the total three hundred, but he determined to get to sea on the first opportunity. Outside was a powerful blockading squadron, and the water in the lake was so low that it was not until the 4th of August that he was able to get all his vessels over the bar. They comprised the Scorpion, Ariel, Lawrence (flagship), Caledonia, Niagara, Somers, Porcupine, Tigress and Trippe. The total guns carried were 54, with a force of 490 men.

The British squadron consisted of six vessels, with an aggregate of 63 guns and 502 men. They were under the command of Commander Robert H. Barclay, who had fought under Nelson at Trafalgar, and in another battle lost an arm. It was less than three months before that the dying Lawrence had uttered the appeal, "Don't give up the ship!" and Perry hoisted a flag with the words displayed in large letters. As it floated in the breeze from his vessel it was received with enthusiastic cheers.

It was on the 10th of September, 1814, that the two squadrons met at the western end of Lake Erie. When a mile apart, the Detroit, the British flagship, fired a shot to test the distance. It ricochetted past the Lawrence. A few minutes later she fired a second shot, which smashed into the starboard bulwarks of the Lawrence and sent a cloud of splinters flying. The reply to these was a 32-pounder from the Scorpion. Then the firing became more rapid, the enemy possessing the advantage at long range.

Most of the shots from the British vessels were directed against Perry's flagship, which suffered considerably. He therefore made sail to get to close quarters. His ship and the Scorpion and Ariel drew considerably ahead of the rest of the fleet. As a consequence they received the main fire of the enemy, which soon became concentrated on the Lawrence, that was gallantly fighting against overwhelming odds. Moreover, she was at a hopeless disadvantage with her short guns, and soon became a wreck, with a large number of her men killed or wounded.

Gradually the boats drifted nearer and the Americans were able to make use of their short guns and small arms. Perry's clothing was torn by splinters and two musket balls passed through his hat. The battle continued for more than two hours with the utmost desperation, during which the scenes on the Lawrence were too frightful to be described. Finally the wrecked flagship began drifting helplessly out of action, when Perry determined to transfer his flag to the Niagara.

With his broad pennant folded over his arm, and accompanied by a younger brother and four seamen, he stepped into the small boat, which began pulling in the direction of the Niagara. The thick smoke concealed them for a time, but it soon lifted, and Barclay aimed a shot at the boat. He said in his official report that he saw the shot strike the boat, whereupon Perry took off his coat and plugged the hole with it. But for the temporary veil the American commander could not have made half the brief distance between the Lawrence and the Niagara. As it was, however, he reached the latter without a scratch. He hoisted his pennant and the flag bearing the immortal words of the gallant Lawrence. Then an officer was sent in a boat to communicate the orders of the Commodore to the other vessels. This was hardly done when Perry saw with the keenest distress the surrender of the Lawrence. Such submission was inevitable, for almost every man on board was either killed or wounded and every gun on the engaged side was disabled. The English crews broke into cheers, believing the battle won, but they could not take possession of the Lawrence, which drifted out of range.

Captain Barclay now made an attempt to change his line of battle with a view of bringing his other broadsides into action. The line became broken and entangled, observing which, Perry took instant advantage of it. The Niagara, passing through the disorganized squadron, raked the vessels fore and aft, while the other American vessels promptly followed, and added to the confusion of the enemy and the dreadful destruction on board. The Americans were now at close quarters and able to do their best work, and so dreadful was it that fifteen minutes later a white handkerchief was waved at the end of a boarding-pike on one of the boats as a signal of surrender.

Firing ceased, and in the smoke and confusion two of the enemy's boats darted away in an attempt to escape; but they were followed and brought back. Determined to honor the Lawrence, Perry now had himself rowed to the wreck, drifting some distance away in charge of the few that had survived the awful conflict. Perry took his position aft and with calm dignity received the surrender. As the defeated officers approached and presented their swords in turn, he told each to retain the weapon, accompanying the remark with words of compliment for the bravery he had displayed.

The loss of the Americans was 27 killed and 96 wounded, and that of the British 41 killed and 94 wounded. Perry showed every possible kindness to the suffering prisoners, who expressed their gratitude. Commander Barclay displayed conspicuous bravery throughout the battle and was twice wounded, one of his injuries depriving him of the use of his single remaining arm.

From what was stated at the beginning of this chapter, it will be seen that this battle was one of the most important of the war. Not only was it a glorious victory of itself, the occasion being the first time in England's history that she surrendered a whole squadron, but it settled a much more momentous matter. The British General Proctor was waiting with his army on the Canadian shore ready to be carried across the lake by the English fleet, in the event of their being successful, and pressing his invasion of Ohio, which would have been an almost fatal blow to our country.

On the Ohio shore General Harrison was waiting with an American force to invade Canada, if Perry gained a victory. Hardly had the surrender been made when the commandant, using his cap for a desk and the back of an old letter for paper, pencilled the despatch which has become famous: "We have met the enemy and they are ours -- two ships, two brigs, one schooner and one sloop," which he sent by messenger to General Harrison.

In the following month Harrison invaded Canada, with Proctor retreating before him, and accompanied by the famous Indian, Tecumseh, and several hundred of his warriors. Proctor halted near the Moravian Towns, where a battle was fought October 5, in which the British and Indians were decisively defeated. The Indian confederacy was destroyed and all danger of the invasion of Ohio ended.

Master-Commandant Perry's victory caused his promotion to the rank of captain, and Congress awarded him a gold medal, besides suitably rewarding his officers and men. After the war he was sent into southern waters to help suppress piracy, which had become very troublesome. While engaged on this duty he was seized with yellow fever, and died August 24, 1819, just as his ship reached Port of Spain, Trinidad.



Chapter XVII.

A Hero of the Olden Days -- Cruise of the Constitution -- Her Capture of the Cyane and Levant -- Reminiscences of Admiral Stewart -- His Last Days.


During the early days of President Lincoln's administration, before the firing upon Fort Sumter by the Confederates, the all-absorbing question was as to whether or not the fort should be reinforced by the Government. A good many opposed, because it was known that the attempt would bring on a conflict, and, if war was to come, each was anxious that the other side should strike the first blow.

It was amid those times of excitement, doubt and trouble that Commodore Charles Stewart left his modest home near Bordentown, N.J., and went by train to Washington. From the station he made his way straight to the White House and sent in his name to President Lincoln. As usual, the Executive had a swarm of visitors, but he directed the distinguished caller to be admitted at once. As the tall, sad-faced man rose from his chair he towered fully two feet above the diminutive form of the naval officer in his blue swallow-tail, who took the proffered hand, and, after a few conventional words, looked up and said in his brisk manner:

"Mr. President, I'll reinforce Fort Sumter."

"You, Commodore! We are just discussing the question."

"There's no need of discussing it; it must be done! Give me the men and ships -- there won't be many required -- and I'll do it."

The President saw that his caller was in earnest, and he respected him too highly to indulge in anything like jesting.

"I am inclined to think as you do, Commodore, but -- "

"But what?" impatiently interrupted the veteran.

"You have already done so much for your country that it seems only fair that we should give the younger men a chance."

"Younger men! What's the matter with me? I'm not old enough yet to need a cane."

"I observe that; you are wonderfully spry for one of your years. Let me see, what is your age?"

"Not quite eighty-four."

"Why, you are still a young man; but the trouble is, Commodore, we have so many that are still younger, that they are plaguing the life out of me; I don't see how I can refuse them, but I shall be grateful to have the benefit of your counsel any time you are willing to give it."

"Counsel be hanged! We have had too much talk; it's time for actions, and I demand that you give me a chance with the rest."

With that inimitable tact for which President Lincoln was noted, he succeeded in soothing the ruffled feelings of the Commodore (soon afterward made an admiral), but the old gentleman was not quite satisfied, when he bade the President good-by, without having obtained the opportunity to re-enter the active service of his country.

This little anecdote, which is authentic, may serve to introduce my last references to one of the most remarkable naval heroes of our country. If his fire, vigor and patriotism burned so brightly in 1861, little need be said in way of explanation of its nature when he was less than forty years of age.

Captain Stewart came back from a cruise in the West Indies in the spring of 1814, and found the Constitution, "Old Ironsides," closely blockaded by a powerful British squadron. That remarkable frigate had already won such a reputation that the enemy were determined she should not get to sea again. They held her locked in the port for months, but despite their unceasing vigilance, Captain Stewart, who was a consummate seaman, slipped out in December and sailed away.

He made several captures, and the frigates of the enemy began an industrious search for him, while all the lesser craft strained every nerve to keep out of his way. On the 20th of February, 1815, when off the coast of South America, he gave chase to two of the enemy's vessels, one of which proved to be the Cyane and the other the Levant. The two together carried 55 guns and 313 men, while the Constitution had 51 guns and a crew of 456 men. The Cyane was properly a frigate, and she being at the rear, Stewart opened fire from the long guns of his port battery. The response from the starboard guns of the enemy was prompt, and for a time the cannonade was deafening. The Constitution gave most of her attention to the rear ship. The smoke around the American becoming so dense as to cloud the vision, Stewart slipped forward and quickly delivered a double-shotted broadside. Before it could be repeated the other ship attempted to gain a raking position across the stern of the Constitution. By a splendid manoeuvre, Stewart defeated the purpose, and, placing himself abreast the rear ship, delivered another destructive broadside before the more sluggish enemy comprehended their danger. He maintained his tremendous fire for a time, when he observed the other ship luffing across his course to secure a raking position, whereupon, with the same unsurpassable seamanship that he had shown from the first, he crossed the wake of the foremost ship and obtained a raking position himself. Before the vessel could extricate itself Stewart raked her twice. Then the second ship repeated the attempt of its consort, but Stewart not only defeated her, but again laid the Constitution so as to rake her.

In the manoeuvring the two ships drew up side by side, and, the enemy opening with the port battery, Stewart replied with his starboard guns. The fire of the American was so amazingly accurate and effective that in a short time the enemy hoisted a light and fired a gun in token of surrender. The battle occurred in the early hours of evening.

Upon sending an officer to take possession, it was found that the captured vessel was the English 32-gun frigate Cyane. It took an hour to transfer and secure the prisoners, when the Constitution started after the other ship, which was some distance away, engaged in repairing her rigging. Seeing the American approaching, and not knowing what fate had befallen her consort, the Englishman gallantly bore down to meet his formidable enemy. The two vessels passed each other and exchanged broadsides, but with another display of masterly seamanship Stewart, before the other was aware of her danger, crossed her wake and raked her.

This startling experience convinced the Englishman that he had met his master and he crowded on all sail in the desperate effort to escape. The Constitution was immediately after her, and by ten o'clock secured a position from which to deliver another of her terrible broadsides, seeing which the enemy surrendered. She proved to be the British sloop of war Levant, of 21 guns.

In this battle the Constitution had 4 killed and 10 wounded, while on the Cyane and Levant 35 were killed and 42 wounded. Of all the battles in which this famous ship was engaged, there was none more remarkable than this. When Stewart advanced to the attack he believed both his enemies were frigates. The manner in which he baffled every effort of the two to rake him, while he repeatedly raked them, was one of the many proofs that the American navy contained no finer seaman than he. The grand old Constitution seemed to anticipate every wish of her commander and responded with a promptness that could not have been surpassed. The discipline of the crew was perfect, and, after all, therefore, it is little wonder that one of the last acts of the famous ship was the most brilliant of them all.

It is stated by Richard Watson Gilder that when Captain Stewart was talking with the respective captains of the Cyane and Levant in his own cabin, the two fell into a dispute, each charging the other with failing to do the right thing during the engagement, and insisting that if it had been done they would not have been defeated. Stewart sat amused and interested until he saw they were becoming angry, when he interfered.

"Now, gentlemen," said he, "there's no need of your growing warm over this affair; no matter what evolutions you made, or what you did, the end would have been the same. If you don't believe it, I will put each of you back on your ship with the same crews and we'll fight it all over again."

Neither of the gentlemen was prepared to accept this proposal, and there can be no doubt that Captain Stewart was warranted in his declaration, and his prisoners knew it.

Stewart started for home with his prizes, and early in March anchored in Port Praya. While there, three powerful British frigates approached, which, through a series of singular coincidences, were blockading Boston at the time the Constitution made her escape some months before. They were anxious, above everything else, to capture the most dreaded ship in the American navy. Stewart knew that his only chance was to get away before they shut him in, for the experience of the Essex at Valparaiso proved that the neutrality of no port would protect an American cruiser.

Accordingly, he lost no time in getting to sea, leaving with the utmost haste and signalling to the Cyane and Levant to follow. They obeyed, and were handled with such skill that all got to sea, with the squadron in hot pursuit. The chase was continued for a long time, with the remarkable result that both the Constitution and Cyane safely reached Boston, while the Levant was recaptured -- a small reward for the exertions of the British squadron.

Maclay says: "In this brilliant cruise Captain Stewart proved himself an officer of rare ability. His action with the Cyane and Levant, and his masterly escape from the British squadron, called for all the qualities of a great commander, while his unhesitating attack on what appeared, in the heavy weather, to be two frigates, the beautiful style in which the Constitution was put through the most difficult manoeuvres, and the neatness with which he captured a superior force, have ranked him as one of the most remarkable naval officers of his day. Congress awarded him a sword and gold medal."

It happened one day, when I was talking with Admiral Stewart at his home, that he showed me a Toledo sword which had been presented to him by the King of Spain, because of his rescue of a Spanish ship, drifting helplessly in mid ocean, with the captain and all the crew dead or prostrated by yellow fever.

The blade of the weapon, although quite plain and ordinary looking, of course was very valuable, but the hilt was so rough and crude that I expressed my surprise.

"I supposed that when a king makes a present of a sword," I said, "that the hilt is generally of a more costly pattern than that."

"So it is," replied Stewart, accepting it from me and playfully making a few lightning-like passes in the air just to show that he had not forgotten how to handle the weapon; "that was a very handsome sword when it came to me, and I could not accept it until authorized by Congress. During my fight with the Cyane and Levant I was walking back and forth with this sword under my arm, the hilt slightly projecting in front of my chest, when a grapeshot slipped it off, as it grazed me. The hilt which it now has was put there by my gunner."

"Were you ever wounded in battle?" I asked. "I was struck only once, and it amounted to nothing. It was in the same battle. A pigeon became so frightened by the smoke and racket that it flew hither and thither, and finally perched on my shoulder. While there a musket ball struck its claw at the junction of the toes with the leg, and entered my shoulder. The resistance it met was so tough that it saved my shoulder from being shattered; except for that, the hurt must have proved serious, but it did not bother me at all."

The Admiral, still loosely holding the weapon in his hand, turned his faded eyes toward the window and gazed out over the snow. Those eyes seemed to look backward over the vista of forty, fifty, sixty, seventy, eighty years, and must have recalled the many stirring scenes in which he had taken part, as well as the faces of the brave fellows, like himself, who had gone from earth long ago, leaving him alone. Then the old veteran, still erect and with the fires of patriotism glowing in his brave heart, softly murmured:

"I have been more fortunate than I deserve; strange that I should be the only one left, but it cannot be for long."

And yet he lived for seven more years. Then, when a scirrhus cancer appeared on his tongue, a skilful surgeon told him it could be easily removed and need cause him no trouble.

"Oh," said the Admiral, who was then past ninety, "I've lived long enough; let it alone."

He died a few months later, and, as has been stated, was in his ninety-second year.



Chapter XVIII.

Captures Made After the Signing of the Treaty of Peace -- The Privateers -- Exploit of the General Armstrong -- Its Far-Reaching Result.


The treaty of peace between Great Britain and the United States was signed December 24, 1814, at the city of Ghent, in Belgium. Had the submarine telegraph been known at that time, or had we possessed our ocean greyhounds, a good deal of blood-shed would have been saved, and the most important victory of the whole war would not have been gained. General Jackson won his famous triumph at New Orleans -- still celebrated in all parts of the country -- January 8, 1815; the President was captured by a British fleet, January 15; Captain Stewart captured the Cyane and Levant, February 20; the Hornet took the Penguin, March 23, and the Peacock captured the Nautilus, in a distant part of the world, June 30. That was the last of hostilities between the two countries, and let us pray that it will be the last for all time to come.

In the account of the naval exploits of the War of 1812, I have confined myself to those of the regular cruisers of the United States, but in no other war in which we were engaged did the privateers play so prominent a part. These vessels were usually schooners or brigs of 200 or 300 tons, with crews varying from 75 to 100 men. They left all of our principal ports, many of the swiftest and most effective going from Baltimore, but twenty-six were fitted out in New York alone in the summer of 1812. Probably the whole number engaged was about six hundred. Of the four hundred British prizes captured in the second year of the war, four-fifths were taken by privateers. A favorite cruising ground was the West Indies, but some of the vessels ventured across the ocean and displayed a degree of boldness that recalled the days of Paul Jones. Among the most famous were the Reindeer, Avon and Blakeley, built in a few weeks, near Boston, in 1814. They were so large and well equipped that more than once they attacked and defeated British warships.

Some of the privateers which left Charleston, Bristol and Plymouth were nothing but pilot boats, carrying twenty or thirty men each, who gave their attention to the West Indies. They were often obliged to deplete their crews to that extent in order to man their prizes that barely enough were left to manage their own ships. In those days all, of course, were sailing vessels, and they carried nothing in the shape of armor. Their guns were cannon, loading at the muzzle and firing solid shot. The most effective of these was the "Long Tom," which was generally mounted on a pivot forward, and used in firing upon a fleeing vessel.

(Afterward President of the United States.)

The most famous achievement was that of the privateer General Armstrong, which carried nine long guns, the largest being 24-pounders, or "long nines." She sailed with a large crew, which was depleted to ninety on account of the number in charge of the prizes captured. Her commander was Captain Samuel C. Reid, born in Connecticut in 1783, and died in 1861. It was he who designed the accepted pattern of the United States flag, with its thirteen stripes and one star for each State. The fifteen-striped flag, which it has been stated was carried through the War of 1812, remained the pattern until 1818, when the change referred to was made.

While engaged upon one of his successful cruises, Captain Reid put into the harbor of Fayal, one of the Azores, to provision his ship. He was thus employed when Admiral Sir Thomas Cochrane, of England, reached the same port and on the same errand. He had with him three vessels: the flagship Plantagenet, 74 guns; the frigate Rotan, 38 guns, and the brig Carnation, 18 guns. This powerful squadron was manned by 2,000 men, and was on the way to New Orleans with the purpose of occupying the city.

When the British admiral discovered the American privateer within the harbor, he placed his own vessels so as to prevent its escape. Captain Reid did not think the enemy would attack him, since the harbor was neutral, but the previous experience of his countrymen warned him that it was not safe to count upon the British respecting the laws of war when there was an opportunity to destroy one of the pests of the ocean. He cleared his decks and made every preparation against attack, and it was well he did so.

It was not long before he observed several boats, crowded with men, leave the Plantagenet and row toward him. This was on the 26th of September. There being no doubt of their hostile purpose, Captain Reid several times warned them off, but they paid no attention to him. He then fired upon the boats, and a number of the crews were killed and wounded. This was a sort of reception they had not counted upon, and the boats turned about and hastily rowed back to the flagship.

"We have got to fight," said Captain Reid to his men; "they will attack us again to-night, and things will be lively."

There was no thought of surrender on the part of the Americans, though, as will be noted, they were threatened by a force more than twenty times as numerous as their own. They sent their valuables ashore and disposed of everything, as if not a man expected to emerge from the fight alive. All were cool and confident, and the dauntless courage of the commander inspired every one around him.

Night settled over the harbor, and by and by the sounds of oars showed the enemy were approaching again. Through the gloom seven boats, containing two hundred men, loomed into view, coming straight for the General Armstrong. Each carried a carronade, with which they opened fire on the privateer. The reply of the latter was so well directed and effective that three of the boats were sunk and their crews left struggling in the water. The cries that sounded across the harbor left no doubt of the effect of the fire of the American.

The four remaining boats were not frightened off, but, rowing with might and main, reached the side of the vessel and began clambering on board. They were enraged, and as their heads rose above the gunwales they shouted, "No quarter!"

"No quarter!" replied the Americans, discharging their pistols in their faces and pressing them back into the water with their pikes. The assailants displayed great bravery and made desperate efforts to board the privateer; but the Americans needed not the incentive of the warning that no quarter would be given to fight with all the vigor and skill at their command. The struggle was a furious one, but in the end the British were so decisively defeated that only two of the boats returned to the ships. The others, filled with dead and wounded, drifted ashore.

(Our Last Naval Engagement with England.)

In this brief but terrific struggle there were only two Americans killed and seven wounded, while the enemy acknowledged a loss of thirty-four killed and eighty-six wounded, the former including the leader of the expedition.

Admiral Cochrane was so incensed by the rough treatment his men had received that he determined to throw neutrality to the winds and destroy the defiant privateer. Nothing more was attempted that evening, but in the morning the Carnation advanced to the attack of the General Armstrong. This gave the latter a chance to bring its Long Tom into play, and it was served with such unerring accuracy that not a shot missed. Before the brig could come to close quarters she was so crippled that she was obliged to withdraw.

The three ships now closed in. It would have been folly to fight them. So Captain Reid scuttled his ship, lowered his boats and rowed ashore. The enemy were disposed to follow him thither, but he and his men took refuge in an old stone fortress and dared the Englishmen to do so. Upon second thought they decided to leave the Americans to themselves.

This wonderful exploit was celebrated in song, one stanza of which ended thus:


"From set of sun till rise of morn, through the long September night, Ninety men against two thousand, and the ninety won the fight;

In the harbor of Fayal the Azore."

While the victory of itself was one of the most remarkable of which there is any record, it resembled that of Perry on Lake Erie in its far-reaching consequences. Admiral Cochrane found his ships so crippled that he returned to England to refit. He then sailed for New Orleans, which he reached a few days after it had been occupied by General Jackson. But for the delay caused by his fight with Captain Reid he would have shut out General Jackson from the city and prevented his winning the most glorious land victory of the whole war.



Lesser Wars.

Chapter XIX.


Resentment of the Barbary States -- The War with Algiers -- Captain Decatur's Vigorous Course -- His Astonishing Success as a Diplomat.


It was not alone in our wars with the leading nations that the American navy won glory. Wherever there arose a demand for its work, its patriotism, skill and bravery were instant to respond.

England had its hands full during the early years of the nineteenth century in combating Napoleon Bonaparte and other nations with which she became embroiled. Had she been wise and treated the United States with justice, she would have saved herself the many humiliations received at our hands. She is another nation to-day, but it was wholly her fault that her "children" on this side of the ocean were forced to strike for the defence of their rights in the Revolution and the War of 1812.

In the account of our war with Tripoli it has been shown that the young American navy performed brilliant service. The Barbary States took naturally to piracy, and Great Britain, by securing immunity for her vessels through the payment of tribute, also secured a virtual monopoly of the commerce of the Mediterranean. Her policy was a selfish one, for she believed the United States was too weak to send any effective warships into that part of the world. The story of Tripoli convinced her of the mistake of this belief.

The Barbary States were sour over their defeat, and, when the War of 1812 broke out, they eagerly seized the occasion to pick a quarrel with us. The Dey of Algiers opened the ball by insisting that $27,000 should be paid him, the same being past due (under the old treaty providing for tribute from the United States), owing to the difference in the methods of computing time by the two countries. Since our war with England prevented the sending of any force to the Mediterranean at that time, the consul complied and the blackmail was handed to the Dey.

This concession only whetted the barbarian's appetite, and his next step was to order the consul to leave the country, since he was not honest enough to make his residence in the Dey's dominions congenial to the latter. About that time the Dey received a present of valuable naval stores from England, and he lost no time in sending out his corsairs to prey upon American commerce.

Tripoli and Tunis were not so active, but believing the British boast that they would sweep the American navy from the seas, they allowed the warships of that nation to recapture several prizes that the American privateers had sent into their ports. Their sympathies were wholly with England and against the United States, which they hated with an intensity natural to their savage nature.

The United States bided its time. No sooner had the War of 1812 closed than our Government decided to give its attention to Algiers, whose defiant Dey had not only refused to allow his American prisoners to be ransomed, but had insolently declared that he meant to add a good many more to them.

Hardly had the treaty with England been proclaimed when two squadrons were ordered into Algerian waters. The first was under the command of Captain William Bainbridge and assembled at Boston, and the second, under Captain Stephen Decatur, was organized at New York. Decatur was the first to get under way, sailing on May 20 with a squadron consisting of ten vessels, mounting 210 guns. He had under his direct command nearly all the seamen who had served under him and survived the last war.

It may seem that Decatur had an easy task before him, but Maclay shows that the force against which he sailed was really the stronger. It consisted of 5 frigates, 6 sloops of war and 1 schooner -- all carrying 360 guns, which exceeded those of the American squadron by 50 per cent. The Algerian admiral was the terror of the Mediterranean. He had risen from the lowest to the highest rank by his indomitable valor and skill. He once captured by boarding in broad daylight a Portuguese frigate within sight of Gibraltar. He had performed other valiant exploits; his ships were well equipped and manned, and the crews trained in modern warfare.

In addition, the city of Algiers was so strongly fortified that Lord Nelson declared that twenty-five ships of the line would not be more than enough to capture it. As Decatur drew near the Portugal coast he made guarded inquiries as to the whereabouts of the Algerian squadron. He used the utmost care to prevent his presence from becoming known to the enemy, and finally heard that which led him to believe the Moorish admiral had passed through the Straits of Gibraltar and entered the Mediterranean. At Gibraltar Decatur saw several boats hurrying off to Algiers to warn his enemy of his danger. He made sail up the Mediterranean, hoping to beat the despatch boats. The admiral's flagship was descried, and, still striving to avert suspicion, the American ships worked gradually toward him. Before they could get within range the Moorish admiral took the alarm, and, crowding on every stitch of canvas, made a resolute effort to escape. He handled his ship with great skill, and Decatur feared he would succeed in reaching some neutral port or elude him in the night, which was near at hand.

A hot chase followed, and the Turks soon opened on the American flagship and wounded several men, but Decatur reserved his fire until able to deliver one of his fearful broadsides. A shot literally cut the Moorish admiral in two. A few minutes later a second broadside was fired, but no signal of surrender was made, and the men in the tops continued firing until the American marines picked them off. Seeing there was no escape for the enemy, and wishing to save the unnecessary shedding of blood, Decatur took a position off the frigate's bow, whereupon she made a vigorous effort to escape.

In doing this, she headed directly for the 18-gun brig Epervier, which was in danger of being run down; but the plucky master-commandant, John Downes, backed and filled away with wonderful skill, chased the flying frigate, delivered nine diminutive broadsides and compelled the Turk to strike his colors.

Upon taking possession of the prize it was found that 30 had been killed and there were 406 prisoners. On the Guerriere 3 had fallen and 11 were wounded by the fire of the enemy.

Believing that the rest of the Algerian squadron would make haste to their home port, Decatur hastened thither with the view of cutting them off. If the Dey refused to come to terms, he intended to blockade the squadron and bombard the city. It was on the 28th of June, 1815, that the American fleet appeared off Algiers, and the commander signalled a request for the Swedish consul to come aboard. He came out a few hours later, accompanied by the Algerian captain of the port. When Decatur proved by the testimony of one of the native prisoners that their admiral had been killed and his ship and a second one captured, the officer was astounded, and so alarmed that he asked the American commander on what terms he would make peace.

Decatur was prepared for this question, and produced a letter to the Dey from the President of the United States, in which it was declared that the only conditions upon which peace could be made was the full and final relinquishment by Algiers of all claim to tribute in the future, and the guarantee that American commerce would not be molested. The captain, like all Orientals, began to quibble to gain time, asking that the commissioners should land and conduct the negotiations on shore. Decatur replied that they must be negotiated on board the Guerriere and nowhere else.

The next day the Moorish captain returned with full powers to negotiate. Decatur now notified him that, in addition to the terms already named, every American prisoner must be given up without ransom, and the value, to the last penny, of their stolen property restored. Other minor demands were added, all of which were within the province of Decatur, who had been clothed with full authority to make peace. The captain asked for a truce that he might lay the terms before the Dey. This was denied. Then he asked for a delay of three hours.

"Not three minutes," replied Decatur; "if the remaining ships of your squadron appear before the treaty is signed, or before every American prisoner is on board this ship, I will capture every one of them."

The Moor was thoroughly cowed by the aggressive American, and, promising to do all he could to secure the consent of the Dey, he was hastily rowed ashore. It was understood that if the Dey agreed to the terms the captain would return in the boat with a white flag displayed at the bow.

He had been gone but a short time when an Algerian ship of war was discovered, crowded with soldiers and approaching. Decatur instantly cleared for action, and had started to meet the enemy, when the port captain was observed approaching as rapidly in his boat as his men could row, and with the white signal fluttering from the bow. All the Americans, including Decatur, were disappointed, but as he had promised, he waited until the boat was within hail. Then he called out to know whether the treaty was signed. He was told that it was, and in a short time the prisoners were brought alongside and delivered to their rescuers. Wan, emaciated and hollow-eyed from their long and bitter imprisonment, they wept tears of joy and kissed the American flag that, coming so many thousand miles, had brought them deliverance.

Thus in two weeks after the arrival of the American squadron in Algerian waters, every demand of its Government was complied with, and a treaty of peace made on terms dictated by its gallant and faithful representative. It will be admitted that Stephen Decatur proved himself one of the most successful diplomats as well as intrepid and skilful of commanders.

He now proceeded to Tunis and notified the Dey that he would give him twelve hours in which to pay $46,000 for allowing the seizure of American prizes in his port during the late war. The Dey paid it. The next call of the American commander was on the Bashaw of Tripoli, who, although he blustered a good deal, was compelled to hand over $25,000 for a similar breach of the law.

Among the vessels of the American squadron were three -- the Guerriere, Macedonian, and the Peacock -- which had been captured from Great Britain during the late war. This fact gave peculiar point to the reproof of the Dey's prime minister to the British consul: "You told us that the Americans should be swept from the seas in six months by your navy, and now they make war upon us with some of your own vessels which they took from you."



Chapter XX.

Piracy in the West Indies -- Its Cause -- Means by Which It Was Wiped Out -- Piracy in the Mediterranean.


We hear little of pirates in these days, but for ten years or more after the close of the War of 1812 the West Indies were infested by them. Our Government saw that in self-defense they must be wiped out, for they grew bolder with every month and made it unsafe for our commerce in those waters.

Where did they come from and what gave rise to the ocean nuisances? About the time named Spain was the mistress of most of the South American countries. When she discovered America through Columbus, and for a long period afterward, she was one of the greatest maritime nations in the world. Like England at the present time, she had colonies in all parts of the globe, and had she not been so cruel and unwise in the treatment of her dependencies, would still have retained a great deal of her former greatness and power; but she is one of the few nations that never learn from experience, and a short time after our second war with Great Britain her South American colonies began revolting against her, and one by one they gained their independence.

Among the most powerful of the rebelling provinces were Buenos Ayres and Venezuela; and, taking lesson from the success of our privateers, they sent out many swift sailing, well-armed vessels to prey upon Spanish commerce. They did their work so effectively that by and by they extended their attacks to the vessels of all nations. Nothing being done for a time to check them, they grew rapidly in numbers and audacity, until, as has been stated, the West Indies swarmed with the pests. The men living along the coast found buccaneering so profitable that they gave up their peaceful pursuits and became free-booters of the sea. Like the Spaniards themselves, they were ferocious, and generally murdered the crews of the captured vessels and then divided the plunder among themselves.

Seeing that something must be done to check these intolerable outrages, our Government gave the task, in 1819, to Oliver Hazard Perry, the hero of Lake Erie. His work was more difficult than would be supposed, for, in addition to destroying the pirates, he had to avoid offending the countries named, with whom we wished to maintain friendly relations. They sent out regular cruisers that had the same right to prey upon Spanish commerce that our privateers had to attack English ships when we were at war with their country. Some of these cruisers secretly engaged in piracy; many that flew the black flag, in the presence of those who could not defend themselves, claimed to be authorized privateers at other times and carried forged commissions. They were treacherous, cruel and merciless to the last degree.

It will be seen, therefore, that the task assigned to Captain Perry required quick decision, courage and discretion. He possessed all those qualities in a high degree, and, in the performance of his duty, reached the mouth of the Orinoco in July, 1815, in command of three powerful ships. The following extract from his journal will give a vivid idea of the discomforts which he and his men underwent in the performance of their work:

"The sun, as soon as it shows itself in the morning, strikes almost through you. Mosquitoes, sand flies and gnats cover you, and as the sun gets up higher it becomes entirely calm and the rays pour down a heat that is insufferable. The fever that it creates, together with the irritation caused by the insects, produces a thirst which is insatiable, to quench which we drink water at a temperature of eighty-two degrees. About four o'clock in the afternoon a rain squall, accompanied by a little wind, generally takes place. It might be supposed that this would cool the air, but not so, for the steam which arises as soon as the sun comes out makes the heat still more intolerable. At length night approaches and we go close inshore and anchor. Myriads of mosquitoes and gnats come off to the vessel and compel us to sit over strong smoke created by burning oakum and tar, rather than endure their terrible stings, until, wearied and exhausted, we go to bed to endure new torments. Shut up in the berth of a small cabin, if there is any air stirring, not a breath of it can reach us. The mosquitoes, more persevering, follow us and annoy us the whole night by their noise and bites until, almost mad with heat and pain, we rise to go through the same trouble the next day."

Perry sailed three hundred miles up the Orinoco and was undaunted by the fact that the dreaded yellow fever soon appeared among his men. He was seized with the terrible disease and died on the 24th of August. He was buried with the highest civic and military honors at Trinidad, many British officers who had fought against him on Lake Erie showing their respect for his bravery and an appreciation of his kindness to them when they were prisoners of war. His remains were afterward removed to Newport, Rhode Island, where a magnificent monument was erected to his memory.

The untimely death of this naval hero before he had time to complete his work encouraged the West Indian pirates and they became more audacious than before. In the autumn of 1821 several naval vessels were sent thither by our Government. They did vigorous work, capturing and destroying a number of piratical vessels, but there were too many of them, and they were spread over too extended a space to be wiped out by a few captures. In the following year a still more powerful squadron went to the West Indies under the command of Captain James Biddle, who did such valiant service in the War of 1812. A good many buccaneers were destroyed, including several leaders of the buccaneers whose atrocious deeds had long made their names a terror. In one of these attacks Lieutenant William H. Allen, of the schooner Alligator, was killed by a musket ball. His gallantry in the fight between the Argus and Pelican in the war with Great Britain sent a thrill of admiration through the country and brought him well-merited promotion.

You have not forgotten the wonderful cruise of Captain David Porter in the Essex, when he entered the Pacific Ocean and caused such havoc among the British shipping. He was appointed commander of the West India forces and arrived off Porto Rico in March, 1823. He was provided, in addition to his warships, with a number of barges, furnished with twenty oars apiece, and which were indispensable in following the pirates up the shallow creeks and into the shoal waters where the vessels could not go.

Captain Porter was discreet but impatient with injustice. When one of his schooners was fired into by the Porto Rican authorities he promptly demanded an explanation, which was given. The most important incident of his service occurred in the autumn of 1824 and is known as the "Foxardo Affair."

In October of that year the storehouse of the American consul at St. Thomas was broken into and robbed of much valuable property which there was reason to believe had been carried to the small port at the eastern end of Porto Rico known as Foxardo. Lieutenant Platt, of the Beagle, anchored off the town and asked the help of the authorities in capturing the criminals and recovering the property. The officer was treated with the grossest discourtesy. Having landed in civilian clothes, the authorities accused him of being an impostor and ordered him to show his commission. The Lieutenant produced it, whereupon they declared it a forgery and arrested him on the charge of being a pirate. After he and a midshipman who accompanied him had been insulted repeatedly they were allowed to leave.

When Captain Porter learned of this outrage he entered the harbor with several of his vessels and sent a letter to the alcalde or governor, notifying him that he had one hour in which to send an explanation of his action. While waiting for the return of the flag of truce Captain Porter saw one of the shore batteries getting ready to fire upon him. Instantly, he sent a detachment, which captured the battery and spiked the guns. Then Captain Porter landed, and, after spiking another battery, made his way to the town. By and by the alcalde and captain of the port appeared and made such profuse and humble apologies that the officer could not refuse to accept them, and returned to his ship.

Such is a truthful account of the incident as it occurred. It would seem that there was nothing in the course of the gallant naval officer that deserved censure. One of his officers had been insulted and he compelled the offenders to make a suitable apology. Fearing with good reason a treacherous attack from the batteries on shore, he spiked their guns. But when the news reached our Government Captain Porter was ordered home, tried by court martial and sentenced to be suspended from the service for six months. Feeling himself unjustly treated, Captain Porter resigned and entered the Mexican navy, where he remained until 1829. In that year Andrew Jackson became President of the United States. He had been through trying and stormy times himself and would never submit to insult from any man or nation. He appointed Porter consul general at Algiers. He afterward became minister to Turkey and died March 28, 1843.

Captain Lewis Warrington succeeded Porter in the West Indies and followed out his aggressive policy. The buccaneers were hunted down without cessation and nest after nest broken up until, at the close of 1825, piracy in those waters was practically suppressed. For several years, however, a squadron was maintained there and more than once its services were needed, but the work was completed and since then no trouble in that quarter of the world of the nature described has plagued either ourselves or any other nation.

Even in the Mediterranean our navy had similar work to do. While little Greece was making so gallant a struggle for freedom against Turkey a number of her vessels played the rôle of pirate and attacked ships of other nations. Among others, an English brig had been seized, but Lieutenant Lewis M. Goldsborough, after a furious fight, recaptured the vessel. Lieutenant John A. Carr singled out the Greek captain and in the fierce hand-to-hand conflict killed him. Lieutenant Goldsborough -- who afterward became rear-admiral -- received the thanks of several of the Mediterranean powers for his assistance in ridding the waters of the pirates who, though few in number, became exceedingly troublesome.

It was by such prompt, vigorous and brave measures that the American navy compelled the respect not only of civilized but of barbarous peoples in all parts of the world. This fact is proven by a remarkable occurrence, not often mentioned in history, the particulars of which are given in the next chapter.



Chapter XXI.

The Qualla Battoo Incident.


Qualla Battoo is the name of a small Malay town, which stood on the northwestern coast of Sumatra. In the month of February, 1831, the Friendship, a trading vessel from Salem, Mass., lay at anchor off the town, taking on board a cargo of pepper. Her captain, Mr. Endicott, and crew numbered fifteen men. There being no harbor, the vessel was about half a mile from shore. The day was oppressively hot and no one on the Friendship put forth more exertion than was absolutely necessary. Even the swarthy natives seemed to languish in the flaming heat and displayed less vigor in bringing out the pepper in their boats than they did when the sun beat down upon them with its usual rigor.

Captain Endicott understood the treacherous nature of the Malays, and he and his crew kept sharp watch of those who were given the management of the vessel's boats, owing to the difficult character of the coast which made such a course necessary.

The trade in pepper was almost the only one in which Qualla Battoo engaged. Captain Endicott, his second mate and four seamen were on shore at the trading station, a little way up the river, superintending the weighing of the pepper. The first mate and the rest of the crew waited on the vessel to receive and stow away the cargo. The work had hardly begun when a suspicious proceeding caught the eye of Captain Endicott.

The first boat, after receiving its load, passed the short distance necessary down the river to the sea, where, instead of rowing directly out to the ship, it turned up the coast and took on board more men. The Captain concluded the crew needed this additional help to work their way through the heavy surf. But, not wholly satisfied, he told two of his men to go nearer the shore, keep their eyes on the boat and report to him anything that looked wrong.

Captain Endicott, from his position, was unable to catch the full significance of the first action of the natives in charge of the outgoing boat, for, instead of taking on board more help, the whole unarmed party stepped ashore and twice as many fully armed warriors took their places. They carefully concealed their weapons and the Americans on the vessel made the same mistake as their captain in believing they were merely the additions necessary to help work the craft through the surf.

They tied fast to the gangway and most of them climbed over the side with their daggers hidden in their clothing. The mate would have stopped them, but they pretended not to understand his words and acted as if interested in the appearance of the guns and rigging. Their conduct was so natural that the mate and his men gave their whole attention to taking the pepper on board and stowing it away. The mate was absorbed in his work, when suddenly several Malays sprang with lightning-like quickness at him and buried their daggers in his back. He turned and attempted to defend himself, but was quickly despatched. Five men rushed to the help of the mate, but they were unarmed and outnumbered four to one. Two were quickly killed and three made prisoners. The other four seamen sprang overboard and swam for land. They saw that the beach was lined with warriors waiting for them. Accordingly they turned to one side and swam several miles to a promontory, where they were safe for the time.

Seeing that their friends had gained possession of the ship, several boatloads of natives rowed out to it, took possession, plundered and then tried to run it ashore, that they might break out the metal work at their leisure.

Meanwhile the two seamen stationed near shore by the captain saw what had taken place and ran back to him with the alarming news. He instantly ordered all into the second boat and hurried down the river, hoping to reach the vessel in time to recapture it. The boat was pursued by the natives along the bank, but it managed to reach the mouth of the river, where it would have perished in the surf but for the help of a friendly member of an adjoining tribe, who sprang from his armed coasting schooner and swam to their assistance. He helped them through the surf, and, when confronted by the native armed boats, made such threats and flourishes with his sword (none of the Americans being armed) that he kept the miscreants at bay and the white men succeeded in reaching the open sea.

Seeing that it would be sure death to go to the vessel, the boat was rowed to a small town about twenty miles distant, where the occupants found three American merchant vessels. The officers and crews were enraged upon learning what had taken place, and, although it was night, they made sail at once for Qualla Battoo, reaching it next day. In reply to the demand that the Friendship should be returned, the insolent Rajah told them to take her if they could. The three ships moved as close to shore as was safe and opened fire with such guns as they had. All merchant vessels carried some kind of armament against pirates in that part of the world. Impatient with the delay involved in recapturing the Friendship, by attacking at long range, as it may be called, three boats were filled with armed men who rowed straight for the vessel. It was swarming with armed natives, who kept up a vicious but ill directed fire, the result of which was the sailors rowed the faster, eager to get close enough to punish the miscreants for their murderous work.

When they were almost to the ship the Malays sprang overboard and swam frantically for land. Captain Endicott regained possession of his vessel, and, upon examination, found it had been rifled from stem to stern. Among the plunder taken away was $12,000 in specie. Altogether the loss was $40,000 to the owners of the ship and the captain was compelled to give up his voyage and return home.

It took a long time for news to travel in those days, but it finally reached the United States, where Andrew Jackson happened to be President. He immediately ordered the 44-gun frigate Potomac to that out of the way corner of the world, with instructions to punish the guilty parties concerned in the outrage. Captain Downes lost no time in getting under way and arrived off Qualla Battoo in February, 1832, just a year after the treacherous attack upon the Friendship.

Anxious to prevent his errand becoming known so that he might surprise the Malays, Captain Downes disguised his ship as a merchantman, closing his ports and taking every precaution possible. He displayed the Danish colors, still maintaining the guise of a merchantman, and sent a boat's crew to take soundings along shore. The natives on the beach displayed so hostile a disposition that no landing was made, and, having gained the necessary information, the boat returned to the frigate. Captain Downes then informed them that the expedition would leave the ship at midnight.

A strong armed force in several boats secretly rowed to land at the time named, but day was approaching when they reached the beach, where the men landed under the guidance of the former second mate of the Friendship and started inland. One division turned to the left to attack the fort at the northern end of the town. The Malays received them with a brisk discharge of cannon, muskets, javelins and arrows. But, returning the fire, the Americans burst open the gate of the stockade, fought hand to hand with the fierce Malays and drove them out of the open space into the citadel. There they were attacked with the same impetuosity, but they fought like tigers, and it was not until twelve had been killed and a great many wounded that they were overcome. The Rajah in command, after a desperate defence in which he wounded several Americans, was finally despatched.

In the meantime the fort in the middle of the town had been attacked by the other division and carried after a bloody fight in which a marine was killed and a number wounded. But the strongest fort of all stood on the bank of the river near the beach. There the Rajah of Qualla Battoo, who was the real author of the attack on the Friendship, had gathered a large force of his best warriors and announced that he would fight to the death.

The strength of the force which marched against the fort was eighty-five men. One of the officers who took part in this attack said: "The natives were brave and fought with a fierceness bordering on desperation. They would not yield while a drop of their savage blood warmed their bosoms or while they had strength to wield a weapon, fighting with that undaunted firmness which is the characteristic of bold and determined spirits and displaying such an utter carelessness of life as would have been honored in a better cause. Instances of the bravery of these people were numerous, so much so that were I to give the detail of each event my description would probably become tiresome."

The barricades stoutly resisted the fire. Leaving a force to engage the fort in front, Lieutenant Shubrick led a body of sailors through the woods to the rear with the 6-pounder which had been brought from the frigate. When they reached their position they came upon three heavily armed schooners, swarming with warriors, awaiting a chance to take part in the fight. Shubrick promptly opened upon them with his cannon, followed by a destructive fire of musketry, which sent the Malays leaping overboard and into the woods. They succeeded, however, in warping one of the schooners beyond range.

The Americans now being at the front and rear of the fort, a simultaneous attack was made. The gate was wrenched from its fastenings, but the first American who tried to enter was killed and three others badly wounded. Undaunted the remainder of the assailants rushed through and drove the defenders to a high platform, where they made their final stand. The other stockade was in flames, which were burning so fast that the Americans themselves were in danger from them. The little cannon was brought into play from a neighboring elevation and poured canister and grape into the Malays. Meanwhile the Americans, who had performed their part so well, came up and joined in the attack on the main fort. The Malays, still fighting, shrieked out their defiant cries. In the ardor of the assault the little cannon was too heavily loaded and dismounted. Amid the wild confusion the flames of the second fort reached the magazine and the whole structure blew up with a tremendous explosion.

The cannon being useless, Lieutenant Shubrick ordered a general assault upon the citadel, and it was made with a resistless rush. The men scrambled upon the platform, in the face of the swarthy wild cats, and despatched them in a whirlwind fashion. The work being apparently completed, the bugle was sounded for retreat and the Americans returned to the beach. On the way they were fired upon by another fort for which they had searched without being able to find it. Returning the fire, the Americans charged through the jungle and after another desperate fight it was captured, most of the garrison slain and the remainder sent scurrying through the woods.

The roll call revealed that two Americans had been killed and eleven wounded. All were gently lifted into the boats and carried to the ship. A moderate estimate made 100 of the Malays killed and fully double the number wounded.

Captain Downes now brought his long 32-pounders to bear and opened a bombardment of Qualla Battoo which spread destruction and death among the natives. Many were killed and others sent scurrying in terror to the jungle. Toward the close of the day white flags were displayed and the firing ceased. Immediately after a boat was sent out by the remaining rajahs, with a white flag fluttering at the bow. On coming aboard the messengers were presented to Captain Downes and they humbly prayed that he would stop the firing of his big guns, which were killing all their people. He promised to do so on their pledge never again to molest an American. He assured them that if they ever did his country would send larger and more terrible ships across the ocean that would lay their towns in ashes and slay hundreds of their men. The subsequent history of that quarter of the world leaves no doubt that the impressive warning of Captain Downes produced the best of results, for Sumatra has never required any further attention from our navy.



Chapter XXII.

Wilkes's Exploring Expedition.


Perhaps my young readers have wondered over the same fact that used to puzzle me when a boy. While the civilized world was interested, as it has been for hundreds of years, in trying to reach the Pole, and the nations were constantly sending expeditions to search for it, to be followed by others to hunt for the expeditions and then by others to look up those that were hunting for the others and so on, all these efforts were confined to the North Pole. Everybody seemed to have forgotten that there is also a South Pole, which is not a mile further from the equator than the North Pole.

Of course there was good reason for all this. There is a great deal of land in the north, while the unbroken ocean seas stretch away from the South Pole for hundreds and thousands of miles in every direction and the prodigious masses and mountains of ice make it impossible to get anywhere near it. Our daring explorers are continually edging further north, and doubtless within a few years the Pole will be reached, but there appears no prospect of the South Pole being seen for many a year to come.

Lieutenant Charles Wilkes was born in 1798 and died in 1877. He entered the American navy at an early age and in 1838 was made commander of the squadron which spent four years in sailing through the Pacific, along its American coasts and in the Antarctic regions.

Before giving an account of this memorable scientific expedition, let me add a little more information concerning this distinguished naval officer, since this is the only chapter which contains any reference to him. He was made a captain in 1855. In the month of November, 1861, while in command of the steamer San Jacinto, he stopped the British ship Trent and forcibly took off the two Confederate commissioners, Mason and Slidell, who were on their way respectively to England and France to secure their aid for the Southern Confederacy.

Captain Wilkes was highly applauded for his act by his countrymen, but England was very indignant. It was an illegal proceeding on his part, since the deck of a ship is the same as the soil of the country whose flag she flies. Our Government was compelled to disavow his action and restore the commissioners to English custody.

In the War for the Union Captain Wilkes commanded the James River squadron, was made commodore in 1862 and was retired in 1864 and made rear-admiral on the retired list.

The scientific expedition of which Lieutenant Wilkes was given command was intended, to quote the words of Congress, "for the purpose of exploring and surveying the southern ocean, as well to determine the existence of all doubtful islands and shoals as to discover and accurately fix the position of those which lie in or near the track of our vessels in that quarter and may have escaped the observation of scientific navigators."

Lieutenant Wilkes sailed from Hampton Roads on the 19th of August, 1838, his flagship being the 18-gun sloop-of-war Vincennes, the 18-gun sloop-of-war Peacock, the 12-gun brig-of-war Porpoise, the storeship Relief, the tender Sea Gull and the tender Flying Fish. Since one of the main objects was scientific research, the expedition was provided with a philologist, naturalists, conchologists, mineralogist, botanist, draughtsmen and a horticulturist.

A halt for a week was made at the Madeira Islands, when the ships headed southward, reaching Rio Janeiro late in November. In January, 1839, they halted at Orange Harbor, Terra del Fuego, and made it their base of operations. On the 25th of February Lieutenant Wilkes, in the Porpoise, accompanied by the Sea Gull, started for the South Pole. On the 1st of March considerable ice and snow were encountered and an island sighted, but the men could not land because of the surf. The next day the Ashland Islands were discovered and soon after the two vessels reached Palmersland. The following is the account of Lieutenant Wilkes:

"It was a day of great excitement to all, for we had ice of all kinds to encounter, from the iceberg of huge quadrangular shape, with its stratified appearance, to the sunken and deceptive masses that were difficult to perceive before they were under the bow. I have rarely seen a finer sight. The sea was literally studded with these beautiful masses, some of pure white, others showing all shades of the opal, others emerald green and occasionally, here and there, some of deep black. Our situation was critical, but the weather favored us for a few hours. On clearing these dangers we kept off to the south and west under all sail, and at 9 P.M. we counted eight large islands. Afterward the weather became so thick with mist and fog as to render it necessary to lie to till daylight, before which time we had a heavy snowstorm. A strong gale now set in from the southwest; the deck of the brig was covered with ice and snow and the weather became exceedingly damp and cold. The men were suffering not only from want of sufficient room but from the inadequacy of the clothing."

Naturally the further south they penetrated the greater became their danger from the increasing fields of ice and icebergs. The Peacock and Flying Fish left Orange Harbor on the same day with the Porpoise and Sea Gull. They were separated by a gale and the Peacock was continually beset by icebergs. Every rope and the deck, spars and rigging were thickly coated with ice. Some days later the Flying Fish was met and she reported that she had penetrated to the parallel of 70 degrees. There was imminent danger of being frozen in, and, as they were short of provisions, they sailed northward. The Flying Fish reached Orange Harbor in April, while the Peacock continued on to Valparaiso, where the storeship Relief was found. In May the other members of the squadron arrived at the port, with the exception of the Sea Gull, which was never heard of again.

The squadron now crossed the Pacific, reaching Sydney, New South Wales, in the latter part of November. There, after consulting with his officers, Lieutenant Wilkes decided to make another Antarctic cruise. The Flying Fish proved so unseaworthy that, after passing through a violent storm, she was obliged to return to port and took no further part in the enterprise.

Once more among the ice fields, the ships were menaced by danger from every side. Some of the escapes were of the most thrilling nature. One of the ships barely missed being crushed by hundreds of tons of ice which fell from the top of an overhanging iceberg. The weather was intensely cold and the snow and fine sleet which were whirled horizontally through the air cut the face like bird shot.

The Vincennes prowled along the edge of the Antarctic Continent as far as 97 degrees east, when Lieutenant Wilkes headed northward and arrived at Sydney in March, 1840, and found the Peacock at anchor. The Porpoise reached 100 degrees east and 64 degrees 65 minutes south when she turned her prow away from the inhospitable solitude and in March arrived at Auckland Isle.

The following summer was spent in exploring the islands of the Southern Archipelago. A party was engaged in a launch and cutter, when a tempest compelled them to run into a bay of the Fiji group for shelter. While working its way back the cutter ran upon a reef and was attacked by the natives. The ammunition of the Americans was wet and they abandoned the cutter and returned to the Vincennes.

Since these natives needed a lesson, Lieutenant Wilkes landed a force and burned the native village. A few days later an exploring party was again attacked while trying to trade with the natives. The men were forced to retreat to their boats, under a hot fire, many of the savages using muskets with no little skill. Reinforcements were landed and the savages put to flight, but in the fighting Midshipman Underwood and Henry Wilkes were mortally hurt and a seaman dangerously wounded.

Matters had now assumed so serious a shape that a detachment of seventy officers and men landed at another point on the island and marched upon the nearest village, laying waste the crops as they advanced. When the village was reached it was found to be defended by a strong stockade, with a trench inside, from which the crouching natives could fire through loopholes, while outside of the stockade was a deep ditch of water. Feeling their position impregnable, the savages flourished their weapons and uttered tantalizing whoops at the white men. The whoops quickly changed when the cabins within the stockade were set on fire by a rocket. The natives fled, leaving the village to be burned to ashes. The Americans pushed hostilities so aggressively that on the following day the islanders sued for peace.

The squadron next sailed to the Hawaiian Islands, where several months were spent in exploration. Then the coast of Oregon was visited and the Peacock suffered wreck at the mouth of the Columbia. Doubling the Cape of Good Hope, the expedition reached New York in June, 1842, having been gone nearly four years and having sailed more than 30,000 miles.



The War For The Union.

Chapter XXIII.

A New Era for the United States Navy -- Opening of the Great Civil War -- John Lorimer Worden -- Battle Between the Monitor and Merrimac -- Death of Worden.


The War for the Union ushered in a new era for the American navy. Steam navigation had been fully established some years before. As all my readers no doubt know, the first successful steamboat in this country was the Clermont, made by Robert Fulton, which ascended the Hudson in the summer of 1807. The average speed of the pioneer boat was about five miles an hour, so that the trip occupied more than thirty hours. This great invention was a novelty, and, like many others of a similar nature, it required considerable time for it to come into use. The first western steamboat was built at Pittsburg in 1811. It gave an impetus to river navigation by steam, and before long the boats were ploughing the principal streams of the country. The first steamer to cross the Atlantic was the Savannah, which made the voyage in 1819, but ocean navigation was not fairly begun until 1838, when the Sirius and Great Western made the voyage from England to the United States. It is a noteworthy fact that one of the greatest of English scientists, after demonstrating that ocean navigation by steam was impossible, was a passenger on the Great Western on her first trip across the Atlantic.

When the great Civil War burst upon the country the National Government not only failed to comprehend the gigantic nature of the struggle, but was almost wholly unprepared for it. The navy consisted of 90 vessels, of which only 42 were in commission, while 21 were unfit for service, and of those in commission there were but 11, carrying 134 guns, that were in American waters. The remainder were scattered over the waters of the globe, such being the policy of President Buchanan's Secretary of the Navy, who, like the Secretary of War and other members of the Presidential Cabinet, were secessionists who did all they could to pave the way for the establishment of the Southern Confederacy.

On the authority of Maclay, the total number of officers of all grades in the navy on August 1, 1861, was 1,457, in addition to whom an immense volunteer force was called for and 7,500 volunteer officers were enrolled before the close of the war. Three hundred and twenty-two officers resigned from the United States navy and entered that of the seceding States, of which 243 were officers of the line. The 7,600 sailors in the navy at the opening of the war was increased to 51,500 before the close of hostilities.

In a work of this nature the difficulty is to select the most striking and interesting incidents from the scores that formed a part of the War for the Union. One of the many heroes who was brought into prominence was John Lorimer Worden, who was born in Dutchess County, N.Y., March 12, 1818. He entered the navy when sixteen years old and became a lieutenant in 1840. His services in the Mexican War were unimportant and he was a first lieutenant of the Brooklyn Navy Yard when the Civil War broke out.

In the month of April, 1861, when a conflict was inevitable, the Government was anxious to send dispatches to Captain Adams commanding the fleet at Pensacola, who was waiting for orders to reinforce with two companies of artillery, that post being in danger of capture by the Confederates. The dispatches intrusted to Lieutenant Worden were orders for such reinforcements to be made.

It was so delicate and dangerous a duty, since Worden was compelled to make his way through the South which was aflame with secession excitement, that he committed the dispatches to memory and then destroyed them. He applied to General Bragg in command of the Confederate forces in that neighborhood for permission to make a verbal communication from the Secretary of War to Captain Adams. Permission was given, and, going on board, Worden delivered his message like a boy reciting his piece at school. Captain Adams gave him a written acknowledgment of the receipt of the dispatches, adding that the orders of the Government would be carried out.

Having thus cleverly eluded the suspicious watchfulness of the authorities, Lieutenant Worden started for home, but when near Montgomery, Ala., then the capital of the Confederacy, he was arrested, taken from the train and thrown into prison. This was on the order of General Bragg, who discovered how he had been outwitted, and the prompt reinforcement prevented the capture of Fort Pickens, for which Bragg had made every preparation. The post was held by the Unionists throughout the war and was the only one south of Mason and Dixon's line so held.

Lieutenant Worden was kept a prisoner until the 13th of the following November, when, his health having broken down, he was exchanged and sent North. There he remained, slowly regaining his strength until March, 1862, when it fell to his lot to become a leading actor in one of the most famous naval engagements in all history.

When war had fully begun the Union forces in charge of the Norfolk Navy Yard saw they were not strong enough to prevent its capture by the Confederates, who were arming for that purpose. They therefore set fire to the numerous and valuable shipping there. Among the vessels scuttled and sunk was the steam frigate Merrimac, at that time the finest vessel in the service. In truth, she went down so quickly that very little damage was done to her. The Confederates raised her, fastened a huge iron snout or prow at the front, cut down her deck and encased her with railroad iron, which sloped at an angle of forty-five degrees, and was smeared on the outside with grease and tallow. Her enormous weight made her draw more than twenty feet of water and when she was moving slowly through the bay or river her appearance suggested the mansard roof of a vast house. From what has been said it will be noted that the Merrimac was a genuine ironclad, something which had never been heard of before.

Regular news of the building of the Merrimac (called the Virginia by the Confederates) was telegraphed to Washington by friends of the Government. The authorities felt some uneasiness, but were far from suspecting the terrible power for destructiveness possessed by the monster. Captain Ericsson, the famous Swedish inventor, was constructing on Long Island an ironclad about one-fourth the size of the Merrimac, and he was urged to all possible speed in its completion. He kept his men busy night and day and had it finished a day or two before the completion of the Merrimac.

The Merrimac carried ten guns, which fired shells and had a crew of 300 men, under the command of Commodore Franklin Buchanan, a former officer of the United States navy. Late in the forenoon of March 8, 1862, a column of black smoke rising over the Norfolk Navy Yard gave notice that the Merrimac had started out at last on her mission of destruction and death. As the enormous craft forged into sight it was seen that she was accompanied by three gunboats ready to give what help they could.

Five Union vessels were awaiting her in Hampton Roads. They were the steam frigates Minnesota and Roanoke and the sailing frigates Congress, Cumberland and St. Lawrence, all of which immediately cleared for action. Turning her frightful front toward the Cumberland, the Merrimac swept down upon her in grim and awful majesty. The Cumberland let fly with her terrific broadsides, which were powerful enough to sink the largest ship afloat, but the tons of metal hurled with inconceivable force skipped off the greased sides of the iron roof and scooted away for hundreds of yards through the startled air.

The prodigious broadsides were launched again and again, but produced no more effect than so many paper wads from a popgun. The iron prow of the Merrimac crashed through the wooden walls of the Cumberland as if they were cardboard, and, while her crew were still heroically working their guns, the Cumberland went down, with the red flag, meaning "no surrender," flying from her peak. Lieutenant Morris succeeded in saving himself, but 121 were lost out of the crew of 376.

Having destroyed the Cumberland, the Merrimac now made for the Congress, which had been vainly pelting her with her broadsides. The Congress was aground and so completely at the mercy of the Merrimac, which raked her fore and aft, that every man would have been killed had not the sign of surrender been displayed. As it was, her commander and 100 of the crew were slain by the irresistible fire of the tremendous ironclad.

By this time the fearful spring afternoon was drawing to a close and the Merrimac labored heavily back to Sewall's Point, intending to return on the morrow and continue her work of destruction.

The news of what the Merrimac had done was telegraphed throughout the South and North. In the former it caused wild rejoicing and raised hope that before the resistless might of the new ironclad the North would be compelled to make terms and save her leading seacoast cities from annihilation by acknowledging the Southern Confederacy. The national authorities were thrown into consternation. At a special meeting of the President's Cabinet Secretary of War Stanton expressed his belief that the Merrimac would appear in front of Washington and compel the authorities to choose between surrender and destruction, and that the principal seaports would be laid under contribution.

But at that very time the hastily completed Monitor was speeding southward under the command of Lieutenant Worden, who had risen from a sick bed to assume the duty which no one else was willing to undertake. Her crew numbered 16 officers and 42 men, with Lieutenant S. Dana Green as executive officer. Her voyage to Hampton Roads was difficult and of the most trying nature to the officers and crew, who were nearly smothered by gas. The boat would have foundered had not the weather been unusually favorable, but she reached Hampton Roads on the night of March 8 and took a position beside the Minnesota, ready and eager for the terrific fray of the morrow. The Monitor carried two 11-inch Dahlgren guns and fired solid shot.

When the Merrimac steamed back the Monitor moved out from her position and boldly advanced to meet her. The huge monster and smaller craft, whose appearance suggested the apt comparison of a cheese box on a raft, silently drew near each other until within a hundred yards, when the smaller opened with a shot to which the larger replied. The battle was now between two ironclads. If the shots of the Monitor glanced harmlessly off of the Merrimac those of the latter were equally ineffective against the Monitor. The latter had the advantage of being so much smaller that many of the shells of the Merrimac missed her altogether. Those which impinged against the pilot house or turret did no harm, while the lesser boat was able to dart here and there at will, dodging the Merrimac and ramming her when she chose, though such tactics accomplished nothing. All attempts to run down the Monitor were vain. The novel battle continued for four hours, when the Merrimac, unable to defeat her nimble antagonist, steamed back to Norfolk and the strange contest -- the first between ironclads -- was over.

The Monitor had proven her inestimable value and was held in reserve by the Government for future emergencies. But the first battle between the two proved the last. Some months later, when the Union troops advanced upon Norfolk, the Merrimac was blown up to prevent her falling into the hands of the Federals, while at the close of the year the Monitor foundered in a gale off Cape Hatteras.

This fight marked an era in the history of naval warfare. The days of wooden vessels were numbered. All nations saw that their warships to be effective must be ironclad, and the reader does not need to be reminded that such is the fact to-day respecting the navy of every civilized nation.

During this memorable fight a shell from the Merrimac lifted the iron plate of the pilot house of the Monitor and disabled Lieutenant Worden by driving the fragments into his face, while he was peering out of the peep-hole. He was compelled to give way to Lieutenant Green, who handled the little ironclad throughout the remainder of the fight.

Lieutenant Worden never fully recovered from the injuries received in his fight with the Merrimac. As soon as he was able to take an active command he asked the privilege of doing so. In charge of the Montauk, of the South Atlantic blockading squadron, he destroyed, while under a heavy fire, the Confederate steamer Nashville and participated in the unsuccessful attack upon Charleston. He received the thanks of Congress and was promoted to be a commander for his services with the Monitor. From 1870 to 1874 he was superintendent of the Naval Academy at Annapolis, becoming commodore in 1868, rear admiral in 1872 and was retired in 1886. It was said that he never was without pain from the injuries received in the battle with the Merrimac until his death, October 18, 1897.



Chapter XXIV.

Two Worthy Sons -- William D. Porter -- The Career of Admiral David Dixon Porter.


The reader will not forget the exploits of Captain David Porter, in command of the Essex in the War of 1812. Contrary to the rule that great men never have great sons, Captain Porter left two boys who possessed the same remarkable qualities as himself and one of whom became more famous than his gallant father.

The eldest of his sons was William D., who was born in New Orleans in 1809, but was educated in the North and was appointed to the navy when fourteen years old. He was placed in command of a cumbrous ironclad constructed from a ferryboat at the beginning of the war and named the Essex, in honor of the famous cruiser with which his father played havoc with the shipping of Great Britain in the Pacific. In the attack on Fort Henry, in February, 1862, the Essex, while doing effective service, had her boiler pierced by a shot from the enemy, with appalling consequences. Porter was scalded and knocked senseless and twenty-nine officers and men were disabled or killed by the escaping steam.

Later, when he had fully recovered, he was placed in command of the Essex, which was repaired and greatly improved. The Confederates had completed a more terrible ironclad than the Merrimac, which they named the Arkansas. Manned by brave officers and crew, it came down the Yazoo into the Mississippi, and, secure in her fancied invulnerability, challenged the whole Union fleet which was assisting in the siege of Vicksburg. In the furious engagement that followed Captain Porter, with the Essex, succeeded in destroying the ironclad. He rendered his country other valuable service, but his health gave way, and, while in the East for medical attendance, he died in the City of New York at the age of fifty-three.

The more famous son of Captain Porter was David Dixon, who was born in Chester, Pa., in 1813. He entered Columbia College, Washington, when only eleven years old, but left it in 1824 to accompany his father on his cruise in the West Indies to break up piracy in those waters. When, two years later, Captain Porter entered the Mexican navy he appointed his son a midshipman. He acquitted himself gallantly in more than one fight with the Spanish cruisers. While still a mere boy he was made a midshipman in the United States navy. As a lieutenant he saw plenty of active service in the war with Mexico, and, at the beginning of the Civil War, was one of our most trusted officers. In command of the Powhatan he covered the landing of the reinforcements for Fort Pickens just in time to save its capture by Confederates.

One of the most important captures of the war was that of New Orleans, in the spring of 1862. The naval forces were under the command of Admiral Farragut, while Commander Porter had charge of the mortar fleet. The principal defences below the city were Forts Jackson and St. Philip. In approaching them Porter had his ships dressed out with leaves and branches of trees, the clever disguise proving an effectual protection from a very destructive fire.

The furious bombardment lasted for several days and nights. The river was spanned by a boom of logs, which it was necessary to break through that the vessels might reach the city above. This was done, Porter protecting the expedition which effected it. When the situation of the forts became hopeless his demand for their surrender was accepted and an officer came on board under a flag of truce to complete the negotiations.

While Porter and his visitor were conversing an officer came forward with the information that the immense floating battery Louisiana, of four thousand tons burden and carrying sixteen heavy guns, had been set on fire, as Admiral Cervera did with his ships a generation later, when his escape was cut off from Santiago.

"Such an act is anything but creditable to you," remarked Porter, addressing the Confederate commander.

"I am not responsible for the acts of the naval officers," replied the visitor.

The explanation was reasonable, and without any excitement, Commander Porter renewed the conversation respecting the surrender, but a few minutes later the officer again approached.

"The ropes which held the floating battery to the bank have been burned and she is drifting down stream toward us."

"Are her guns loaded and is there much ammunition aboard?" asked Porter of the Confederate commander.

"I suppose the guns are loaded, but I know nothing about naval matters here," was the reply.

Just then the heated cannon began firing their huge charges, which, though without aim, were likely to do injury to the Union vessels toward which the battery was floating. Besides, the magazine was stored with powder and the impending explosion could not fail to be disastrous.

"If you do not mind it," said Porter, addressing the visitor, "we will continue our negotiations."

In referring to this incident, the Admiral said:

"A good Providence, which directs the most important events, sent the battery off toward Fort St. Philip, and, as it came abreast of that formidable fort, it blew up with a force which scattered the fragments in all directions, killing one of their own men in the fort, and when the smoke cleared off it was nowhere to be seen, having sunk immediately in the deep water of the Mississippi. The explosion was terrific and was seen and heard for many miles up and down the river. Had it occurred near the vessels, it would have destroyed every one of them."

After the fall of New Orleans Porter was sent to Ship Island to await the attack that was in contemplation upon New Orleans. He was recalled by Admiral Farragut to aid him in the siege of Vicksburg. In passing the batteries Porter had three of his vessels disabled and twenty-nine men killed and wounded. The capture of that last Confederate stronghold on the Mississippi was a severe and tedious task, but General Grant, with that bulldog tenacity for which he was famous, held on until the 4th of July, 1863, when General Pemberton, the Confederate commander, surrendered his whole garrison of more than 20,000 men. In thus opening the Mississippi all the way to the Gulf the navy rendered invaluable assistance. Porter's aid was so important and his conduct so gallant that he received the thanks of Congress and was created a full rear admiral, his commission dating from July 4, 1863. In a public dispatch the Secretary of the Navy said, addressing Admiral Porter: "To yourself, your officers and the brave and gallant sailors who have been so fertile in resources, so persistent and so daring under all circumstances, I tender, in the name of the President, the thanks and congratulations of the whole country on the fall of Vicksburg."

One of the most disastrous expeditions of the Civil War was that which was undertaken by General N.P. Banks, in the spring of 1864. His ostensible purpose was to complete the conquest of Texas and Louisiana, but there is good reason to believe that the famous Red River expedition was little more than a huge cotton speculation. Immense quantities were stored along the river and could it have been secured would have been worth many hundred thousand dollars to the captors. The charge has been made, with apparent reason, that several Confederate leaders were concerned in the "deal," seeing as they did, that the end of the Confederacy was at hand. The trouble, however, was that other Confederates like General Dick Taylor did all they could to defeat the purpose of General Banks and they succeeded to perfection.

The Union commander had an army of 30,000 men with which he began the ascent of the Red River. He captured Fort de Russy March 14 and then marched against Shreveport. His forces were strewn along for miles, with no thought of danger, when at Sabine Cross Roads they were furiously attacked by General Dick Taylor and routed as utterly as was the first advance upon Manassas in July, 1861. The demoralized men were rallied at Pleasant Hill, where they were again attacked and routed by Taylor. Banks succeeded at last in reaching New Orleans, where he was relieved of his command.

When Porter had waited a short time at the appointed place of meeting for Banks's army a messenger reached him with news of that General's defeat and his hurried retreat. Porter saw that it would not do for him to delay an hour. He had had great difficulty in getting his fifty vessels up the narrow stream, whose current was falling so rapidly that it already appeared impossible to get the fleet past the snags and shoals to the point of safety two hundred miles below.

Improving every moment and under a continual fire from the shore, Porter managed to descend something more than half way down the river to Grand Ecore, where he found Banks and his demoralized army. Porter advised the commander to remain where he was until the spring rains would enable the fleet to ascend the river again, but Banks was too frightened to do anything but retreat, and he kept it up until he arrived at New Orleans.

The river fell so rapidly that all the fleet would have been stranded above the falls but for the genius of Lieutenant-Colonel Joseph Bailey, of Wisconsin, a military engineer who accompanied Banks's expedition. Under his direction several thousand men were set to work, and, at the end of twelve days, they had constructed a series of wing dams, through which the vessels were safely floated into the deeper water below the falls. This accomplished their deliverance from what otherwise would have been certain destruction. Porter pronounced the exploit of Bailey the greatest engineering feat of the whole war. One of the Admiral's most pleasing traits was his appreciation of the services of his assistants. He complimented Bailey in glowing terms in his official report, secured his promotion to brigadier-general and presented him with a sword which cost nearly a thousand dollars.

Porter was now transferred to the North Atlantic Squadron and commanded the powerful naval contingents in the two attacks on Fort Fisher, December, 1864, and January, 1865. In the latter Porter and General Terry succeeded in capturing the last important sea fortress belonging to the Confederates. Porter was promoted to be vice-admiral in 1866 and admiral in 1870. He was superintendent of the naval academy until 1869, and died in Washington, February 13, 1891, one day before the death of General Sherman.



Chapter XXV.

Charles Stuart Boggs -- His Coolness in the Presence of Danger -- His Desperate Fight Below New Orleans -- His Subsequent Services.


When the gallant Lawrence, mortally wounded on the Chesapeake, was dying, he called out in his delirium, "Don't give up the ship!" thus furnishing a motto that has served times without number for the American navy. Among the mourning relatives left by Lawrence was a married sister, Mrs. Boggs, who lived in New Brunswick, N.J., where a son was born to her in January, 1811, and named Charles Stuart.

It was probably the admiration formed for his heroic uncle which led the boy to determine to follow in his footsteps, for he was appointed a midshipman when fifteen years old, and saw active service in the Mediterranean against the Greek pirates, to which reference has been made in a previous chapter. He was made lieutenant in 1833. One of the most marked traits in young Boggs was his perfect coolness in times of peril and his instant perception of the best thing to do. The following incident will illustrate this remarkable power on his part, which was united to a gentleness of disposition that made one wonder at his daring and intrepidity.

During the war with Mexico Lieutenant Boggs was ordered to the steamer Princeton, which took a leading part in the bombardment of the Castle of St. Juan de Ulloa and of Tampico. The brig Truxton unfortunately ran aground on the bar of Tuspan River and had to be surrendered to the Mexicans. The Princeton was ordered to destroy her. Anchoring near the wreck, a boat was manned and placed in charge of Lieutenant Boggs, to whom the work of destruction was intrusted.

The boat had nearly reached the stranded vessel when it was caught in one of the tropical tempests, which sometimes appear with cyclonic suddenness in that part of the world. It was impossible to board the wreck, and equally impossible to get back to the Princeton. A powerful current set in toward shore, in which direction the gale was blowing. The combined efforts of the sturdy rowers could not check the progress of the boat, which perhaps would have been the right course to take but for an alarming discovery.

On the beach a company of Mexican soldiers were drawn up with a field piece, making ready to annihilate the little American company, as they could do without the slightest difficulty before the gallant sailors could land and make a charge. Here was a dilemma indeed. Nothing could extricate the boat and its crew from their peril and not a man could raise a finger to help himself.

There was only one person who saw the only possible thing to do. Lieutenant Boggs ordered the single white shirt in the party to be torn up, tied on the end of a boathook and displayed as a flag of truce. Then, by his directions, the men rowed with all speed straight for the enemy, who were thus disarmed of their hostile purpose. Walking up to the leader of the company, the lieutenant explained that he had been sent to destroy the Truxton, but had been driven ashore against his will. He hastened to explain to the officer that he had no intention of attacking the town, but he should do so if any one tried to prevent his destruction of the stranded vessel.

When the insignificance of the American party is remembered, there was something amusing in this; but the Mexican officer not only gave his promise, but entertained his visitors until the gale was over. Then the Truxton was fired and Boggs returned to his ship.

He was on the Pacific coast when the Civil War broke out, serving as inspector of lighthouses. Chafing under idleness, he petitioned the Government to give him active employment afloat. His wish was granted and he was placed in command of the Varuna, a passenger steamer, purchased by the Government and changed into a gunboat. Admiral Farragut was making his preparations to attack New Orleans, and the Varuna was added to his fleet. She was a very swift but frail craft, a fact which led Farragut to grant Boggs' request to be allowed to run ahead of the position that had been assigned him.

In order to get up all the steam possible, the pork among the ship's store was flung into the blazing furnace under the boilers. The craft went through the water at a tremendous speed, and upon coming opposite the forts, Boggs fired his starboard battery and then ordered grape and canister to be used as rapidly as possible. Work had hardly begun when the Confederate gunboats appeared on every hand. With the same coolness that he had shown when driven ashore in Mexico, the command was given for the guns to be fired "on both sides." Indeed, there were so many targets that it would have been about as difficult to miss as to hit one.

The Varuna did terrific work, her gunners displaying fine markmanship. The formidable craft Governor Moore had detected her in the early morning light, and steaming after her, fired a shot when only a hundred yards away, but missed. The Varuna replied, killing and wounding men on the Governor Moore at every shot. One of the enemy's shot, however, raked the Varuna, killing four men and wounding nine. Another struck the Varuna's pivot gun and killed and wounded a number more. Then the Governor Moore rammed the Varuna twice in quick succession.

But while the Confederate was doing so, Boggs planted three 8-inch shells into his antagonist, which set her on fire and compelled her to drop out of action. Her loss had been heavy and her engines were so battered that her commander ran her ashore, where she was burned to the water's edge.

Out of the misty light burst the Stonewall Jackson and rammed the Varuna on the port side, repeating the blow with a viciousness that stove in the vessel below the water line; but the Varuna swung the ram ahead until her own broadside guns bore, when she planted several 5-inch shells into the Stonewall Jackson, which set her on fire and caused her to drift ashore.

But the Varuna had been mortally hurt and was sinking fast. To quote the words of Commodore Boggs: "In fifteen minutes from the time the Varuna was struck by the Stonewall Jackson, she was on the bottom, with only her topgallant forecastle out of the water."

But those were exceedingly lively minutes for the Varuna and the other craft in her neighborhood. Commander Boggs turned her prow toward shore and crowded all steam, firing his guns as the water rose about the trucks. When the last shell left the side of the sinking vessel the current had reached the mouth of the piece, and some of it was blown out like mist with the shrieking missile.

The moment the bow of the Varuna struck the bank a chain cable was fastened around the trunk of a tree, so as to prevent her from sliding into deep water as she went down and taking the wounded and dead with her. This was a precaution which would not have occurred to every man in the situation of Commander Boggs.

The daring conduct of this officer brought a tribute from one of our poets, which contains the stanzas:

"Who has not heard of the dauntless Varuna? Who shall not hear of the deeds she has done? Who shall not hear while the brown Mississippi Rushes along from the snow to the sun?

"Five of the rebels like satellites round her, Burned in her orbit of splendor and fear, One like the Pleiad of mystical story Shot terror-stricken beyond her dread sphere."

When Boggs' native city heard of his gallant conduct it voted him a sword, and the State of New Jersey did the same. He came North and was appointed to the command of the blockading squadron off Wilmington. He would have preferred active service, and finally his health broke down under the exposure and fatigue to which he was subjected, and he was compelled to return home to recruit. Upon his recovery, he was appointed to duty in New York, but the war ended without his having another opportunity to distinguish himself in the service of his country. He died a few years after the close of hostilities.



Chapter XXVI.

John Ancrum Winslow -- His Early Life and Training -- The Famous Battle Between the Kearsarge and Alabama.


A few weeks ago I had as guests at my house two young men who were graduates of the West Point Military Academy in 1889. One was my son, at present an instructor in the Academy, and the other was E. Eveleth Winslow, of the corps of engineers, who had the honor of being graduated at the head of his class. During the course of the conversation I asked Captain Winslow whether he was a relative of the late Commodore John Ancrum Winslow, commander of the Kearsarge in her famous fight with the Alabama.

"He was my grandfather," replied my friend, with a glow of pride.

It was a pleasant bit of information, but it made me realize how the years are passing. It seems but a short time ago that the country was electrified by the news of the great battle, off Cherbourg, France, which sent to the bottom of the ocean the most destructive cruiser the Southern Confederacy ever launched. And here was the grandson of the hero of that fight, already thirty years of age, with the hair on his crown growing scant. Tempus fugit indeed.

The name Winslow is a distinguished one in the annals of our country, and especially in Massachusetts, the State from which Captain Winslow hails. He is the ninth generation from John Winslow, brother of Edward Winslow, Governor of Massachusetts Bay Colony, and the founder, as may be said, of Plymouth Rock itself. John A. Winslow, the subject of this sketch, however, was a Southerner by birth, being a native of Wilmington, North Carolina, where he was born November 19, 1811. His mother belonged to the famous Rhett family of the fiery State of South Carolina. The father had gone to Wilmington from Boston, to establish a commercial house, four years before the birth of the son, who was sent North to be educated. At the age of sixteen he entered the navy, and saw a good deal of dangerous service in the extirpation of the West Indian pirates. The exciting experience was exactly to the liking of young Winslow, whose life more than once was placed in great peril.

After an extended cruise in the Pacific, he returned east in 1833, and was promoted to past midshipman. His service was of an unimportant character for a number of years, the rank of lieutenant coming to him in 1839. His conduct was so gallant in the war with Mexico that he was publicly complimented by Commodore Matthew C. Perry, a younger brother of the Lake Erie hero, and given the choice of vessels belonging to the fleet.

A curious incident is mentioned by his biographer. He went with the division which set out to capture Tampico, but the city surrendered without a fight upon the approach of the boats. He remained several weeks and then went back to the fleet at Vera Cruz. One of the vessels had been capsized in a squall, and the captain was occupying Winslow's room, and continued to share it until other arrangements could be made. The name of this visitor was Raphael Semmes, afterward the commander of the Alabama. The history of our navy is full of such strange occurrences. When the furnace blast of secession swept over the country, the most intimate friends -- in many cases brothers -- became the deadliest of enemies. For a time two flags were flung to the breeze in the United States, and the men who fought under each were among the bravest of the brave, for they were all Americans.

In 1855 Winslow was made a commander and was engaged in various duties until the breaking out of the Civil War. He hurried to Washington and applied for active service. Captain Foote was busy fitting out a flotilla at St. Louis, and Winslow was sent to join him. The work involved great labor and difficulty, and Winslow's aid was invaluable, although far from congenial. The task of blazing away at the guerrillas in the bushes and woods along shore, of raking the muddy rivers and streams for torpedoes, and of managing the awkward, nondescript craft, was not to the liking of the naval officer, accustomed to the free air of the deep, blue ocean. Finally his request to be transferred to sea service was granted, and in the early part of 1863 he was placed in command of the Kearsarge.

This sloop of war had a crew of 163 men, carried two 11-inch pivot guns, four short 32-pounders and one rifled 30-pounder, the total shot weight of the seven guns being 430 pounds. In this place it may be well to give the statistics of the Alabama, since the two vessels were so intimately associated in history. The Confederate cruiser carried one 100-pounder Blakely gun, one 8-inch shell gun and six long 32-pounders, the eight guns having a total of 360 pounds shot weight, while the crew consisted of 149 men, of mixed nationalities, nearly all of them being Englishmen.

England at that time was less friendly to the United States than she has since become, and she gave most unfair help to the Southern Confederacy by aiding to fit out and man cruisers for it. When the war was over she was compelled to pay a good round sum for her dishonest course, and was taught a lesson she is not likely soon to forget. These cruisers wrought immense havoc among our shipping, and Commander Winslow was sent into European waters in quest of them. He was specially anxious to meet the Florida, and followed her from the coast of South America to that of England and France. The governments of those two countries threw every possible obstacle in his way. The French pilots were forbidden to serve the Kearsarge, and Captain Winslow had to be his own pilot -- something he was well able to do because of his familiarity with the coasts.

Finding the Florida in Brest, he blockaded the port. It was in the depth of winter and the shore was dangerous, but Winslow did his duty so well that the Florida dared not poke her nose outside, until he was compelled, because of shortness of provisions, to steam over to Cadiz to obtain them. He made all haste to return, but when he arrived the Florida had slipped out and was gone.

There was no telling to what part of the world she had fled, and Captain Winslow sailed to Calais, where he learned that the rebel Rappahannock was awaiting a chance to put to sea. He held her there for two months, when a French pilot purposely ran the Kearsarge into the piers along shore. It was done by prearrangement with the officers of the Rappahannock, in order to give the latter a chance to put to sea. The indignant Winslow drove all the French pilots off his ship, and by vigorous work got her off by daylight the next morning. Meanwhile the Rappahannock, which had greatly overstayed her time, was ordered by the French authorities to leave. Winslow heard of this, and, without waiting for some of his men and officers who were on shore, he moved out of the harbor. When the commander of the Rappahannock saw the Kearsarge once more off the port of Calais, he knew it was all up and dismantled his ship.

There was one Confederate scourge that had been roaming the seas for months which Captain Winslow was anxious, above all others, to meet; that was the Alabama, commanded by his former room-mate, Captain Raphael Semmes. The Kearsarge, like many other vessels of the United States, had been hunting here and there for the ocean pest, but it seemed impossible to bring her to bay.

On Sunday morning, June 12, 1864, the Kearsarge was lying off the town of Flushing, Holland, with many of the officers and men ashore, and with everything wearing the appearance of a protracted rest for the crew. Some hours later, however, a gun was fired as a signal for every member of the ship's company to come aboard at once. The cause of this sudden awaking was a telegram from Minister William L. Dayton, at Paris, notifying Captain Winslow that the Alabama had arrived at Cherbourg. On Tuesday, Winslow appeared off the fort, and saw the cruiser within, with her Stars and Bars floating defiantly in the breeze. Had Captain Winslow followed, he would have been compelled by law to remain twenty-four hours after the departure of the Alabama, so he took a station outside, determined that the cruiser should not escape him again.

In this case, however, the precaution was unnecessary, for Semmes had made up his mind to fight the National vessel. He had been charged with cowardice in running away from armed ships, and he had destroyed and captured so many helpless merchantmen that he felt something was due to retrieve his reputation. A comparison of the crews and armaments of the Kearsarge and Alabama will show that they were pretty evenly matched, though the slight numerical superiority of the Union ship was emphasized by the fact that her men were almost wholly American, while those of Semmes, as already stated, were nearly all English.

Shortly after the arrival of Captain Winslow the following challenge was brought out to him:



Confederate Steamer Alabama, Cherbourg, June 14, 1864.

Sir: -- I hear that you were informed by the United States Consul that the Kearsarge was to come to this port solely for the prisoners landed by me, and that she was to depart in twenty-four hours. I desire you to say to the United States Consul that my intention is to fight the Kearsarge as soon as I can make the necessary arrangements. I hope these will not detain me more than till to-morrow evening, or next morning, at the farthest. I beg she will not depart before I am ready to go out.

I have the honor to be, very respectfully, your obedient servant

R. Semmes, Captain.



This note, though couched in seemingly courteous language, contained the most aggravating sort of sting, in the hope expressed that the Kearsarge would not leave until the Alabama was ready to go out, and the intimation -- undoubtedly false -- that the sole business of the Union vessel was to take charge of the prisoners brought thither by the Confederate. Captain Winslow had not spent months in hunting over the globe for such a chance as this to let it slip.

The Alabama was among friends. She had the sympathies of the thousands, who hoped to see the Yankee ship sunk by the fearful commerce-destroyer. Excursion trains were run from Paris and other points to Cherbourg, and among the vast multitude who gathered on shore on that warm, hazy Sunday morning -- June 19 -- to witness the coming battle, it may be doubted whether there were a score who wished to see the Kearsarge win.

The respective captains were brave men and good officers. Both had declared that, if they ever met, the battle would not end until one of the ships went to the bottom, and each knew that the other would keep his word. Such a thing as surrender was not thought of by either.

Semmes was confident of his ability to sink the Kearsarge. Being a Roman Catholic, and unable to attend service, he requested a friend to go to mass and have it offered up for him, which was done. His accumulated sixty chronometers were sent ashore, and the motto displayed by his ship was "Aide toi et Dieu t'aidera," meaning, "Help yourself and God will help you," another version of the old adage, "God helps them that help themselves."

The church chimes were sending out their mellow notes on the warm summer air when the Alabama began slowly steaming out of the harbor. She was cheered by the sympathetic thousands, who heard the drums beating to quarters, and fervently prayed that their favorite might return victorious.

Winslow neglected nothing in the way of preparation. While calmly confident, his experience had taught him that such a contest is often decided by a chance shot, and he knew that the doom of one of the ships would be sealed before the set of sun. Having done all he could, he committed everything to the God of battles, content to abide by His will, whatever it might be.

It was about ten o'clock that Winslow, with his glass pointed toward shore, saw the head of the Alabama coming round the point of the mole, some three miles distant. He immediately beat to quarters. The Couronne accompanied the Alabama to the limits of French waters, and then turned back. The English yacht Deerhound had hurried down from Caen, upon being telegraphed of the impending fight, and the owner, with his family on board, followed the Alabama at the risk of receiving a stray shot that would wind up the career of the pleasure craft and all on board.

Some time before Captain Winslow had arranged his sheet chains for a distance of fifty feet amidships and over the side of his vessel, extending six feet down. They were intended as an additional protection to his machinery, and the practice is common among warships. The chains were secured by marline to eyebolts protected with one-inch boards. This natural precaution was the foundation for Captain Semmes' charge that the Kearsarge was partly armored. During the fight this part of the ship was hit only twice, so that the protection, if it be considered such, bore an unimportant part in the battle itself.

Captain Winslow was determined that no question about neutral waters should be raised. Accordingly, as the Alabama approached, he steamed out to sea, as if running away from his antagonist. Another object he had in mind was to prevent the Alabama, in case she was crippled, from escaping by running into the harbor.

When the Kearsarge had reached a point some seven miles from land, she swung around and made directly for the Alabama, although such a course exposed her to the raking broadsides of the enemy. Reading his purpose, Semmes slowed his engines and sheered off, thus presenting his starboard battery to the Kearsarge. When the vessels were about a mile apart, the jets of fire and smoke from the side of the Alabama, followed by the reverberating boom of her cannon, showed that she had fired her first broadside. It did only trifling damage to the rigging of the Kearsarge. A second and part of a third broadside were delivered, with no perceptible effect. All the time, under a full head of steam, Winslow was rushing toward his enemy for the death grapple. Still in peril of being raked, he now sheered when half a mile distant and fired his broadside of five-second shells, at the same time endeavoring to pass under the Alabama's stern, but Semmes defeated the manoeuvre by also sheering his vessel. The effort of each was now to keep his starboard broadside presented to the other, the attempt causing the two ships to describe an immense circle, the diameter of which steadily decreased, until it was barely a third of a mile.

Ten minutes after the opening of the battle the spanker gaff of the Alabama and the ensign were brought down by the fire of the Kearsarge, whose crew burst into cheers, but the Confederates quickly hoisted the colors to their mizzen. When the two ships were within a third of a mile of each other the fire became terrible; but from the first that of the Kearsarge was more accurate and did vast damage. This was impressively shown by the fact that although the Kearsarge fired only 173 shots during the fight, nearly every one struck the Alabama, which fired 370, of which only 28 landed.

One of the Alabama's 60-pound Blakely shells passed through the bulwarks of the Kearsarge, and, bursting on the quarter deck, wounded three men, of whom William Gowin was mortally hurt. When carried to the surgeon, the intensely suffering man smiled. "We are whipping the Alabama," he said, "and I am willing to give my life for such a victory."

Another Confederate shell burst in the hammock nettings and started a fire, which was easily extinguished. A third lodged in the sternpost, but failed to explode. Had it done so, its effect would have been terrific. The damage done by the other shells was insignificant.

A far different story was told on the Confederate cruiser. Winslow's instructions to his gunners were to fire slowly and to make every shot tell, and they did so. The men on the Alabama stripped to their shirts and drawers and fired rapidly, as if the only thing to do was to work the guns without taking pause to aim. Crashing planks and timber and exploding shells seemed to be all about them. A single shot from the Kearsarge killed and wounded eighteen men and disabled a gun. Another burst in the coal bunks and cluttered up the engine room. Death and destruction raged on every hand, and still the terrible Kearsarge kept working nearer, the dearest wish of Winslow being to get to close quarters.

The ships had described seven circles about each other and were starting on the eighth, when Winslow, all alive and eagerness, saw the Alabama set her fore trysail and two jibs and start for shore. That meant that it was all up with her, and her captain's only hope now was to get into the harbor of Cherbourg. Winslow ran across her bow and was on the point of raking her, when the Alabama's flag came down. Uncertain whether this was an accident, and suspecting a ruse by which the enemy expected to reach shore, now only two miles off, Winslow stopped firing, but held himself ready to open again. A white flag was displayed, and he began preparations to render assistance to his defeated antagonist. Just then, however, the Alabama fired again, upon which Winslow answered with several shots, when the white flag was run up for the second time.

The doom of the Alabama had overtaken her at last. She was fast settling, and while the only two serviceable boats of the Kearsarge were hurrying to the relief of the crew, the famous cruiser threw her prow high in air and slid stern foremost into the depths of the Atlantic.

In the midst of the wild confusion a boat from the Alabama, under charge of the English master's mate, came alongside, announcing that the Alabama had surrendered and begging for help. On the promise of this man to return, Winslow allowed him to go back to the aid of the drowning crew, but instead of keeping his pledge, he took refuge on the yacht Deerhound, which was circling about and doing all it could for the struggling wretches in the water. Among those picked up was Captain Semmes, who had flung his sword into the sea and leaped overboard as his ship was going down. He was suffering from a painful wound in the hand, and when helped on board of the Deerhound was in an exhausted condition. The captain of the yacht, after picking up thirty-nine men, including a number of officers, instead of delivering them to Captain Winslow, as he was in honor bound to do, edged away from the scene, and, putting on all steam, did not pause until he reached Southampton. The Kearsarge picked up the men that remained and took them into Cherbourg.

In this famous battle the Kearsarge had only 1 killed and 2 wounded, while Semmes lost 40 killed and 70 taken prisoners. The Confederate commander and his sympathizing British friends offered all sorts of excuses for his defeat. Some of them were ingenious, but none was the true one. The cause of the sinking of the Alabama was the same as that which gave us so many wonderful naval victories in the War of 1812. Our vessels were manned by Americans, while the Alabama was really an English ship, armed with English guns and manned and fought by an English crew: there's the truth in a nutshell.

Captain Winslow received the promotion to the grade of a commodore which he had so gallantly won. He died in 1873. It was a source of regret throughout the country that on the night of February 2, 1894, the Kearsarge was wrecked off Roncador Reef, while on a voyage from Port-au-Prince, Hayti, to Bluefields, Nicaragua. None of her crew was drowned, but the vessel itself was lost, despite every effort to save her.



Chapter XXVII.


An Unexpected Preacher -- Andrew Hull Foote -- His Character and Early Career -- His Brilliant Services in the War for the Union.


One Sunday morning early in the Civil War a large assemblage had gathered in a prominent church in a Western city for the purpose of worship. But the hour for opening the services came and passed and the preacher, the one indispensable individual, did not appear. The auditors became uneasy. No one knew the cause of his absence and no word came from the parsonage, which was at some distance from the church. When the congregation were about to break up and pass out a stranger, sitting near the front, quietly arose, walked up the pulpit steps, gave out the opening hymn, led in prayer and preached a sermon which impressed all by its plain, practical truths. He held the attention of the people from the opening to the close, and among the listeners were more than one who felt that the unexplained absence of the regular pastor had resulted in a gain, though a brief one, for them.

Naturally there was no little curiosity to learn the name of the stranger. When approached by some of the leading brethren at the close of the services, he modestly said he was Captain Foote of the United States navy. He occasionally preached, when there seemed to be a call for such work on his part, but preaching was not his profession, and he would not have thought of entering the pulpit had he not seen that it was a choice between doing so and allowing the congregation to go home.

Andrew Hull Foote was born in New Haven, Conn., September 12, 1806. He belonged to a prominent family, his father, Samuel A. Foote, having served in Congress for several terms, as United States Senator, and as Governor of his State. The son received the best educational training and was subjected to the strict religious discipline characteristic of the Puritan families of old New England. His romantic nature was deeply stirred by the accounts of the naval exploits of his countrymen in the War of 1812, and he set his heart upon entering the navy. His mother opposed, but, when she saw it was useless, wisely yielded. His father's influence readily procured him the appointment of midshipman, and he was directed to report on the schooner Grampus, under the command of Lieutenant (afterward Admiral) Gregory.

The Grampus went to the West Indies in quest of pirates, but never found any. Young Foote was then transferred to the sloop of war Peacock, which had made such a glorious record in the last war with Great Britain, his next transfer being to the frigate United States, the flagship of Commodore Isaac Hull, who won the famous victory over the Guerriere in August, 1812.

The cruise lasted three years, and Foote returned to New York in the spring of 1837. He made a visit to his home, when he was once more ordered to the West Indies.

About this time he was brought under religious influence. He read his Bible and spent many hours in prayer, and finally yielded completely to God. He made his mother inexpressibly happy by sending her the glad news, and thenceforward throughout his stirring life he was one of the most humble, devout and consecrated of Christians.

Like Havelock, he did an amount of good among those placed under his charge, the full extent of which can never be known in this world. While on duty at the Naval Asylum in Philadelphia he persuaded the men to give up their grog rations and sign a pledge of total abstinence, and when executive officer on the Cumberland he did the same thing with its crew. He was a voluntary chaplain and gave a religious address on the berth deck every Sunday evening to those who wished to listen.

Disease of the eyes incapacitated him for duty for a long time, and he was much disappointed that he was not permitted to take any part in the Mexican war. One of his most practical temperance addresses was that, while engaged off the coast of Africa in suppressing the slave trade, he persuaded the men under him on the Perry, of which he was the commander, to give up the use of liquor. Although exposed to one of the most pestilential climates in the world, he did not lose a man.

At the breaking out of the Civil War he was in command of the Brooklyn Navy Yard. He was overwhelmed with work for a time, and was glad when, early in the autumn of 1861, he was ordered to the West to help in the building of an inland navy on the Mississippi.

Captain Foote worked with the tremendous energy which he threw into every task, and succeeded in getting together seven boats, four of which were partly protected by armor. At the beginning of February, 1862, he started from Cairo to ascend the Tennessee, his objective point being Fort Henry, though the Confederates were deceived into thinking it was Columbus, on the Mississippi. He asked the Government for more men with which to man additional boats, but they were not furnished, and he went forward with such as he could get.

On the night preceding the attack on Fort Henry the little fleet anchored abreast of the army under General Grant, which was encamped on the bank. The night was cold and tempestuous, but the morning dawned keen and clear, and no time was lost in preparing the flotilla for the attack on the fort. He intimated to General Grant that he must not linger if he wished to cut off the retreat of the enemy. Grant assured him he would be on time to put his army in motion.

Fort Henry stood on a bend in the river, which it commanded for a long distance up and down stream. Foote placed his boats behind an island a mile below the fort, with a view of avoiding the long range rifles of the Confederates, which were liable to cripple the gunboats before they could get into close action. The wooden vessels halted upon coming in view of the fort, and the ironclads, as they were called, moved slowly up stream abreast of one another, firing their bow guns in answer to the shots of the rebels. The latter had had the time to practice to acquire the exact range, while the boats had yet to find it. They fired slowly and with such accuracy that the infantry stationed outside of the works hastily fled, though the gunners bravely remained at their posts.

Foote opened fire when not quite a mile from the fort. His instructions were to fire slowly and with care, the result of which was that guns were continually dismounted and the earth and sandbags sent flying in every direction. It was while the attack was being pressed in this vigorous fashion that a shell pierced the boiler of the Essex, commanded by Lieutenant Porter, and caused so many deaths, as has been related in a preceding chapter.

This appalling accident was a serious loss to Captain Foote, for Porter was doing inestimable service when thus driven out of action, but the daring commander pressed forward in the face of the murderous fire, encouraged by the visible results of his shots, which were playing frightful havoc against the defences of the fort. Tilghman, the Confederate commander, displayed great bravery, fighting until every one of his guns was dismounted. Then, finding himself powerless to offer further resistance, he hauled down his flag. Firing immediately ceased on the part of the Union flotilla, and Foote sent a boat ashore to take possession.

Despite General Grant's usual promptness, he did not arrive in time to intercept the flight of the garrison. As a consequence the prisoners surrendered, including General Tilghman and his staff, numbered less than a hundred. The others fled overland to Fort Donelson, only to be compelled to surrender shortly afterward to Grant in what proved to be the first great Union victory of the war.

The severity of this battle is shown by the fact that Foote's ship was struck 31 times, the Essex 15, and the Carondelet 6. The total number of killed, wounded and missing was 48. The success was so decisive that Foote was applauded throughout the North, sharing the well-earned honors with General Grant, whose successful career is known to every boy in the land.

Foote now steamed down the river to Cairo and began the ascent of the Cumberland, to assist General Grant, who was marching overland to the attack on Fort Donelson. Dauntless as was the courage of the naval leader, he knew his task was a hopeless one. He had not only lost the Essex, but Fort Donelson was greatly superior in strength to Fort Henry. The water assault, however, was deemed a military necessity, and he did not hesitate.

On February 14 he advanced resolutely to the attack with his two wooden gunboats and four partial ironclads. The tremendous land batteries opened on this weak force the moment it came within range, and the results were of the most destructive nature. As usual, the chief attention was given to the flagship, which was struck again and again by the flying shot and shell. Undismayed by the awful tempest, Foote pushed steadily onward, cool, calm, hopeful and prepared for the worst.

His pilot was a brave man, but under the frightful fire he began to show a nervousness that caught the eye of Foote. Walking up to him, he placed his hand in a kindly manner on his shoulder and spoke encouragingly to him. While he was doing so, the poor fellow was torn into pieces by a shot, and the captain himself was badly wounded in the foot by a flying splinter. Paying no heed to the bleeding member, he limped about the boat, swept by the iron hail, and gave his orders as coolly as before. But the shot that killed the pilot also smashed the wheel, and the unmanageable boat began drifting down stream. The tiller ropes of another boat were also cut about the same time, and she also floated helplessly with the current. The Confederates increased their fire, and the other two boats, also greatly damaged, followed the flagship, and the ferocious fight that had lasted more than an hour was over, with the Union flotilla badly repulsed.

The flagship had been struck 59 times, and 54 had been killed and wounded on the different ships; but Foote would have maintained the fight, with a fair probability of success, but for the destruction of his steering gear.

Grant and Foote now formed a plan for the capture of Nashville, but on the eve of starting were stopped by a telegraphic order from General Halleck not to allow the gunboats to go further up the river than Clarksville. Foote was greatly disappointed, and, absolutely certain of capturing the city, telegraphed for permission to do so, but it was refused. Thus he was left no alternative but to return to Cairo.

While there, he learned that the Confederate force occupying Columbus had evacuated the town and fortified themselves on Island No. 10. They numbered about 8,000 and were under the command of General Mackall, from Beauregard's army. Foote transferred his flag to the ironclad Benton and advanced against the powerful works that had been erected on the island. The bombardment was continued for three weeks, without inflicting serious damage, and there was little prospect of capturing the place from the river, when General Pope arrived with a large land force; but to reach the fort it was necessary for him to get his troops across the river, and he had not a single transport to use for that purpose.

Pope's arrival below made it necessary to send a gunboat down to him, for until that was done he could make no movement against the rebel force there. The all-important question was whether any one of the gunboats could run the terrific gauntlet of the batteries that lined the shore. It looked as if the attempt must result in the inevitable destruction of any craft before half the distance could be accomplished. At a council of the officers it was agreed that it was too hazardous to try to run one of the gunboats past the batteries. Such was the opinion of every man except Henry Walke, commander of the Carondelet, who volunteered to try the seemingly impossible task. Captain Foote reluctantly gave his consent.

It was understood that Walke was to make the attempt on the first rainy or foggy night. In the event of success, he was to cooperate with Pope, and, when he moved, to assist in the attack on the fortifications. Captain Foote closed his instructions to his faithful aide with the following impressive words:

On this delicate and somewhat hazardous service to which I assign you I must enjoin upon you the importance of keeping your lights secreted in the hold or put out, keeping your officers and men from speaking at all, when passing the forts, above a whisper, and then only on duty, and of using every other precaution to prevent the rebels suspecting that you are dropping below their batteries.

If you successfully perform this duty assigned to you, which you so willingly undertake, it will reflect the highest credit upon you and all belonging to your vessel, and I doubt not but that the government will fully appreciate and reward you for a service which, I trust, will enable the army to cross the river and make a successful attack in the rear, while we storm the batteries in front of this stronghold of the rebels.

Commending you and all who compose your command to the care and protection of God, who rules the world and directs all things, I am, respectfully, your obedient servant,

A.H. Foote.

P.S. -- Should you meet with disaster, you will, as a last resort, destroy the steam machinery, and, if possible, to escape, set fire to your gunboat, or sink her, and prevent her falling into the hands of the rebels.

The night selected -- April 4 -- was rainy and of inky blackness, relieved by vivid flashes of lightning. No precaution that could be thought of was neglected. Chains were twisted around the pilot-house and other vulnerable parts, and wood was piled against the boilers, with which the hose was connected, to make the jets of steam available to repel boarders. On one side was lashed a boat loaded with pressed hay, while a barge of coal was fastened on the side furthest from the dangerous batteries, and the escape steam was led into the paddle-wheel house in order to muffle the sound. Among the fully armed crew were twenty of the most expert sharpshooters in the army.

It was about ten o'clock when the Carondelet swung round in the stream and started on its fearful race. The fleet fairly held its breath, as officers and men listened and peered down the river in the tempestuous darkness. Now and then the zigzagging lightning gave a momentary glimpse of the craft moving away, but the straining eye and ear caught no sight or sound.

But when the Carondelet was close to the batteries a blaze suddenly shot up several feet above the chimneys. The soot had caught fire and the reflection was thrown far out on the water. The engineer immediately opened the flue caps and all was darkness again. So quickly did this singular glow come and vanish that it must have been mistaken by the sentinels for a part of the lightning display, for it caused no alarm; but the turning of the escape steam into the paddle-box had allowed the soot to get dry, and they flamed up a second time. Though extinguished as promptly as before, the sentinels knew something was wrong and signalled to the batteries below that one of the boats of the enemy was approaching.

It was useless to attempt concealment any longer. Walke ordered the engine ahead at full speed and ran close to the shore nearest the batteries, that their shot might pass over him. Aside from the enemy, this was dangerous work, for there was no telling into what obstruction the boat would dash. A man stood at the front with lead and line, quietly calling out in a guarded voice the soundings, which were repeated by a second man on deck, who forwarded the report aft to Walke, standing beside the pilot.

All the time the rain was falling in torrents. Suddenly a dazzling gleam showed the pilot he was speeding straight for a shoal under the guns of the Confederate battery.

"Hard aport!" commanded the captain, and the heavy craft barely missed the island, past which it shot at the highest speed. The lightning flashes helped the Carondelet in more than one way. It not only gave the pilot the necessary knowledge to avoid running aground, but confused the Confederate gunners, who sent most of their shots over the boat, which was not struck once during its remarkable run down the Mississippi. Two shots had entered the barge at her side, but not a man was hurt. The boat was received with wild cheers by the expectant soldiers, who, while hoping for the best, feared the worst.

It had been agreed between Walke and Captain Foote that in case the former was successful, he was to make it known by firing minute guns. The captain was listening intently, when through the rain and darkness the welcome signals reached his ears, and he thanked God that all had come out so well.

Now that General Pope had received the transport for which he longed, Captain Foote breathed freely and prepared to give what help he could in the attack upon the rebel fortifications; but, to his surprise, Pope sent an urgent request that a second boat should be sent to him on the next night, adding that the success of the whole movement depended upon a compliance with this request.

Foote replied that it would be as safe to run the batteries at midday as on a clear night; for a vessel had to pass not only seven batteries, but be kept "head on" to a battery of eleven guns, at the upper part of Island No. 10, and to pass within 300 yards of it. In deference to Pope's earnest request, Captain Foote consented to prepare another boat, but would not permit it to start until the night was favorable.

The second night was similar to the one described, and Lieutenant Thompson, in charge of the Pittsburg, started down the river at two o'clock in the morning. Although exposed to the same fire as the Carondelet, he was equally fortunate, and ran the gauntlet with the same good fortune.

The passage of these two ironclads sealed the fate of Island No. 10, for Pope could now cross the river, and, by taking position in the rear of the Confederate works, cut off the supplies of the garrison. The crossing was made and the enemy's batteries silenced. On the 8th the island was surrendered to Captain Foote and General Pope, including the garrison of 5,000 men.

Captain Foote's next move was to Fort Pillow. All this time he was suffering so severely from the wound in his foot that it affected his spirits, usually buoyant and hopeful. Another disturbing cause was the continual interference of General Halleck, who prevented several movements that Foote knew must have resulted in important successes.

His health continued to decline till finally the day came when he was compelled to ask for a leave of absence. He went to his brother's home in Cleveland, where his condition caused great solicitude throughout the country. Afflictions crowded upon him. He returned to his home, which was shadowed by the death of his bright boy at the age of fourteen years. A few months later two of his daughters died. How hollow sounded the praises of his countrymen when his head was bowed with such overwhelming sorrow! He had been made rear admiral, and, though still weak, was by his own request assigned to the command of the North Atlantic squadron. He went to New York to complete his preparations, but while there succumbed to his illness, and died at the Astor House, June 26, 1863.



Chapter XXVIII.

A Man Devoid of Fear -- William Barker Cushing -- Some of His Exploits -- The Blowing Up of the Albemarle -- His Sad Death.


If ever man lived who knew not the meaning of fear, he was William Barker Cushing, born in Wisconsin in 1842. He entered the Naval Academy in 1857, remained four years, received his appointment from the State of New York, but claiming Pennsylvania as his residence. He was wild and reckless, and resigned in March, 1861, when even his closest friends saw little hope of his success in life.

Many heroes are referred to as fearless, but that man is reckoned brave who knows the full extent of the danger facing him, and yet does not hesitate to meet it; but Cushing was a youth who really seemed to love danger for its own sake, and never flinched while death was on every hand, but went unhesitatingly forward, when it would have been no reflection upon his courage had he turned about and run.

The breaking out of the Civil War offered so fascinating a field for him that he could not resist the temptation. The Secretary of the Navy always had a tender spot in his heart for the daring fellow, and when Cushing promised that if he would give him a chance he would prove himself worthy of the Secretary's confidence, that official consented and attached him to the North Atlantic Blockading Squadron. At the very first opportunity Cushing displayed the wonderful personal intrepidity which was soon to make him the most famous naval officer of his age.

In the expedition against Franklin, Va., in the autumn of the year, he was placed in command of the gunboat Ellis, and showed such skill and bravery that he was recommended by the acting admiral to the Navy Department. Some weeks later he steamed into New River Inlet, with the object of capturing Jacksonville and destroying the salt works. He was successful, secured three vessels and drove the enemy from two pieces of artillery with which they were firing on him at short range. All was going well, but while still close to the abandoned works Cushing's little steamer ran aground, and, despite every effort, he could not work her free.

He saw it was useless to try to get the boat off. He therefore took everything out of her, excepting the pivot gun and ammunition, and, placing them on board one of the captured schooners, ordered the crew to leave. Knowing the enemy would soon return in overwhelming numbers, he asked for six volunteers to stay with him and fight with the single gun to the last. The response was prompt, for his daring spirit was infectious, and he instructed the others, in the event of him and his comrades being attacked, to make no attempt to help them.

Just as he anticipated, the Confederates opened upon the doomed steamer at daylight, firing from so many different points that the defenders were helpless. As fast as the gun could be loaded, it was pointed here, there and everywhere, for, no matter in what direction it was aimed, it was pretty sure to hit some of the enemy; but a single gun against a score could accomplish nothing, and the lieutenant had to decide whether to remain, with the certainty of every man being shot to pieces, of surrendering, or of rowing in an open boat for more than a mile through the murderous fire. With scarcely a moment's hesitation, he resolved upon the last plan, which looked as suicidal as remaining on the steamer.

The gun was loaded to the muzzle and trained upon the enemy, so as to go off when heated, the steamer set on fire in several places, and, dropping into the smaller boat, the men pulled with might and main for the schooner. Fortune favors the brave, and they reached it in safety, and soon after arrived at Beaufort.

This exploit won for Cushing the commendation of the Navy Department for "his courage, coolness and gallantry."

His restless spirit would not allow him to remain idle. He was continually engaging in some daring enterprise, in which it must not be supposed he displayed nothing more than headlong recklessness. That quality was supplemented by coolness and skill, without which he never could have attained the remarkable success that attended his career.

Among the numerous achievements the following will serve as an illustration of the young man's disposition:

Lieutenants Lamson and Cushing had command of a number of gunboats that were sent to the aid of General Peck, stationed at Norfolk. In the latter part of April it was learned that a Union boat had been decoyed ashore by the display of a white handkerchief and then fired upon. The angered Cushing asked for and received the privilege of retaliating for this treacherous act. In charge of seven boats, manned by ninety sailors, he set out and landed under the protection of the fire of the vessels. Leaving a part of his force to protect the boats, he started inland, taking a 12-pounder howitzer with him.

His objective point was a village three miles away, where several hundred cavalry were stationed. Advancing boldly, he drove in the pickets, and coming across a span of mules hitched to a cart, he tied the rope of the howitzer to the rear, lashed the animals to a gallop and went clattering into the village to the loud shouts of "Forward, double quick!"

Just as they entered the formidable body of cavalry were discerned, galloping down the street toward them, swinging their sabres and shouting at the top of their voices. In a twinkling the howitzer was unlimbered, and the charge of grape which was poured into the approaching horsemen was supplemented by a volley of musketry. The racket terrified the mules, which broke into a gallop, dragging the cart and ammunition after them, and never paused until they were among the ranks of the enemy. With a shout, Cushing was after them, followed by his men, and mules and ammunition were recovered in a twinkling. By this time the demoralized cavalry had fled, and Cushing, after retaining possession of the village until dusk, leisurely made his way back to the boats.

The war having proven the immeasurable value of ironclads of the Merrimac type, the Confederates strained every nerve to build them, often succeeding under the most trying conditions. One of the most formidable of these craft was the Albemarle, upon which work was begun early in 1863, at Edward's Ferry, several miles up the Roanoke River. Iron was so scarce that the country was scoured for miles in every direction for bolts, bars and metal. As stated by Maclay, the keel was laid in an open cornfield, and an ordinary blacksmith's outfit formed the plant for building; but the makers persevered and completed a craft 122 feet over all, with 45 feet beam and drawing 8 feet of water. The casemate was 60 feet long, constructed of massive timbers, covered with 4-inch planking, over which were placed two layers of 2-inch iron. The motive power was furnished by twin screws operated by engines of 200 horse-power each. Her armament consisted of an Armstrong 100-pounder in the bow and another in the stern, the casemate being so pierced that the guns could be used at broadside or quarter.

At midnight, April 19, 1864, the Albemarle gave a proof of her prodigious power of destruction. On the preceding two days the Confederates had made a determined attack on Plymouth, held by the Union forces, and the ironclad now set out to render assistance. The wooden gunboats Miami and Southfield offered just the sort of targets the monster fancied. Under a full head of steam, the Albemarle rammed her iron beak clean into the fire room of the Southfield. The latter was skewered upon the projection and began slowly sinking. The snout was so entangled with the Southfield that the victim could not be shaken off, and as she sank she carried her foe with her. The bow of the ironclad dipped below the surface, and a most extraordinary and inglorious end seemed inevitable, when the Southfield touched bottom, rolled over and freed itself from the bow of the ram, which popped up again.

Meanwhile the Miami was pounding the iron hide of the monster, which shed the missiles as the Merrimac shed the broadsides from the Cumberland and Congress. When only a few feet from the Albemarle, Lieutenant Flusser, standing directly behind a gun of the Miami, let fly with a heavy shell, which, striking the armor of the Albemarle, was shivered into a thousand fragments, most of which rebounding, instantly killed the officer and wounded a dozen men. The Miami retreated, and the next day Plymouth surrendered to the Confederates.

In May, the Albemarle steamed down into the Sound and attacked the Union gunboats, which made a heroic defence. The monster received broadside after broadside and was repeatedly rammed, but suffered no material damage, while she killed 4, wounded 25 and caused the scalding of 13, through piercing the boiler of one of her assailants.

It will be seen that this ironclad had become a formidable menace to the Union arms, not only in the immediate neighborhood, but further north. It was the intention of her commander to clear out the fleets at the mouth of the river, and then make an excursion up the coast, somewhat like that which Secretary Stanton once believed the Merrimac was about to undertake. General Grant was pressing his final campaign against Richmond, and the Albemarle threatened to interfere with his plans, for if she made the diversion of which she was capable, she was likely to postpone indefinitely the wind up of the war.

Ah, if some daring scheme could be perfected for destroying the Albemarle! What a feat it would be and how vast the good it would accomplish! There was one young officer in the American navy who believed the thing could be done, and he volunteered to undertake it.

Well aware that the Unionists would neglect no means of blowing up the Albemarle, the Confederates used every possible precaution. At the wharf in Plymouth, where she was moored, a thousand soldiers were on guard, and her crew, consisting of sixty men, were alert and vigilant. To prevent the approach of a torpedo boat, the ram was surrounded by a boom of cypress logs, placed a considerable distance from the hull, and a double line of sentries was stationed along the river. What earthly chance was there under such conditions of any possible harm coming to her?

The picket boat in which Lieutenant Cushing undertook to destroy the rebel ram was built at New York under his supervision, and taken to Norfolk by way of the canals, and thence to Albemarle Sound again by canal. He made his preparations with great care, and on the night of October 27, which was dark and stormy, he started in his picket boat. He was accompanied by eight men and the following officers: Acting Ensign William L. Howarth, Acting Master's Mates Thomas S. Gay and John Woodman, Acting Assistant Paymaster Francis H. Swan, Acting Third Assistant Engineers Charles L. Steever and William Stotesbury.

Cushing took in tow a small cutter, in which he intended to capture the Confederate guard, that was in a schooner anchored near the wrecked Southfield, and prevent their sending up an alarm rocket as a warning to the sentinels above of the approach of danger. He stationed himself at the stern, his plan being to land a little way below the ram and board her from the wharf. A sudden dash promised her capture by surprise, when she could be taken down stream. If this scheme could not be carried out, he intended to blow her up with a torpedo as she lay at the dock.

The launch crept along the river bank as silently as an Indian canoe stealing into a hostile camp. The distance to be passed was fully eight miles, and the peril began almost from the moment of starting. The necessary commands were spoken in whispers, and the waiting men scarcely moved as they peered into the deep gloom and listened to the almost inaudible rippling of the water from the bow. Speed was reduced as they drew near Plymouth, in order to lessen the soft clanking of the engine or the motion of the screw.

They were still a mile below Plymouth when the shadowy outlines of the wrecked Southfield loomed dimly to view. The Confederates had raised her so that her hurricane deck was above the surface. Within a few yards of the wreck a schooner was anchored containing a guard of twenty men with a field piece and rocket, provided for precisely such danger as now drew near. But on this night, of all others, the sentinels were dozing, for had they been vigilant they must have seen the little craft whose crew saw theirs and were on the qui vive to board on the instant of discovery.

The good fortune encouraged all hands, and as the schooner and wreck melted into the darkness the launch swept around a bend in the river and caught the glimmer of the camp fires along the banks, partly extinguished by the falling rain. Still creeping cautiously on, the outlines of the prodigious ram gradually assumed form in the gloom. It looked as if the surprise would be complete, when a dog, more watchful than his masters, began barking. He had discovered the approaching danger, and the startled sentinels challenged, but no reply was made. A second challenge bringing no response, several muskets flashed in the night. Other dogs joined in barking, alarm rattles were sprung and wood flung upon the fires, which, flaring up, threw their illumination out on the river and revealed the launch and cutter. The hoarse commands of officers rang out, and the soldiers, springing from sleep, caught up their guns and rushed to quarters.

Amid the fearful din and peril Cushing cut the tow line and ordered the cutter to hasten down the river and capture the guard near the Southfield. At the same moment he directed the launch to go ahead at full speed. He had changed his plan. Instead of landing he determined to blow up the ram. When close to it he learned for the first time of the cordon of logs which surrounded the Albemarle, but, believing they were slippery enough from remaining long in the water to be passed, he sheered off, made a sweep of a hundred yards and again charged under full steam for the obstruction.

As he drew near the guards fired a volley which riddled Cushing's coat and tore off the sole of his shoe.

At the same moment he heard the vicious snapping of the primers of the huge guns, which showed they had missed fire.

"Leave the ram!" he shouted. "We're going to blow you up!"

The Confederates, however, did not follow the advice and the launch fired her howitzer. Then she glided over the slimy logs and paused in front of the muzzle of a loaded cannon which could be almost reached with the outstretched hand. Still cool and self-possessed amid the horrible perils, Cushing stood erect, lowered the torpedo spar, shoved it under the overhang, waited a moment for it to rise until he felt it touch the bottom of the ram, when he gave a quick, strong pull on the trigger line. A muffled, thunderous explosion followed, an immense column of water rose in the air and the tremendous tipping of the Albemarle showed she had received a mortal hurt.

It was accomplished at the critical second, for the rifled gun, filled with 100 pounds of canister and pointed at the launch ten feet away, was immediately discharged. The careening of the ram deviated the aim just enough to prevent the crew from being blown to fragments, but confident that not a man could escape, the Confederates twice called upon their assailants to surrender, and several did so, but Cushing was not among them. With the same marvelous coolness he had displayed from the first he took off his coat and shoes, flung his sword and revolver aside and shouted:

"Every man save himself!"

Then he leaped into the water and began swimming with might and main down stream, the bullets skipping all about him, but he soon passed beyond sight and was still swimming when he heard a plashing near him. It was made by one of the acting master's mates, John Woodman, who was exhausted. Cushing helped him until he himself had hardly an ounce of strength left, when he was obliged to let go, and the poor fellow, calling good-by, sank from sight.

When unable to struggle longer, Cushing let his feet drop and they touched bottom. He managed to reach land, where he sank down so worn out that he lay motionless until daylight. Then he crawled into a swamp, where he remained hidden until a friendly negro appeared, who extended every possible kindness to him. From him Cushing learned that the Albemarle had been destroyed and was at the bottom of the river. It was thrilling news, and the following night, after he had thoroughly rested and been fed by his dusky friend, he moved down the river, found a skiff and in it made his way to the fleet, bringing the first news of the success of an exploit which it is safe to say has never been surpassed in the history of our navy. Even the captain of the Albemarle declared that "a more gallant thing was not done during the war."

While conceding to Lieutenant Hobson the full credit for his daring achievement in sinking the Merrimac in the channel of Santiago harbor, on June 3, 1898, it was by no means the equal of that of Lieutenant Cushing, thirty-four years before.

For his superb work Cushing received a vote of thanks from Congress and was promoted to the rank of lieutenant commander. He led a division of sailors in the second and what proved to be the successful attack upon Fort Fisher, in January, 1865. It was a desperate fight and none displayed more heroism than the young officer who had destroyed the Albemarle.

Hon. J.T. Headley, the biographer of Cushing, in an article written immediately after the close of the Civil War, used these words: "Still a young man, he has a bright future before him, and if he lives will doubtless reach the highest rank in the navy. Bold, daring and self-collected under the most trying circumstances -- equal to any emergency -- never unbalanced by an unexpected contingency, he possesses those great qualities always found in a successful commander. No man in our navy, at his age, has ever won so brilliant a reputation, and it will be his own fault if it is not increased until he has no superior."

And yet Commander Cushing's reputation was not increased nor was it through any fault of his own. It was not long after the war that his friends were pained to observe unmistakable signs of mental unsoundness in the young hero. These increased until his brain was all askew, and he died in an insane asylum in 1874.



Chapter XXIX.

The Greatest of Naval Heroes -- David Glasgow Farragut.


David Glasgow Farragut was the greatest naval hero of modern times. There are many honored names connected with the American navy, but his towers above them all. The highest honors that his country could give were freely bestowed upon him and no one will deny that he earned them all.

His father, although a native of Minorca, came to this country in 1776 and lost no time in joining the ragged, starving patriots in their struggle for independence. His skill and gallantry won him the rank of major. When the war ended he settled on the western frontier, near Knoxville, Tenn., where at a place called Campbell's Station his son David was born in 1801. When only nine years old he was appointed midshipman under Captain David Porter, the heroic commander of the Essex. Captain Porter and Major Farragut were old friends, to which fact was due the privilege extended to a lad of such tender years.

In the sketch of Captain Porter the reader will recall the incident in which young Farragut learned of the conspiracy among the 500 prisoners on board the Essex, and, by giving his commander warning, prevented the capture of the ship by the savage plotters.

The boy was on the Essex when, disabled and helpless, she was pounded into a surrender by two British ships while in the harbor of Valparaiso, in January, 1814. It was one of the most sanguinary battles of the war, when the decks ran with blood and the dead and dying were stretched on every hand. Amid the terrible carnage the boy Farragut conducted himself with such coolness and bravery that he was specially complimented by Captain Porter in his report. Although wounded, he stood unflinchingly to his guns, winning the admiration of the grim heroes around him and demonstrating the wonderful qualities which later were to raise him to the position of the foremost naval hero of the age.

Peace came, and, although Farragut was in continual service, promotion was slow. He became lieutenant in 1825, commander in 1841 and captain in 1851. His first wife, whom he married in Norfolk, became an invalid and did not live long. His second wife was also a native of Norfolk. Thus he was not only a Southerner himself, but his wife was a native of that section. When, therefore, civil war came and it became fashionable for people to express secession sentiments, it was taken for granted that Farragut would cast his fortunes with the South; but upon being approached he indignantly replied: "I would see every man of you damned before I would raise my hand against that flag!" Being told that it would be unsafe for him to remain in the South, he added that he wanted only two hours to find another place of residence. He moved away at once and with his wife and only son took up his home on the Hudson near Tarrytown.

Being a stranger in that neighborhood, he was regarded with suspicion. He was fond of taking long walks, and it is said that some of the people suspected that he belonged to a gang of plotters who intended to cut the Croton Aqueduct, but the quiet man was simply awaiting the summons of his country to serve her in any capacity possible.

The call came in the spring of 1861, when he was about threescore years old. His duty was that of serving on the board appointed by Congress to retire superannuated officers from the active service. This duty completed, he was appointed to the command of the expedition organized for the capture of New Orleans. He sailed from Hampton Roads on the 3d of February, 1862, in the flagship Hartford and arrived seventeen days later at Ship Island, the place of rendezvous. There he set to work to make his arrangements for the great task which was wholly different from any that had ever engaged his attention. But how well he completed this grand work, he being the real supervisor and superintendent, has been referred to in a previous chapter and is told in every history of our country.

The skill and courage displayed by Farragut in the capture of New Orleans attracted national attention and added greatly to his reputation. In the latter part of June he ran the batteries of Vicksburg, but notified the Government that though he could go up and down the river as he chose and silence the batteries when he pleased, no substantial good would result unless a land force of ten or twelve thousand men attacked the town from the rear. It was this plan which brought about the capture of Vicksburg by General Grant and the opening of the Mississippi River. Farragut, who had been made rear admiral, afforded great aid in taking Port Hudson and cleaning out all rebel fortifications along the Father of Waters.

This immense work having been accomplished, the Government now gave its attention to Mobile, another of the Confederate strongholds in the South. The campaign arranged was to attack it with a land force under the command of Generals Canby and Granger and a naval force under Farragut. In January, 1864, he made a reconnaissance of Mobile Bay and informed the Government that if it would supply him with a slight additional force he would attack and capture it at once. He knew that the defences were being strengthened every day and repeatedly urged that he be furnished with the means of making an immediate assault. But the ill-advised and disastrous expedition of Banks up the Red River took away the available troops and the appeal of Farragut remained unheeded until the summer was well advanced.

By that time the defences of Mobile were well nigh impregnable. Fort Gaines, on Dauphin Island, had a garrison of 864 men and mounted three 10-inch columbiads, four 32-pounder rifled guns and twenty smoothbore guns of 32, 24 and 18-pound calibres. The principal pass to Mississippi Sound was commanded by Fort Powell, with one mounted 10-inch gun, one 8-inch columbiad and four rifled guns. The main fortification was Fort Morgan, whose heavy guns were placed in three tiers. It mounted seven 10-inch, three 8-inch and twenty-two 32-pounder smoothbore guns and two 8-inch, two 6.5-inch and four 5.82-inch rifled guns. The exterior batteries were also heavily armed and the garrison numbered 640 men. The bay was filled with skilfully placed torpedoes, some of them of stupendous size and power and sufficient, it would seem, if properly handled, to destroy all the navies of the world.

All arrangements being completed, the signal for the advance was hoisted at daylight, August 5, 1864. The Union fleet consisted of 21 wooden vessels and 6 ironclads. The wooden vessels sailed in pairs, the larger on the starboard, so that if either was disabled the other could carry it along. Farragut's intention was to lead with the flagship Hartford, but he reluctantly allowed the Brooklyn to take that post, since she carried four chase guns to the Hartford's one and was provided with an ingenious apparatus for picking up torpedoes. It was contended further that the flagship would be the special target of the enemy, a fact that was likely to cripple her and prevent the employment of the all-important signals. The last argument bore no weight with Farragut, who replied that she would be the chief target anyway, no matter what the position, and exposure to fire was one of the penalties of rank in the navy. The monitors were to advance in single file, slightly in advance of the wooden ships, the Tecumseh, Commander Tunis A.M. Craven, in the lead.

In this order the slow advance was begun and at a few minutes past seven the Tecumseh fired the first gun. The forts waited twenty minutes when they replied, and the Brooklyn responded with two 100-pounder Parrot rifles. Under the protection of Fort Morgan nestled the Confederate rams and ironclads, which directed their fire principally at the wooden vessels. The great battle was opened.

The enemy's gunboats and the ram Tennessee moved out from behind the fort and continued firing at the wooden boats, giving principal attention, as was expected, to the flagship, which was struck several times. She soon began returning the fire, still advancing, and repeatedly drove the gunners from the water batteries, but they immediately returned and kept bravely at work.

Smokeless powder was unknown in those days, and, as the vapor enfolded the ships, Farragut kept stepping up the rigging almost unconsciously until he was so high that he was clinging to the futtock shrouds. He had his spyglass in one hand and kept raising it to his eyes. Captain Percival Drayton had been closely watching the Admiral and now became alarmed, lest some damage to the ropes should cause him to fall overboard. He told Signal Quartermaster Knowles to climb the rigging and secure Farragut to the shrouds. He obeyed and passed a lead line to one of the forward shrouds and then drew it around the Admiral to the after shroud and made it fast. Feeling the faithful officer at work, the Admiral looked down kindly at him and said: "Never mind me, I am all right." But Knowles persisted and did not descend until he had completed his work.

By and by the increasing smoke made it necessary for the commander to ascend still higher, in order to maintain a clear view of the battle. He untied the fastenings, and, climbing to the futtock shrouds, passed the rope once more around his body several times and tied the end to the rigging. The picture of Admiral Farragut thus lashed to the rigging has been seen thousands of times in the histories of the Civil War.

While in this perilous position he signalled for closer order. The bombardment of the fort was terrific and produced great effect. Commander Craven, with the Tecumseh, singled out the ram Tennessee, under the command of Admiral Franklin Buchanan, who had charge of the Merrimac on the first day of her fight with the Monitor. Both were ironclads and Buchanan was as anxious to fight Craven as the latter was to fight him. Craven, fearing his adversary would retreat, pressed forward so eagerly that he paid no attention to the torpedoes over which his hull was continually scraping. One or more of these suddenly exploded, the front dipped and the Tecumseh plunged bow foremost to the bottom of the bay, carrying with her 93 men out of a crew of 114.

This appalling disaster was accompanied by a touching incident. When the Tecumseh was diving downward Commander Craven and the pilot instinctively started for the opening through which only one man could pass at a time. They reached the foot of the ladder at the same moment. "You first," said Craven, halting. The pilot just succeeded in scrambling out, when the Tecumseh went down, taking her heroic captain with her.

The terrible occurrence was witnessed by friends and foes. A boat was quickly lowered from the Metacomet and sent to the relief of the survivors. It passed within a hundred yards of Fort Morgan, which could have easily blown it out of the water. But General Page, the Confederate commandant, knowing her errand, gave the order not to harm the boat, which was on its way to save drowning men. His soldiers broke into cheers, but he sternly stopped them, with the advice to wait till the Hartford was sunk. The boat picked up ten men and officers, while four swam to the beach and were made prisoners.

When the lull was over Farragut headed his ship for the fort, signalling to the remainder of the fleet, which followed close after him. When warned of the torpedoes the wrathful Admiral came near adding a little profanity to his contemptuous opinion of them as he passed on. Wheeling, he launched his whole broadside at the fort, then delivered a second at the Tennessee and headed for the gunboats Selma, Gaines and Morgan, all of which were raking him. Casting off his consort, the Metacomet, he sent her after the Selma, and, after a hot chase, she captured her. The other two took to shallow water under the guns of the fort.

The ships, having passed the latter, were about to anchor when the Tennessee was perceived coming straight for the fleet, with the intention of attacking it. Farragut signalled to the vessels to run her down and ordered the pilot of the Hartford to drive her with full speed at the ironclad. The Monongahela was the first to reach the monster, struck her fairly, and, swinging around, let fly with a broadside of 11-inch shot, which dropped harmlessly from her mailed side. Undaunted, the Monongahela rammed her again, though she received ten times as much damage as she inflicted. The Lackawanna passed through a somewhat similar experience but a gunner drove a 9-inch shell into one of the shutters, which was shattered and forced within the casemate. The crews were so close that they taunted each other through the portholes and even hurled missiles across the brief intervening space.

At this juncture the Hartford arrived, charging full speed upon the ram, which so shifted its position that the blow was a glancing one. Recoiling, the flagship delivered its most tremendous broadside, doing no harm, while the Hartford itself was pierced again and again by the exploding shells which strewed her deck with dead and dying. Nothing daunted, Farragut prepared to ram once more, when his ship was badly injured by an accidental blow from the Lackawanna. But Farragut, seeing that she still floated, called for a full head of steam that he might deliver a blow that was likely to send his own ship to the bottom.

By this time the slower going monitors had arrived and were getting in their fine work. The Tennessee's smokestack was shot away, her stern port shutter was disabled, making the gun useless, while her steering chains were smashed. Like a stag beset by a pack of hounds, she was brought to her knees. The white flag was raised, and the sorely battered Tennessee became the captive of the Union fleet. The forts were passed and the victory of Mobile Bay was secure.

But it had cost dearly. In addition to the men lost on the Tecumseh, there had been 25 killed and 28 wounded on the Hartford, 11 killed and 43 wounded on the Brooklyn, the total of all, including those lost on the Tecumseh, being 145 killed and 170 wounded. The Confederate loss was 12 killed, 20 wounded and 280 prisoners.

Fort Powell was subjected to a severe bombardment that afternoon and on the following night was abandoned and blown up. Fire being opened on Fort Gaines, it also surrendered. Fort Morgan, the only fort in the possession of the enemy, surrendered August 23, before an attack of the navy and the land forces under General Granger from New Orleans.

Soon after this splendid victory Admiral Farragut went North, where he was received with all possible honors. The war ending soon after, his inestimable services came to a close. That no reward might be lacking, the office of vice-admiral was specially created for him in December, 1864, and that of admiral in 1866. He died in 1870.



The Spanish-American War.

Chapter XXX.

The Movement Against Cuba -- The Destruction of Cervera's Fleet -- Admiral Sampson -- Admiral Schley -- "Fighting Bob" Evans -- Commodore John C. Watson -- Commodore John W. Philip -- Lieutenant Commander Richard Wainwright.


Since the war with Spain was undertaken for the liberation of Cuba from the most frightful atrocities that mind can conceive, it was natural that the chief attention of our Government should be directed to the expulsion of the Spaniards from that island. Neither the Ladrones nor Philippines entered into the question; but, inasmuch as they were valuable possessions of Spain, their conquest was a natural and effective blow against the nation with which we were at war.

In view of what subsequently occurred, we can smile at the general uneasiness and fear which prevailed in this country at the opening of hostilities regarding the fleets of Spain. She was known to have a formidable navy and a great many believed it was superior to our own. There was no telling where it would strike the first blow. Boston, New York, Philadelphia, Washington and other seaboard cities made powerful preparations against the dread fleet, which in truth was no more to be feared than the ferryboats on the North River, and yet but for the preparations referred to it is more than probable we should have suffered.

The most formidable fleet was under the command of Admiral Cervera. Our own squadrons were engaged for weeks in hunting for it, and it was reported in a dozen different places. Finally it was learned that it had taken refuge in the harbor of Santiago, the city of that name being besieged by the land forces under General Shafter. Immediately the American fleet of Admiral Sampson blockaded the ships of the enemy, determined to hold it powerless inside the broad harbor, for it followed, as a matter of course, that so long as it was bottled up there it could do nothing to help Spain.

No one could know his weakness better than the Spanish Admiral. He had fine ships and fine guns, but his crews were undisciplined. They were wretched marksmen and in no respect to be compared with our gunners, who demonstrated in the War of 1812 that they have no equals in the whole world. Knowing all this, Admiral Cervera was loth to venture out of the harbor of Santiago, and the days and weeks passed in idleness while the monotonous blockade continued.

It was the fear that the Spanish ships would make a dash on some dark, stormy night and escape that led to one of the most striking and brilliant exploits of the war. That is the sinking of the collier Merrimac in the channel of the harbor by Lieutenant Richmond Pearson Hobson, on the night of June 3. That the effort was not wholly successful does not detract from the glory of the brave men who went unflinchingly to what looked like almost certain death.

The companions of Lieutenant Hobson in this remarkable achievement were Osborn Deignan, George F. Phillips, Francis Kelly, George Charette, Daniel Montague, J.C. Murphy and Randolph Clausen. The last named was not one of the original six chosen, but he had been at work on the Merrimac preparing her for the attempt and hid himself away on the lumbersome craft and they were obliged to take him.

As soon as the Spaniards discovered the approach of the Merrimac, in the darkness, they opened upon her with their batteries from both shores, and she was subjected to a fire which it would seem must riddle her like a sieve and kill every man. But under the direction of the cool-headed and daring Lieutenant the collier was swung into the right position, and, but for the shooting away of the rudder, would have been sunk directly across the channel, which would have been effectively blocked. The position of the wreck as a consequence was diagonal and left the passage partly open.

Having accomplished as nearly as possible the perilous task the brave party were obliged to remain clinging to a raft until morning, when the Spaniards discovered and made them prisoners. Admiral Cervera himself helped to take Hobson out of the water and was so filled with admiration of the extraordinary daring of himself and companions that he sent a flag of truce to Admiral Sampson with the welcome news that all the men were safe in his hands. They were confined first in Morro Castle and later in the city of Santiago. They were treated with the respect their heroism deserved and on July 6 were exchanged for a number of prisoners held by our forces.

Just one month after this exploit, that is on the morning of July 3, 1898, Admiral Cervera attempted to escape from the harbor of Santiago. The smoke of his vessels was discerned over the hills, and the watchful ships outside signalled the fact to the other members of the squadron. A few minutes later the bow of one of the Spanish steamers came into sight from behind the Estrella Battery. The Brooklyn, Iowa and Oregon, some two and a half miles distant, crowded on all steam and headed for the harbor. The first Spanish cruiser to show itself was the Infanta Maria Teresa, followed by the Vizcaya, the Almirante Oquendo and the Cristobal Colon, with the torpedo boats Pluton and Furor bringing up the rear. The Infanta Maria Teresa, leading the procession, was the flagship of Admiral Cervera. He sent a shell toward the American vessels, but, in accordance with the rule, it went wide of the mark. The Texas opened with her big guns and her companions quickly joined in the thunderous chorus.

No sooner were the Spanish ships clear of the harbor than they turned westward and strained every nerve to escape, firing at their pursuers, who were equally determined to overtake or destroy them. The Brooklyn, further away from shore, changed her course so as to follow a parallel direction, and, as soon as she attained a fair range, opened a tremendous and well directed fire. The Texas, whose course was somewhat diagonal, singled out the Vizcaya, and, unable to outspeed her, pounded her savagely with her shells.

Every movement of the splendid battleship was directed by her Captain, John W. Philip. The Texas was struck several times, but did not receive any material damage, while she wrought frightful havoc on the Vizcaya.

The Oregon, the finest ship in our navy, which had come more than 14,000 miles from the Pacific coast, was ploughing forward under forced draught, and, with a tremendous burst of speed, shot past the Texas and drew up on the Brooklyn in the effort to head off the leading fugitive, while the Iowa was doing her utmost to maintain her killing pace and was firing her great guns with splendid precision. Suddenly the Vizcaya broke into flames and headed for shore. Knowing that she was doomed, the Brooklyn and Oregon gave her a few parting shots and kept up their furious pursuit of the Almirante Oquendo and the Cristobal Colon.

Just then the torpedo boat destroyers Pluton and Furor were discovered speeding also to the westward. Lieutenant Commander Richard Wainwright, who was an officer on the Maine when she was destroyed, was now in command of the auxiliary cruiser Gloucester, and, without hesitation, he dashed after the destroyers, though for a part of the time he received the fire of Morro Castle, the Vizcaya and both of the dangerous craft he was chasing. But the Gloucester seemed to bear a charmed life, or, more truthfully speaking, the Spanish gunners didn't know how to shoot.

Unfortunately for Admiral Sampson, he had gone some miles away to hold a conference with General Shafter when the Spanish fleet made its attempt to escape, but he now came up with the New York, eagerly rushing forward to bear a hand in the fight. The Pluton and Furor fled before her, while the Indiana shelled the first destroyer so mercilessly that she turned and headed for the mouth of the harbor, several miles distant. The vigilant Gloucester joined the Indiana and one of the destroyers displayed a flag of truce. She was ablaze from bow to stern and her crew ran her ashore, where she blew up. The second was also beached and deserted by her crew. Meanwhile the Vizcaya ran up the white flag and the Texas stopped firing. She, like the Infanta Maria Teresa, was on fire and her crews could do nothing but take to the shore in the desperate effort to save themselves.

The Almirante Oquendo and the Colon were still fleeing for life, with the Iowa, Oregon, Brooklyn and Texas hard after them. Suddenly the Almirante Oquendo turned toward shore. The Brooklyn and Oregon kept after the Cristobal Colon, leaving the Texas to dispose of the Almirante Oquendo. But the latter was in flames and the flag at her stern was pulled down. The Texas was approaching when the Spanish ship was torn by a tremendous explosion. The Americans broke into cheers. Captain Philip threw up his hand and called:

"Don't cheer, boys; the poor fellows are dying!"

It was chivalrous and thoughtful on the part of the American commander and will never be forgotten.

The Cristobal Colon steamed along the coast with the speed of a race horse, but the Brooklyn, Texas and Oregon seemed to feel the prick of the spur and ran as never before and as their captains did not believe them capable of doing. The Brooklyn gradually drew ahead and the Spaniard, seeing that escape was out of the question, hauled down his flag. Thus the victory became complete.

The news was just in time to help in the universal rejoicing and celebration of the Fourth of July. The Spanish fleet on the other side of the globe had been destroyed and now the second fleet was wiped out. In the former instance not a life was lost and in the latter only one man was killed on our side, while the loss of the enemy was severe. Never was a more decisive victory gained by one nation over another in the whole history of the world.

All my readers are familiar with the events that immediately followed, but perhaps they would like to know something concerning the naval heroes who did so much to contribute to the grand naval victory off Santiago.

William T. Sampson was born in Palmyra, N.Y., February 9, 1840. He was the son of an ordinary day laborer and had few early educational advantages, but he was appointed to the Naval Academy and was graduated at the head of his class. He was on the frigate Potomac, with the rank of master, when the war broke out, but was too young to secure a command during the war. He became a lieutenant in July, 1862, and served with that rank on the practice ship John Adams at the Naval Academy and on the ironclad Patapsco. On January 15, 1865, the Patapsco attempted to force an entrance into the harbor of Charleston, which was one network of mines. Sampson exposed himself fearlessly and the ship met with a fearful disaster by being blown up by a submarine mine. Seventy went down to death as did those on the Maine, while Sampson and more than a score of others, after being blown a hundred feet through the air, saved themselves by swimming until they were picked up. Sampson was commissioned as lieutenant commander in 1866, was at the Naval Academy from 1868 to 1871, cruised for two years in European waters and first commanded the Alert in 1874. Appointed to the superintendency of the Naval Academy in 1888, he held the situation for four years.

With the construction of the new navy, Sampson commanded in turn two modern ships, the cruiser San Francisco and the battleship Iowa. He was a close student of ordnance matters, gave special attention to torpedo work and was chief of the Bureau of Naval Ordnance from 1893 to 1897. There can be no question of his fine ability nor that, had the opportunity presented, Rear Admiral Sampson, as he had become, would have proven himself among the foremost officers in our navy. It was a great personal misfortune that he happened to be absent from the front of Santiago when the Spanish fleet made its venture, but it must not be forgotten that, in anticipation of such action, he had planned the battle that was fought by the American ships.

Winfield Scott Schley was born in Frederick, Md., October 9, 1839, and was graduated from the Naval Academy at the beginning of the Civil War. After brief service on the storeship Potomac he was promoted to master in 1861, and served on the Winona, of the West Gulf blockading squadron, 1862-63. He there gained a taste of real war and performed a number of exploits which proved his coolness and daring. He received honorable mention for his services in the engagements which led to the capture of Port Hudson. He was commissioned lieutenant in July, 1862, and was executive officer of the Wateree from 1864 to 1865, having been made lieutenant commander in July, 1866, after which he spent three years again at the Naval Academy, serving as instructor of modern languages.

Admiral Schley has done brilliant service outside of what is generally considered the routine duty of his profession. When he was in Eastern waters in 1864 he landed 100 men, who protected the American consulate when threatened during a native insurrection among the natives of the Chin-Chi Islands. His most famous exploit was the rescue of the Greely Arctic expedition. In 1881 Lieutenant Adolphus W. Greely commanded an expedition of twenty-five men, which established an observation station at the farthest point in the polar regions then attained. The expedition, when in a starving condition and with only seven men alive, was rescued at Cape Sabine, Grinnell Land, in 1884 by Captain Schley. He was rewarded for this service by a gold medal from Congress and promoted by President Arthur to chief of the Bureau of Equipment and made captain in 1888.

After resigning this position Captain Schley commanded the cruiser Baltimore, which bore the remains of Ericsson, the great Swedish inventor, to his native land, whose king presented Schley with a gold medal in recognition of this service. He won the commendation of the Navy Department for his tactful success in settling threatened trouble over the stoning of a number of American sailors from the Baltimore by a party of Chilians at Valparaiso. Commodore Schley is a fine tactician, possesses a winning personality and his work with the Brooklyn, off Santiago, on July 3, was neither more nor less than his friends expected of him.

Robley D. Evans, known everywhere as "Fighting Bob," was born in Virginia in 1846. When his father died he made his home with his uncle in Washington, D.C., where he attended Gonzaga College. In 1859 a Congressional Representative from Utah appointed him to the Naval Academy. It was necessary for the boy to take up a nominal residence in that distant territory, and on the journey thither and back he encountered many personal dangers through all of which he conducted himself with the pluck and bravery which afterward distinguished him in the service of his country. He entered the academy in 1860 and upon his graduation became a midshipman and ensign, first on the frigate Powhatan, and before he had attained his majority took part in the desperate assault on Fort Fisher. He was stretched on the ground, dreadfully wounded and with so many dead men piled upon him that he barely escaped suffocation. He was wounded twice in the body and shot through both legs. It seemed scarcely possible for him to live, and he lay in the hospital for months. But when a surgeon prepared to amputate one of his legs Evans, who had managed to procure a revolver, warned him that upon his first attempt to do so he would shoot him. The leg was saved, but Evans was lamed for life.

As soon as he was able to get about he applied for active service and his application was granted. He was engaged in various duties and in October, 1891, he arrived in command of the Yorktown at Valparaiso, directly after the attack of a mob of Chilians upon the sailors of the Baltimore. When some of the refugees fled for safety to the Yorktown and the Chilians demanded their surrender "Fighting Bob" replied that he would defend them until the Yorktown went to the bottom. Some time later the captain's launch was stoned, for the Chilians hated the Americans as intensely as did the Spaniards. Captain Evans placed a rapid fire gun in the bow of the launch, filled her with armed men and went ashore. Hunting out the authorities, he notified them that if any more stones were thrown at his launch he would make life a burden for every Chilian within reach of the Yorktown's guns. The launch was not stoned again.

It is a mistaken though general impression of "Fighting Bob" that he is simply a headlong and reckless fighter. Such is far from being the case, for he is deliberate, thoughtful and tactful. He is a fine scholar, possesses a thorough knowledge of international law and is simply resolute in protecting the rights of himself and countrymen. This was proven by his conduct when in charge of the American fleet in the Bering Sea, placed there to prevent the illegal killing of seals. There was a good deal of friction at that time between this country and England and had Captain Evans been the reckless "scrapper" that many supposed he could not have failed to involve us in trouble with that country. There was not a word of censure upon his course. Out of 108 vessels engaged in the illegal trade he captured 98 and of the several hundred seals unlawfully killed he captured every one. Like all the other officers and sailors who took part in the destruction of Cervera's fleet, he was energetic, skilful, brave and chivalrous, for when Captain Eulate, of the captured Vizcaya, offered his sword to the Captain of the Iowa that gentleman kindly waved him back and told him to keep the weapon he had used so well.

Captain Evans does not like the name "Fighting Bob", for he feels he has no more claim to the distinction than the rest of his associates. Many of the stories told of his roughness of speech and profanity are not true, though it cannot be denied that he has a habit of expressing himself very vigorously when his feelings are stirred. By his own request, Captain Evans was relieved, September 15, 1898, of the command of the Iowa, he having served more than his regular term of sea service. At present he is a member of the Board of Inspection and Survey.

John C. Watson was born in Frankfort, Ky., August 24, 1842, and is a member of one of the leading families of the State. He entered the Naval Academy at the age of fourteen and was graduated near the head of his class in June, 1860. He was a midshipman on the Susquehanna in Europe, at the breaking out of the war, and was made master in August, 1861.

It is proof of the worth of the man that he was assigned as navigator of the flagship Hartford, commanded by the lion-hearted Farragut. He became lieutenant in June, 1862, and flag lieutenant to Farragut in January, 1864.

The reader of these pages has learned something of the great battles of New Orleans, Mobile Bay, Vicksburg and Port Hudson. Watson took part in all of them and none acquitted himself better. In a letter to his son, Admiral Farragut wrote: "I am almost as fond of Watson as I am of your own dear self." In his report of the battle of Mobile Bay, where Watson was wounded, Farragut wrote: "Lieutenant Watson has been brought to your attention in former times. He was on the poop attending to the signals and performed his duty, as might be expected, thoroughly. He is a scion worthy of the noble stock he springs from, and I commend him to your attention."

A squadron of invincible power was made up for Watson in the summer of 1898, with which it was intended Commodore Watson should pay a hostile visit to the coast of Spain. But for the signing of the peace protocol, that visit under its gallant and distinguished commander would have proved one that the decrepit monarchy would remember to the end of time.

Captain John W. Philip, promoted to the rank of commodore for his superb work with the Texas off Santiago, is brave, modest, devout and fond of practical joking. He is genial, exceedingly popular with his associates and men and one of the finest officers in the navy. The little incident well illustrates his character, when, in the midst of the wild rejoicing of his men over the destruction of the Spanish fleet, he checked them with the words: "Don't cheer, boys; the poor fellows are dying!"

Lieutenant Commander Richard Wainwright performed an unequalled exploit when in command of the Gloucester, formerly the yacht Corsair, he wiped out the two torpedo boat destroyers Pluton and Furor. At the time of that exploit he was only forty-eight years old and the youngest man of his grade in the navy. He is a fine officer and is a son of the late Commodore Wainwright, who died in the service of his country during the Civil War. Like many of our naval heroes, he seems to inherit his fine fighting qualities, though it would not be far from the truth to say that such is the rightful heritage of every American soldier and sailor.

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Etheldreda The Ready: A School Story

By

George De Horne Vaizey



Chapter One.

The first part of the Christmas holidays had gone with a roar. The Saxon family in conclave agreed that never before had they had so good a time. Invitations poured in; amusement after amusement filled up afternoon and evening; parents and friends alike seemed imbued with a wholly admirable desire to make the season one gay whirl of enjoyment, and then, suddenly, just after the beginning of the New Year, the atmosphere became mysteriously clouded.

What was the matter? Nobody knew. One day the sky was blue and serene -- the next, the shadow was in possession. Mr Saxon looked suddenly old and bleached, and hid himself persistently in his study; Mrs Saxon sat at the head of the table with the air of one braced to perform a difficult task, listened vacantly to her children's prattle, and smiled a twisted smile in response to their merry outbursts of laughter. Two days later Miss Bruce, the governess, was summoned hastily to return from her holiday-making and take charge of the household, while Mr and Mrs Saxon set forth to pay a mysterious visit to their country house, which as a rule was left severely to the caretaker's mercies until spring was well advanced.

What in the world could have induced two people who were obviously worried and depressed to leave town and go down to that dull, deserted house in the depth of the winter? The Saxons discussed the subject with their wonted vivacity, and from the many divergent points of view with which they were accustomed to regard the world in general.

They were six in all, and as true Saxons in appearance as they were in name, being large, fair, flaxen-haired creatures, of the type which is unfortunately growing rarer year by year.

Rowena, tall and stately, had already reached the stage when womanhood and girlhood meet, but her undeniable beauty was somewhat marred by an air of self-consciousness, which was in truth more than half due to a natural shyness and diffidence in adapting herself to new conditions. Hereward, the Sandhurst cadet, and Gurth, the Eton stripling, were as handsome a pair as one could wish to meet. Etheldreda, with her flowing golden locks, widely open grey eyes and alert, vivacious features, might have sat as a type of a bonnie English schoolgirl, while the twins, Harold and Maud, were plump, pleasant-looking creatures, devoted to each other, who in holiday time could be turned into convenient fags for their elders and betters. Good old Harold could always be depended upon to do his duty with resignation, if not cheerfulness, but Maud was one of those constitutionally stupid people who are nevertheless gifted with sudden flashes of sharpness apt to prove embarrassing to their companions. The Saxons, to use their own expressive parlance, were always "a trifle wary" in dealing with Maud, for what that young lady thought she promptly said, and said without reserve, choosing, as it seemed, out of pure "cussedness" the very moment of all others when they would have had her silent.

Discussions and guesses alike failed to suggest any reasonable explanations of Mr and Mrs Saxon's mysterious behaviour, and Miss Bruce steadily refused to be drawn, though there was a certain something in her manner which convinced her charges that she was in the secret.

And then on the morning of the fifth day the blow fell, in the shape of a short, decisive note ordering the young people to pack their belongings and repair down to "The Meads" for the remainder of the holidays. The mandate was so firm and decisive that there was no hope of escape. The girls might cry and the boys might storm, but both realised the uselessness of protest. Assisted by Miss Bruce and Nannie, once nurse and now schoolroom maid, the melancholy preparations were made in time to allow the party to catch the three o'clock train from Victoria.

To secure a carriage in which they could travel alone and be able to talk as they pleased was the ambition of the four elders, and while Miss Bruce was busily looking after the luggage, they took possession of a corridor coupe, slammed the door, and blocked the window with determined faces, though deep in each heart lurked the conviction that Miss Bruce's morbidly acute conscience would feel it her duty to interfere.

"Nix for the Spider!" hissed Gurth, prising a hockey-stick against the handle of the door the while he gazed with elaborate calm at a poster on the station wall. It was inevitable that a person named Bruce should be given the nickname of "Spider" by young people who disdained correct appellations as heartily as did the Saxons, and, indeed, the busy little black figure darting to and fro on the platform might have been much less aptly named. She hustled the twins and Nannie into a carriage, turned her head to look for her elder pupils, and, upon realising the position, reared her head with the fighting gesture which they knew so well. For a moment, as she stood facing the coupe window, it seemed absolutely certain that she would insist upon joining the party, and so spoiling sport for the whole of the journey, but even as she looked her expression altered, a flicker of something -- what was it? -- affection, sympathy, pity passed over her face, she turned without a word, entered the carriage wherein the twins were seated, and disappeared from sight.

The plot had succeeded, but their success had left the conspirators dumb with wonder and surprise.

"I say! what's taken her all of a sudden?" ejaculated Gurth. Hereward whistled loudly, while Dreda, ever the prey of her emotions, began to flush and quiver beneath the prickings of remorse.

"Oh, poor dear! Oh, she saw! She saw we didn't want her! What brutes we are! Gurth, go! -- go quickly, before the train starts, and tell her to come in here at once!"

"Not I! What a turncoat you are, Dreda! Of course she saw! We meant her to see. You were the worst of the lot, scowling as if she were an ogre. Don't be a little sneak!"

"Not a sneak!" protested Dreda, hotly. "S'pose I did. I can be sorry, can't I? She looked so -- sick! It made me feel mean."

"All right! Go in to the other carriage, then, and suck up! We don't want her here, but there's room for you in there, if you like to change! Say the word! We are off in a minute!"

Etheldreda blushed, shuffled, and tossed her pigtail, but made not the slightest attempt to move from her place, whereat her brothers and sister chuckled with easy amusement.

"Oh, Dreda, in our hours of ease, Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, And variable as the shade By the light thingummy aspen made. When pain and anguish wring the brow, She nothing does, but makes a row."

The mutilated lines were the contributions of the two schoolboys, while Rowena looked down her nose once more, and dismissed the subject in a few scathing remarks.

"You might realise by this time that Dreda's sentiments have not the smallest influence on her actions! The Spider was evidently suffering from a spasm of repentance. Quite time, too! She has made herself most objectionable the last few days, sighing and groaning about the house, and looking as if her heart were broken. If we can stand breaking our engagements and giving up all the fun of the holidays, I don't see why she need grumble. But she is always like that -- unsympathetic and absorbed in herself. It's a mystery to me, for what has she got to be absorbed in? To be old, and ugly, and poor, and to have no home or any people that count -- there can't possibly be any personal interest in life! Her only hope would be to live for others, and of that, poor dear, she is incapable!"

Rowena folded her hands on her lap, turned her well-cut profile to the window, and sighed in an elderly, forbearing fashion, at which the two boys grinned broadly, while impetuous Dreda burst once more into speech.

"Rowena, I hate you when you talk like that! Don't be so self - righteous and horrid! It's not for you to criticise other people. The Spider is not a patch on you for selfishness, and if she has a poor time of it, that's all the more reason why you should be charitable, and try to cheer her up. You'll be old yourself some day, and ugly too! Fair people always fade soonest. I read that in the toilette column of a magazine, so it's true, and I shouldn't wonder if you grew nut-crackery, too. Your nose is rather beaky even now. You needn't be so proud!"

Rowena turned her head to look round the carriage with a gently tolerant smile.

"Our dear Dreda teaches us a lesson in charity, does she not?" she demanded blandly. That was all the response she deigned to make, but it was enough to reduce her sister to a crimson confusion, and to rouse Gurth to impatient anger.

"Oh, leave off nagging, you two!" he cried loudly. "If you don't drop it, I'll be off into a smoker at the first stop. Fight it out to-night when you are alone, if you can't agree; but let us off when we are caged up in the same pen. Here! Let's have a game of 'Roadside cribbage.' Bags I the left side! Now then, Dreda, I choose you first. Hereward can take Rowena. Buck up! We have got to win this time."

Etheldreda shot a glance of gratitude from the grey eyes which were such eloquent exponents of her thoughts. To be so championed by Gurth was worth far more than the temporary suffering inflicted by Rowena's sharp tongue, and she set herself valiantly to be worthy of his choice. "Roadside cribbage" was a game patronised for years by the Saxon family on their railway journeys, and consisted merely in dividing forces, staring steadily out of opposite windows, and scoring for the various objects perceived, according to a quaint but well understood method. Thus, a bridge over a river counted as five marks; a quarry, ten; a windmill, twenty; a fire, fifty; a motor car, minus one; while the ubiquitous bicycle was worth only three per dozen. These, and other objects too numerous to repeat, mounted but slowly towards the grand total of a hundred, but there remained one -- just one rare chance of winning success at a stroke, for the competitor who had the luck to spy a cat looking out of a window might cry, "Game!" on the instant, even if he had not so far scored a single point. It can easily be understood that the best chances of spotting this valuable spectacle came as the train slackened steam before entering a station. Then, as one regarded the backs of dreary tenement houses, it really seemed inevitable that some household cat should wish to take the air, or to regard the world from the vantage of dusty, unwashed sills! Inevitable, yet with the perversity of cat nature, it was extraordinary how seldom this all-to - be-desired vision burst upon the view. "It's not fair!" Rowena cried. "You have all the poor houses on your side, and poor houses have always more cats than rich ones. A cat for every floor. We ought to change sides between every station, like cricket!"

"Fudge! You've got the open country. Look out for pigs and quarries... We've had no luck with cats for the last three journeys. On the whole, I think yours is the best side."

"Why didn't you choose it yourself, then?"

"Charity!" answered Gurth, shortly, with a twinkling glance at his partner, who happened to be at the same time his favourite sister, despite her many and obvious faults. If he had been asked to describe Dreda's character, he would have said in his easy schoolboy language that she was a bit of a sham, perhaps, but then all girls were shams more or less, and if you kept her off high falutin', she was a decent sort, and always ready to do a fellow a good turn.

It was sad to note that even when speaking of his favourite sister, Gurth should have felt it necessary to adopt this tone of patronage, but even the stoutest champion of girls cannot but admit that the sense of honour is in them less developed than in boys, and that in moments of irritation they betray a petty spite, of which the more brutal male is incapable. Gurth was conscious that he had faults of his own, but he regarded them leniently as being on an altogether different level from those of his sisters. He was a bit of a slacker, perhaps, but most "men" were slackers, and yet pulled through all right by means of a spurt at the end. His chiefs called him obstinate, but a fellow had to know his own mind if he were to get on in the world, and he jolly well knew that he was right as often as not Masters were awful muffs. On the other hand, he hated gush like poison, and was invariably a hundred times better than his word, whereas Dreda could hold forth as eloquently as a parson, with the tears pouring down her cheeks, and her figure trembling with emotion, and the next day forget the very cause of her emotion! The girl was like a fire of shavings, quickly lighted, quickly extinguished, and probably the greatest punishment which she could have sustained would have been compelled to carry on one of her many philanthropic schemes to a deliberate conclusion.

They were all stored up in the family archives -- the histories of Dreda's charitable enterprises! The factory girl to whom she was going to write regularly every week, and whose address was lost in a fortnight -- the collecting cards beyond number, for which, in the first ardour of possession, subscriptions were extorted from every member of the household, and which were rescued from stray hiding-places at the last possible moment and despatched with odd offerings of twopences and threepences from "A Friend" scribbled in, to fill up the empty spaces. Everyone understood that the "friend" was Dreda herself, and that she might be expected to be correspondingly short in tuck money for some time to come! Never a society did Dreda hear of but she panted to become a member on the spot, and never a society but received her resignation, accompanied by a goodly sum in fines, before six months had run their course.

Closeted with parent and teachers, the girl received numberless lectures on the dangers of a thoughtless and unstable character, and was moved to ardent vows of repentance; but, alone with Maud, her confidante and admirer, she was wont to cast a kindly glamour of romance over her own delinquencies. "It's my heart," she would sigh pathetically. "My heart is so sensitive. It's like an Aeolian harp, Maud, upon which every passing breeze plays its melody. I'm a creature of sensibility!" And she rolled her fine eyes to the ceiling, the while Maud snorted, being afflicted with adenoids, and wrinkled her brows in the effort to put her fingers on the weak spot in the argument, the which she felt, but had difficulty in explaining.

"Your heart is hard enough at times!" she said at last. "I suppose the strings get so thin with being everlastingly twanged that they break, and then the breeze can moan as much as it likes without waking a sound. When you let that poor little puppy lie for two days without any food, for instance -- "

"You're a beast!" retorted Dreda with fervour. "You don't understand. No one does. I'm misunderstood all round. At any rate I'd rather reach the hilltops sometimes than everlastingly crawl along in the mire, like some people I can mention. It's better to have soared and fallen than never to have soared at all!"

Dreda, like most of us, was tender towards her own failings, and resented the criticism of her peers. This afternoon she kept her eyes glued upon the landscape, affecting to be ignorant of Gurth's sly hit, and presently it was balm to her wounded spirit to be able to win the game for herself and her partner, and with a squeal of triumph to point to an upper window in a row of tenement houses, where two erect ears and a pair of yellow eyes could be clearly discerned over the edge of a wooden box filled with miniature fir trees of funereal aspect.

The game was over, and with it had disappeared all disposition to quarrel. Henceforward, to the end of the journey, the four young people chatted amicably together, discussing various subjects of interest, but invariably returning to the one absorbing question of the hour -- what could have happened to account for the hasty and mysterious summons to the solitary home in the country at a time when all their interests and pleasures were centred in town?



Chapter Two.

Mr and Mrs Saxon welcomed their children on the threshold of their country home, but a chill seemed to settle on the young people's spirits as they entered the great square hall, which looked so colourless and dreary. As a rule, The Meads was inhabited during the summer months alone, and the children were accustomed to see it alight with sunshine, with doors and windows thrown wide open to show vistas of flower gardens and soft green lawns. In such weather, a house was apt to be regarded merely as a place to sleep in, but now that it would be necessary to spend a great part of the day indoors, it was regarded more critically, and found far from attractive.

The Meads was one of those square, uncompromisingly ugly white houses which are so often to be found in rural England, and which were built at that architecturally unhappy period when old traditions had been cast aside and the modern craze for art was as yet undeveloped. There were plenty of rooms in the house, lofty and spacious enough, but as to outline just so many boxes, with four straight walls, and never a niche or an alcove to break the severity of line. The hall was another square, and the staircase ascended straightly to the first landing, where a monstrosity of a stained-glass window lighted the long corridors beyond.

The furniture was of the same calibre as the house, for, The Meads having been regarded more as a convenient dumping-ground for the children in the summer holidays than as a formal residence, everything that was shabby, injured, or out of date had been weeded from the beautiful town mansion and drafted down to fill up the big square rooms. Mr Saxon had a shooting-box in Scotland in which he was wont to spend the autumn months, Mrs Saxon had a passion for travelling, and could not understand the joy of spending every summer in the same house. The Meads was large, healthy, and convenient, so that while the children were young it had filled a real need, but there was no denying that, regarded as a winter residence, it bore a somewhat chilling aspect. Gurth looked round the hall with eyes very wide open and nose screwed up in eloquent disapproval.

"I say! don't it look different, just, without the sun? Regular old grim hole of a place, ain't it? Like an institution, or a hospital, or something of the kind -- not a bit like home -- "

"Oh, Gurth, don't," cried his mother quickly, while her forehead corrugated with lines as of actual physical pain. "Dear, you are cold and tired after your journey. Things always look dull when one is tired. Come into the library, all of you! There's a glorious fire, and you shall have tea at once." She slid her hand into her eldest daughter's arm, looking with fond admiration at the fair, delicately cut profile. "You have had a happy time in town this last week -- since we left?"

Rowena turned her tall head, and looked down upon her mother with the air of a young goddess, offended, yet resolutely self-restrained. Mrs Saxon was a medium-sized woman, but she looked small beside the tall slenderness of the young daughter who held herself so loftily erect. "Mother!" cried Rowena, in a deep tone of remonstrance, "it's the Vincents' dance to-morrow! I was looking forward to it more than anything else. Lots of grown-up people are going -- it would have been almost like coming out. I never thought you would have brought me away from town the very day before that. You knew how I should feel -- "

"Darling, I'm sorry, more sorry than I can say, but it was necessary. As things are, it is better that you should not go. I'll explain -- we will explain. You shall hear all about it later, but first we must have tea. I think we shall all feel better after tea."

Mrs Saxon looked from one to another of her children with the same strained, unnatural smile which had greeted them a few minutes before, and Gurth and Dreda, falling behind the rest, rolled expressive eyes and whispered low forebodings.

"Something up! I thought as much. What can it be?"

"Don't know. Something horrid, evidently. In the holidays, too. What a sell!"

Miss Bruce had considerately disappeared, and the parents and children were left alone in the big bare library, with its rows of fusty, out-of - date books in early Victorian mahogany bookcases, its three long windows draped in crimson red curtains, its Indian carpet worn by the tramp of many feet. A cheerful fire blazed in the grate, however, and the tea equipage set out on the long table was sufficiently tempting to raise the spirits of the travellers. It was a real old-fashioned sit-down tea, where one was not expected to balance a cup and plate on one's knee and yet refrain from spilling tea or scattering crumbs on the carpet. Girls and boys arranged themselves in their usual places with sighs of relief and satisfaction, and, disdaining bread-and-butter, helped themselves energetically to the richest cake on the table. It was a family custom with the Saxons to begin on cake and work steadily back to bread and butter. There had been some opposition to encounter from conservative elders before this reversal of the ordinary programme had been sanctioned, but the arguments advanced had been too strong to resist.

"I can 'preciate things more when I'm hungry. Cake's the best thing; why need I stodge on bread and butter till I can't properly 'preciate the cake? Why can't I stodge on cake, and eat the bread when I don't 'preciate? It doesn't matter about bread!"

So ran the thread of Harold's arguments, and it must be confessed that there was reason therein. To-day, as the young people satisfied their first pangs of hunger on iced cake, the parents watching them exchanged a piteous glance, for the proceeding seemed so sadly typical of the secret that was about to be divulged! Until this day, all that was richest and best in life had been the everyday possession of these loved and fortunate children -- after to-day, the love would continue unchanged, but the luxuries must come to an end.

The meal was unusually silent, both Mr and Mrs Saxon and the elder boys and girls being too much oppressed by their own feelings to be able to indulge in ordinary light conversation; only Harold and Maud remained unconscious of the cloud in the atmosphere, and everyone was thankful for their artless prattle, which filled up what would otherwise have been a painful silence. As for the twins, they were quite elated to find so attentive an audience, for as a rule their attempts to enter the conversation were severely nipped in the bud. "That's enough, thank you!" Rowena would say in her most lofty manner. "Shut up, you kids. A fellow can't hear himself speak for your row!" Gurth would call out fiercely. Even when Mrs Saxon was present she would shake her head gently across the table, to enforce the oft-repeated axiom that in so large a family the younger members must perforce learn to be quiet at table. Maud beamed with pleasure at being allowed to continue her never-ending descriptions without a word of remonstrance. She was a fair, pretty, somewhat stupid child, gifted with an overflow of words, which were, however, singularly incapable of conveying any definite impression. Observation she possessed in abundance, but her discursive narratives were by no means improved by being weighted by a plethora of useless detail. One could listen to Maud's efforts to describe her own doings for half an hour on end, and remain almost as much in the dark as at the beginning! On the present occasion she was full of excitement about a wonderful conjurer whose tricks she had witnessed at a children's party in town three nights before, and which she was anxious to enumerate for the benefit of the family.

"...He was the most egg-strawdinary creature you ever saw. He did the most egg-strawdinary things. I'll tell you what he did... You know the Westons' drawing-room? You go upstairs -- crimson carpets, and such wide brass rods. Then there's a statue holding up a lamp, and the first door's the drawing-room. All the doors were taken down to make more room, and there were rows and rows of forms... He was like a Frenchman with a pointed moustache, but his clothes weren't very clean... He rolled up his sleeves, and there was a ring on his finger, and yards and yards of ribbon came out of his thumb. He had a little table in front of him with bulgy legs. It stands in the corner with silver on it. Then he asked a boy in the front row for a watch... Mr Weston said he wouldn't have lent his, but he got it back all right. It was egg - strawdinary! Meta Rawlins sat by me. She had a pink sash. She says her father can do it a little bit, only of course not as well as this one. Then there was an egg. If he had broken it, it would have made a mess on the carpet! Meta said perhaps it was stone. He talked all the time, so funny and quick, and one of his front teeth was out. He asked if any boy or girl would go up to help him, and Brian Hackett went. He looked so silly. He had to hold things in his hand, and when he asked for them, they weren't there. It was egg-strawdinary! We had supper in the dining-room, jellies and cream, and presents in the trifle. I saw the conjurer having his in the library. I never saw anything so egg-strawdinary in all my life!"

Gurth and Hereward exchanged expressive glances, Rowena frowned impatience, Mrs Saxon smiled a faint amusement, and Maud continued to prattle on, blissfully unconscious of the fact that no one troubled to listen.

It was after everyone had been fed and refreshed that the explanation of the mysterious summons from town was given, in response to an outspoken question from Dreda, whose impetuous nature was ever impatient of suspense.

"Mother, what has happened? There must be something, or you would never have left town and sent for us in such a hurry. Can't you tell us now? It's something horrid, of course! And it's horrid waiting for horrid things."

Dreda put both elbows on the table, in flagrant disregard of schoolroom rules, and leant her charming, eager face in the cup of her hands. She might describe her state of mind as "horrid," but an appearance more opposed to such a description it would be impossible to imagine. Dreda had been hungry, and her hunger was satisfied; she had been cold and tired, now she was warmed and refreshed; she talked vaguely of horrible things, but nothing approaching real fear had as yet entered her heart. Grown-ups made such a fuss about trifles. Probably it was something quite silly and unimportant after all.

Mrs Saxon did not answer. She looked down at her hands and twisted the rings on her fingers, the while her husband took upon himself the burden of explanation.

"Yes, Dreda, we wish to speak out plainly. As far as possible we have always taken our children into our confidence, and now we must all try to strengthen each other, for a great change is before us. It must affect us all... I have lost money -- a great deal of money. I am no longer a rich man. Your mother and I came down here to face the situation quietly, and to think out our plans. We wished to be by ourselves for a few days before saying anything to you."

"Oh-h. Is that it? Poor father! What a shame!"

"What a beastly fag! How did it happen, Pater?"

"Poor old father! Yes! I quite understand."

They spoke together with impetuous warmth, Gurth, Hereward, and Etheldreda, but, in spite of their words, none of them understood in the least. Maud and Harold stared open-mouthed. Only Rowena turned white, and pressed her lips nervously together.

"Thank you, dears. I knew you would sympathise, but our grief is on your account more than on our own. If you can bear the change bravely, our worst fears will be allayed. It will be a big change. To begin with, I have let the town house. An offer came to take it furnished on a lease, and I dared not refuse. The Meads will now be our settled home."

Silence... One definite statement has more effect than a dozen vague forebodings, and the young people sat stunned with dismay, while the thoughts of each wandered away on a voyage of personal reflections.

"No town house! No season! Shut up here all the year round, just as I was coming out, and expecting to have such a lovely time."

"Let the house! Whew! Things must be precious bad ... Suppose, after all, the Governor can't afford to send me to the army!"

"Here's a pretty go! The house doesn't matter. The country knocks town into fits any day, but it will be a beastly fag if we have to cut things down fine. What about the horses?"

"Poor father. Oh, dear, how awful mother looks! Rowena is a brute to look so cross. P'raps the Spider will have to go, and I shall be finished, and done with lessons. Topping!"

"Bateson's father lost his money and he went to sea. I wonder if they'd let me!"

"I've got five pounds six in the bank. I'll draw it out, and give it to them to help. That would last for mumfs and mumfs."

Mrs Saxon lifted her sad eyes and glanced wistfully round the table. When she herself had first heard the news she had been stunned into silence; she hardly expected words, but her mother's heart yearned for a glance of sympathy and love. The boys, as is the habit of boys, were rendered awkward and uncomfortable by the atmosphere of emotion, and stared stolidly at their plates. Rowena sat like a frozen statue of misery, Maud gaped blankly from one face to another; only Dreda was ready and waiting with her sunny smile and her easy flow of sympathy.

"Darling! Of course we'll be brave! Don't worry about us. Everyone says money doesn't matter a bit. You can be perfectly happy without it... Perfectly sickening for you and father, down here by yourselves with all that worry. You must have been bored!"

Bored! The utter inadequacy of the word brought a smile to the parents' eyes, but the kindly warmth of voice and manner was as balm to their sore hearts. What though Dreda's conduct belied her words time and again, her impetuous kindliness of heart was for the moment infinitely soothing, and a blessed contrast to Rowena's gloom. Both parents smiled lovingly upon her, and Dreda glowed with satisfaction. Really, being ruined was quite exciting and dramatic!

"Thank you, Dreda," said her father, gratefully. "These have been very sad days for us, as you say, and even yet we are feeling rather stunned by the suddenness of this trouble, and have not been able to think out definite plans for your future. It was necessary to tell you the bare fact, but you must be patient and forbear from questioning for a few days. We shall not keep you in suspense longer than is necessary."

Suspense! Six pairs of ears pricked uneasily at the sound of that word; six hearers seemed to hear in it the knell of a cherished hope. Even Dreda was awed into silence. The "horrid things" were evidently not yet finished. What was going to happen next?



Chapter Three.

In the schoolroom the young people flocked together, eager to discuss the news apart from the restraint of their parents' presence. Round the great fireplace stood one of those delightful fenders whose top is formed by a wide-cushioned seat. Hereward pulled it forcibly back, with a fine disregard of cinders, until it was sufficiently distant from the blaze to be comfortable, when the six young people seated themselves and prepared to talk in comfort. They made a pretty picture as the leaping flame lighted up their fair blond faces, but for the moment the general expression was far from cheerful. The twins were all eyes and gaping mouths, devoured with curiosity to hear what their elders might have to say with regard to the thrilling intelligence just given; the two schoolboys looked cross and thundery, and it was difficult to say which was the more exasperating to beholders -- Rowena's angry frown or Dreda's artificial smiles.

Gurth stamped a smoking cinder into the hearthrug, taking a malicious pleasure in the scorch and smell which ensued. He was never too patient, and this afternoon he felt that he had reached the end of his tether.

"Oh, chuck it, Rowena!" he cried savagely. "What's the use of sitting there looking like a tragedy queen? A jolly example you set, for the eldest of a family. You look as if the whole thing was got up on purpose to annoy you, and nobody had a right to be pitied except your precious self. I don't see it a bit! I think you come off best of all. Your education is finished, so you're bound to be all right!"

"Education!" echoed Rowena, in the tone of ineffable scorn natural to a young woman who for months past had been basking in the prospect of a presentation at court. "Education, indeed! Who cares for education? If it is finished, what has it all been intended for, pray? To prepare me for a life which I am not to have! Other girls have the best time of their lives when they come out. They are taken about to see everything and do everything which they have longed for all the time they have been shut up at school. It's no wonder I feel bad at coming home to find I have only escaped one prison for another. To live here all the year long! What a prospect! There isn't a decent neighbour nearer than five miles. -- If this could only have happened a year or two later, after I had had a little fun!"

"Rowena, how selfish! You think only of yourself, and not a bit of anyone else -- father or mother, or the boys, or -- or Me!" cried Dreda, smiting herself on the breast with dramatic empressement as she uttered the last all-important word. "It won't be a bit easier for me when the time comes, but I do hope and believe that I shall bear it bravely, and try to be an example to the rest. It's our duty, you know, as the eldest daughters of the house!"

"Oh, Dreda, stop preaching! It's too ridiculous. You to lecture me! For that matter, you need not wait until you are finished to set me an example. You can begin this very minute, for I don't believe for a moment that father will be able to afford to send you to Madame Clerc's. It's a frightfully expensive school, and he used to grumble at the way my extras ran up, even before, when he was rich. I expect you will have to finish at home with the Spider, and then she will go, and you will have to set to work to teach Maud!"

"I shan't!" shrieked Dreda, and flamed a sudden violent red.

"She shan't!" shrieked Maud, at one and the same moment, her fair, placid face flushing to the same crimson hue.

They faced each other like two infuriated turkey cocks -- heads erect, feathers ruffled, bodies swaying to and fro with indignation.

"As if I should!"

"As if I'd let you!"

"Teach her!"

"Teach me!"

"The very idea!"

"I'm 'stonished you should talk such nonsense, Rowena!"

Rowena laughed softly. It was the first time she had unbent since the telling of the dread news. She put her head on one side and stared at Dreda's furious face with an "I told you so!" expression which that young lady found infinitely exasperating.

"Our dear Dreda, as usual, finds preaching easier than practice. You see, my dear, when it comes to the point, you are not a bit more resigned than I am myself. It's worse for me to give up all the fun of my first season than for you to stay at home instead of going to school; the only difference is that I have sense enough to realise what is before me, while you are so taken up with sentiment and -- "

"Oh, shut up, girls! Stop wrangling, for pity's sake!" cried Hereward, impatiently. "Things are bad enough as they are, without making them worse. If you are going to nag, we'll go downstairs and leave you to yourselves. It's such bad form to kick up a fuss; but girls are all alike. You wouldn't find a boy going on like that -- "

Rowena turned upon him with wide, challenging eyes.

"Wouldn't I? Are you so sure? Suppose father were to tell you to - morrow that you couldn't be a soldier, but must go into an office and try to earn money for yourself... Suppose he took you away from Eton, Gurth, and sent you to a cheap school! How would you like that?"

Silence... The two lads sat staring into the fire with dogged faces. They scorned to cry aloud, but the horror of the prospect had for a moment a so paralysing effect that they could not reply. Leave Sandhurst in the middle of one's course, and become -- a clerk! Leave Eton and the fellows, and go to one of those miserable, second-rate shows which all good Etonians regarded with ineffable contempt! Was it possible to suffer such degradation and live?

Rowena was touched to compunction by the sight of the stricken faces, for though at the moment the worst side of her character was in the ascendant, she was by no means hard-hearted, and, moreover, Hereward was her especial friend and companion. She laughed again, and gave an impatient shrug to her shoulders.

"Oh, don't be afraid ... He never will! Whatever happens, nothing will be allowed to interfere with 'the boys' and their careers! We shall all pinch and screw and live on twopence-halfpenny a week, so as to be able to pay your bills. It's always the same story. Everything is sacrificed for the sons."

"Quite right, too," maintained the eldest son, stoutly. "How are you going to keep up the honour of a family if you don't give the boys a chance? It doesn't matter a fig whether a girl is educated or not, so long as she can read and write. She'll marry, of course, and then she has nothing to do but add up the bills."

At this truly masculine distinction, Rowena and Dreda tossed scornful heads and rolled indignant eyes to the ceiling.

"I shall never marry!" announced the former, thinking ruefully of the bare countryside, with never a house of consequence within a radius of miles ... "I am a suffragette. I believe in the high, lofty mission of women!" cried the second, who had been converted to the movement the day before by the sight of some sketches in the Daily Graphic. Only nine - year-old Maud sniffed, and opined, "I shall marry a lord! Then he'll have lots of money, and I'll give it to father, and we'll live happily ever after."

Poor Maud! Her millennium was not to begin just yet, at least; for Nannie, her immaculate but austere attendant, rapped at the door at that moment, and summoned her nursling to be bathed and put to bed. Maud was every evening enraged afresh at being called at such a ridiculously early hour, and to-night her annoyance was increased by the fact that she was torn ruthlessly from the rare treat of a conference with her elders, in which she had really been and truly on the level of a "grown - up." She fumed with anger, but presently consolation came with the idea of a dramatic disclosure upstairs. She waited until she and her attendant were alone together in the bedroom, and then sprung the bolt in her most impressive fashion.

"Nannie, we're ruined!"

"Indeed, miss. Sorry to hear it, I'm sure," returned Nannie, unperturbed. It is safe to predict that any important family news will be known as soon in the servants' hall as in the drawing-room, and Nannie had the air of listening to a very stale piece of information.

Maud was distinctly disappointed, but nerved herself for fresh efforts. "Yes. Bankrup'! There's nothing left. I'm going to give up all my savings. What will you do, Nannie -- leave?"

"I shall be pleased to stay on, miss, as long as your mother can afford to give me my wages and a nursery maid."

"Oh, Nannie, how mean! The Pharisees likewise do as much as that! In storybooks the nurses always stay on, whether they are ruined or not, and give their money to help. You are mean!"

"No impertinence, please," said Nannie sharply. She was just beginning to comb out Maud's hair, and it was astonishing how many knots there appeared to be that evening. "I'm sorry I spoke," reflected poor Maud.



Chapter Four.

In the next week future plans were practically settled so far as the young people were concerned. Rowena had been right in her surmise about the boys, for, like most fathers, Mr Saxon was prepared to retrench in any and every direction rather than interfere with the education of his sons. It was a family tradition that the eldest son should go into the army; therefore, at all costs, Hereward must continue that tradition. The Saxons had for generations been Eton boys, therefore it was impossible that Gurth could attend another school. As to the girls --  well, Mr Saxon dearly loved his three daughters, and was proud of their grace and beauty, but in effect he held much the same ideas with regard to their education as those which Hereward had expounded to his sisters' indignation. He thought it quite unnecessary to spend large sums on schooling for girls, and for his own part frankly preferred a woman who had no pretensions to being a blue-stocking.

The boys received the intelligence with a complacent sense that all was as it should be, and the one great anxiety being relieved, were disposed to make light of minor privations. What though the manner of living at home must necessarily be less luxurious than of yore, holidays occupied, after all, a small portion of the year, and in a few years' time they would be launching out for themselves. Hereward had an ambition to join an Indian regiment. Gurth was destined for the Civil Service. The Meads would be quite a good old place in which to spend an occasional furlough. But the girls! The girls were by no means reconciled to being sacrificed on the altar of masculine ambition. When the programme for their own future was announced by the nervously anxious mother, Rowena, Etheldreda, and Maud were alike consumed with indignation and dismay. They could hardly believe the evidence of their own ears as they listened to her words:

"Father thought I had better have a little talk with you, dear girls, and explain to you what we have decided about your future. It has been a difficult question -- very difficult, and we have had to face alterations which we would thankfully have avoided, for in the end it simply comes down to the bare question of what we can or cannot afford. The boys' education is unfortunately very costly, and those expenses cannot be reduced."

"Why?" demanded Dreda. The crisp, sharp question cut like a lash across Mrs Saxon's soft-toned explanation, and she started, and faced her young daughter with a shrinking almost of dismay. Perhaps in her heart of hearts she, too, doubted the justice of the masculine mandate that girls should invariably be sacrificed for boys, but she was too loyal to admit any dissension when her husband had laid down his commands.

"Why, Dreda?" she repeated, gently. "Because the boys have their way to make in the world ... If we have not much money to leave them, we must at least give them every chance of success. Their education will be their capital."

"An officer in the army needs a large private allowance. Father has always said so. Hereward will need to be helped all his life, instead of being able to help the family as an eldest son should do ... He could go into business."

"Oh, Dreda dear! You, who are so sympathetic and kind-hearted. Think of the terrible disappointment! There always has been a soldier in the family."

"The family has always been rich. Of course I don't want him to be disappointed. I don't want anyone to be disappointed," declared Dreda with an emphasis which brought the colour into her mother's thin cheeks. "I suppose I can go to Madame Clerc's at Easter, just the same?"

"I -- I am afraid ... Madame Clerc's is a very expensive school, darling. I am afraid it is out of the question! We will do all we can for you. That is one of the principal things which we have had on our minds the last week, and I trust -- I believe we have made satisfactory arrangements. Miss Bruce does not feel able to give you finishing lessons, but Mrs Webster, of Swithin, tells me that she is quite satisfied with the school to which she has sent her three daughters. The education is all that could be desired, and the fees much more moderate than Madame Clerc's. We should see more of you, too, darling, for you would be able to come home for the exeats in the middle of the term -- "

"Mother! What are you saying? You can't possibly be in earnest. Please, please don't frighten me! It's a hateful school. I have always looked down upon it and detested it, and thanked goodness I should never have to go to it!"

Dreda's face was aflame with colour; her eyes had widened until they looked about twice their natural size, in her voice there sounded a quiver of so real a distress that the mother flushed painfully in response.

"Dear! why be so prejudiced? It may not be so fashionable a school as Madame Clerc's, but it is admirable in every way, and you will meet friends there whom you already know -- the Websters..."

"Know them! We don't! We have met now and then, but we always determine not to know them. We christened them 'The Currant Buns,' and hated them from the first moment. Round, white faces and little curranty eyes!"

"Dreda! Dreda! What has appearance to do with it? You confess yourself that you are prejudiced, so you cannot possibly judge... They are said to be clever and industrious, and exceptionally well brought up, but there will be other girls, plenty of other girls from whom to choose friends."

"It is settled, then? Really settled. You have seen the mistress?"

"Yes, dear, it is settled. You are to begin work at the beginning of the term. The Websters are delighted to think of having you as a companion."

Dreda flung out her arms with a gesture of passionate despair, stood for a moment confronting her mother with flashing eyes and quivering lips, then suddenly wheeled round, and rushed headlong from the room.

Her first overwhelming impulse was to get out into the air. The house suffocated her, and besides, she was going to do something ... something desperate ... and there was no scope indoors. She thought of the lake, lying dull and grey within its reedy bank, and saw a vision of herself floating on the surface, with her unbound hair streaming round her face. In the Academy a year before she had been much attracted by a picture of the dead Elaine, and her own hair was exactly the same shade... But it was wicked to commit suicide, and, miserable though she was, life held too many attractions to be lightly abandoned. She would just run away into the darkness and the silence, with her sore, sore heart -- to commune with nature, and face the future alone with her own soul! Dreda sobbed aloud at the pathos of the thought, and, racing down the passage, threw open the side door leading into the garden.

A gust of wind blew into her face, a dash of cold sleety rain. The sky was inky black, so black that it was impossible to distinguish even the outline of the trees: the air was soaking with moisture. To one longing for darkness and loneliness, the prospect should have been all that could be desired; yet Dreda drew back shuddering, and shut the door with a hasty hand. It was wet. She hated to get wet, yet she could not take an umbrella. When your heart was breaking, and you were face to face with one of the tragic moments of life, to walk abroad sheltered by an umbrella was too calm and commonplace a proceeding to be contemplated for a moment! Dreda decided that on the whole it would be better to do her wrestling in her own room; but the noise of the opening and shutting of the door had attracted attention, and as she slowly retraced her steps the pantry door opened, and Martin the parlourmaid thrust her head inquiringly outward.

Martin was a pleasant middle-aged woman, an old retainer in the family, and the pantry at The Meads was quite a good-sized room, and a comfortable one at that, boasting a fireplace in which blazed the cheeriest of fires, for Martin was fond of comfort, and took a pride in keeping her domain spick and span. Her face brightened as she saw the girl standing in the passage, for Dreda was a favourite with all the servants. Miss Rowena, they agreed, was "high;" but Miss Dreda was "feelin'."

"Very feelin' was Miss Dreda!" She was always sorry for you, and wanted to help. They bore her no grudge because the "wanting" frequently went no farther than words. She was but young. Young things did forget. It was entered to her abiding credit that she was "feelin'."

This afternoon one glimpse at the flushed, excited face was sufficient to show that the girl herself was in trouble, and Martin threw open the door to show the hospitable glow of the fire.

"Miss Dreda! Was that you standing by that door in the cold? You'll be catching cold; that's what you'll be doing! I'm having a snack of cocoa and buttered toast. Come in and have a bite by the fire."

Dreda hesitated. Buttered toast was incongruous -- painfully incongruous; for among the other desperate resolutions which had rushed through her brain, a slow, determined starvation had held a foremost place. She would turn with a sick distaste from the pleasures of the table; would eat only the plainest of viands, and of them barely enough to keep herself in life. She would grow thin and hollow-eyed, and her parents, looking on, would repent their cruelty in sackcloth and ashes. But -- the buttered toast smelt wonderfully good!

"I'll come in and warm myself, but -- I'm not hungry," said Dreda, hesitating. But Martin did not appear to have heard. As her young mistress seated herself by the fire, a stool was quietly placed by her side, and on the stool appeared, as if by magic, a plate of toast and a cup of cocoa.

Dreda's hand stretched out involuntarily; she ate and drank, and reflected that, after all, as her father had lost money so unexpectedly, it was only reasonable to suppose that he would recover it in a manner equally rapid. She was sorry she had been cross. She would never be cross any more. In the recovered days of prosperity it would be so pleasant to remember how nobly she had borne herself in the hour of trial!



Chapter Five.

Meantime in the schoolroom upstairs another blow had fallen, and Rowena was quivering beneath the shock of discovering that in Miss Bruce's absence it was she and not Etheldreda who was expected to carry on Maud's education.

"I am sure you will be a conscientious teacher, dear; and I hope that the regular occupation, and the consciousness that you are being of real use will make life brighter for you. Maud will promise to be an industrious pupil, won't you, darling?"

Maud eyed Rowena's tragic countenance, and felt it wise to refrain from rash protestations. She was longing to rush after Dreda to declaim against this last injustice, and as her mother continued to address herself pointedly to Rowena, taking no more notice of her own important presence, she slipped softly from the room.

The two who were left, felt, the one a throb of relief, the other a chill of acute discomfort, at finding themselves alone. The tie between this mother and her eldest daughter was a very tender one, and in the shock of the recent losses Mrs Saxon had unconsciously built much on Rowena's sympathy and love. Rowena would help. Rowena would sympathise; Rowena -- herself a woman -- would understand some things which even the good husband could not grasp. In the happy, easy days of prosperity, Rowena could always be relied on to be loving, dutiful, and considerate -- it was a shock to discover that these good qualities had not enough foundation to withstand the test of adversity. Mrs Saxon was not angry; only distressed and troubled afresh, and overwhelmingly anxious to find the right way to her daughter's heart.

"Mother!" cried Rowena sharply. "How did father lose his money? It seems so strange that it should disappear all of a sudden like this. We have always had plenty until now. Has he been speculating, or doing something rash?"

The momentary pause before Mrs Saxon replied and the dignified lifting of her gentle head were more eloquent than a spoken reproof.

"No, Rowena; there is no blame attaching to your father. There has been a great failure in America, which has affected many of his investments. We cannot reproach ourselves for any want of care, and that being so, we must look upon this change of circumstances as coming to us from God's hands, and try to learn the lessons which it is intended to teach. To each of us, perhaps, our own task appears especially hard. You, darling, have looked forward to a time of pleasure and gaiety, and it is difficult to give it up cheerfully, and face living quietly in the country and helping in the house. I understand; I've been a girl myself, and I remember how I felt; but, darling, I am a woman now --  getting quite an old woman -- and I have learnt my lessons. There is more real joy and contentment to be gained by simply doing one's duty than in all the balls and receptions of a London season, Rowena!"

Rowena sat dumb, her eyes fixed on the tablecloth, her long dark lashes resting on her cheeks. Those were the sentiments you read in books, and heard in sermons, but it was always grown-up people who voiced them; grown-up people who, like mother, had had a good time in their own youth, and were afterwards unreasonable enough to expect their children to be resigned and middle-aged when they had just emerged from the schoolroom. Rowena thought of the prospect which had stretched dazzlingly before her but a week before; of the gaiety and variety of amusement which had made so fair a dream, and contrasted it with the prospect of an uneventful domestic life at the Manor -- teaching Maud! She pressed her lips together, and sat silent, feeling her mother's eyes on her face; dreading to meet their tenderly reproaching gaze.

"That sounds strange to you, dear, and perhaps a little hard, but all the same it is true. I do not minimise your disappointment, but for the time being it is inevitable, and nothing remains but to face the situation bravely. As the eldest daughter of the house more depends upon you than upon any of the rest, and your opportunities will be endless. You can be a great comfort to us, darling, or a great additional care. It all depends upon the spirit in which you start the new life -- upon whether you look in or out -- put yourself first, or think of others."

Mrs Saxon paused again, and within Rowena's still form two contending forces fought for victory. While one sullen spirit held her dumb, the real self seemed to stand apart, reviewing her own conduct, and uttering words of exhortation and appeal: "How hateful of you never to say a word in reply! Poor mother! her voice trembled... It's hard on her, too. If you could just put your arms round her neck and kiss her, and promise to be good, it would comfort her ever so much. And you'd be happier yourself. It only makes you more miserable to sulk, and be unkind. Look up and smile, and promise to be nice." So urged the inner voice, but alas, the fleshy eyelids seemed heavy as lead, and the lips remained stiff and unmoveable. To all outward appearance there was no sign of softening in the fixed face.

Mrs Saxon's heart sank heavily. Rowena's lack of response to her appeal was a bitter disappointment; but she realised that it was useless to prolong the interview. A few moments longer she waited, hoping against hope for a word in reply, then stifling a sigh, she rose from her seat.

"Well -- I must go back to father. Look after the fire, darling, if you are going to stay here. It is getting low, and you must not catch cold."

She bent as she passed to kiss the unresponsive lips, and walked from the room carrying a heavy heart in her breast. "If she had only spoken! If she had even looked up and smiled!" Such was the wounded mother cry; and all the time Rowena's heart was speeding unspoken messages after her as she went.

"Mother! I'm sorry. You are so sweet, and I am a wretch! I will try! I'll try my best!"

Alas! the ears of sense could not catch the message, and so the opportunity passed, and left both hearts aching and oppressed.



Chapter Six.

"What's 'rejuiced'?" queried Maud, squeezing herself into the central place on the big fender, as her brothers and sisters sat roasting chestnuts by the schoolroom fire one wet afternoon a few days later, and the question being received by a blank stare of bewilderment she repeated the word with intensified emphasis. "Re-juiced! We're rejuiced! I heard Mary say so in the schoolroom. She said to nurse that she didn't know if the missis would be wanting to keep on two housemaids now she was re-juiced! Does it mean poor?"

"You have no business to listen to servants' conversation; but if you do, pray spare us the repetition!" said Rowena in her most grown-up manner. Maud reflected that ever since mother had spoken of the new arrangement about lessons, Ro had talked exactly like a governess, and been just as snappy as snappy. She bounced on her seat, and wagged her head in the obstinate manner which she adopted upon provocation.

"I don't listen, but I have ears, and if people speak I am obliged to hear. Mary came into the room to dust. Nurse was darning the tablecloth. It's all gone into holes where Gurth spilt the chemical acid. It's the one with the little shamrocks for a pattern. So Nurse said: 'Drat those boys!' and licked the cotton with her tongue, and -- "

Hereward and Gurth exchanged glances of resigned boredom, but Dreda drummed her heels on the floor, and called aloud with startling emphasis:

"Go on! Go on! Who wants to hear about tablecloth patterns, and licking threads? Keep to your point, if you have a point to stick to! If Rowena's is going to give you lessons, she'd better begin by teaching you not to be such a bore. You go prosing on and on -- "

"I don't. I'm not. Bore yourself! 'Twas most intrusting!" insisted Maud, stolidly. "They were sort of talking about us all, in a sort of way as if I couldn't understand, and I understood all the time, and they said we were rejuiced, and I asked you a simple question what it meant. When you're perlite to other people, other people should be perlite to you in return."

"All right, Maud, keep calm, keep calm! You reduce a thing by taking something from it. We are reduced because something -- a great deal -- has been taken away from our income, and what remains is not enough to go round. I expect the second housemaid will be sent packing, and you will have to make the beds."

Maud squealed with dismay, then with a gleam of shrewdness nodded her head, and prophesied sagely:

"It would be worse for you than me if I did! I'd make them full of crumples. I'd get hold of the ends of the clothes, and Hop them down all together like Mary does when it's her Sunday out, and she's in a hurry. Then you'd be in a rage when you got in and your toes stuck out!"

"I'll make the beds!" announced Dreda, graciously. "I think all girls ought to learn to be domestic, and there's a real art in making beds. I've often thought how much better I could do it than any servant we have had. It's the trained intellect, I suppose. (I do hate you, Rowena, when you sneer like that!) F'rinstance -- I like my blankets just up to my chin, and if I tell Mary ten times a day, it's always the same -- she doubles them down till you are all hunkley round the neck. Then that leaves less to tuck in at the bottom, and if you have a nightmare and kick, there you are with your feet sticking out in the cold, and have to get up and tuck them in, when you want to sleep! And I can't endure creases. I like the under sheet stretched as tight as tight. Everyone likes a bed made in a special way, and it ought to be done. Think of the time one spends in bed! A third of one's life. It's a shame not to be comfortable. I should be an expert in bed - making. I'd keep a book to remind me of everyone's special fancies -- "

"And lose it the second day! Play all the experiments you like, but leave my room alone. I want no expert. The ordinary common or garden housemaid is good enough for me," said Hereward, cruelly.

Dreda reflected sadly that a prophet was not a prophet in her own country, but she was too much fired with the new idea to relinquish it without a trial. Besides, hidden in her heart lay the reviving thought: "If I could prove that I could be of use in the house, perhaps they'd let me stay! I know quite enough lessons as it is!"

The first two nights after hearing of the changed arrangements for her own education Dreda had cried herself to sleep, and had even succeeded --  with a little difficulty -- in squeezing out a few tears as she dressed in the morning, or what was the use of breaking your heart if no one were the wiser, or pitied you for your pathetic looks? By the third morning, however, her facile nature had adapted itself to the inevitable. She was tired of being in the dumps, and reflected that with a little diplomacy she would be able to "manage" the school governesses as cleverly as she had done the Spider before them, while the Currant Buns looked meek, poor-spirited creatures, who would like nothing better than to be ruled. "I'll teach them!" prophesied Dreda darkly, and the word was used in no educational sense.

The future was thus swallowed at a gulp; but all the same Dreda thought it worth while to interview her mother on the subject of her domestic ambitions, and was much disappointed to have her generous offer kindly but firmly refused.

"There is no necessity, dear. Thank you very much, all the same," Mrs Saxon said, smilingly. "We are no longer able to keep up two houses, but we can afford all the help that is needed for one. The two housemaids can keep the bedrooms in order very easily in this fresh clean air."

Etheldreda put her head on one side and lengthened her upper lip, after a fashion she affected when she wished to be impressive.

"Still," she insisted, obstinately, "when a family is reduced in circumstances I think it most important that the girls should learn to be domestic. I have always understood that in reduced circumstances it was necessary for the mistress to overlook everything, and how can you learn to do that if you never begin? It seems to me that one can never begin too young, and if we could do with only one housemaid, it is our duty to do so."

Mrs Saxon laughed. She always did laugh when Dreda waxed impressive, which was one of that young woman's trials in life.

"Darling Dreda!" she cried, affectionately. "You shall be as domestic as ever you please -- the more domestic the better; but there is a time for everything, and this is your time for study. You must wait until your education is finished, before you take up home duties. We are not going to sacrifice your interests for the sake of a servant's wages. Work hard, and do your best, dear. One thing at a time, and that done well -- "

But Dreda refused to be convinced.

"My theory," she announced, firmly, "my theory is that it is stupid to waste time learning things which you will never need! As we are 'rejuiced' (the expression had stuck, until the very pronunciation was unconsciously reproduced), and I can't go to Madame Clerc's and be finished properly, I should consider that it would be wiser to stop as I am. I am very well grounded. We can't afford to go into society now, so I shall probably marry a man in a humble position, and it's foolish to educate me above my rank!"

"Oh, Dreda, Dreda! Oh! I haven't laughed for weeks. You mustn't be vexed with me for laughing, dear -- it's so refreshing!" And Mrs Saxon wiped her eyes and chuckled irresistibly, the while her young daughter regarded her more in pity than in anger.

"I can't see what I have said that is so amusing. I was speaking most seriously. I'm fifteen. It's my own future that is at stake. Really, mother!"

"I'm sorry, dear, and I don't mean to be unsympathetic. I know you are in earnest, but for the next few years you must consent to be guided by what father and I believe to be best. Whatever may be before you, it is necessary that you have a good education, so put your heart into your work, and get on as quickly as possible."

Dreda sucked her upper lip in eloquent disgust.

"Parents are so trying!" she told herself, mentally. "They never seem to think it possible that you know better yourself. I shall be quite different with my daughters. What a pity it is that you can never manage to be your own mother!"



Chapter Seven.

During the next three weeks the Saxons settled slowly into the routine of life as it would in future be spent at the Manor. To begin with, the house itself was greatly improved in appearance by the addition of extra furniture and draperies sent down from the lavishly equipped house in town. The cold austerity of the entrance-hall was turned into something positively approaching cheerfulness by the presence of crimson portieres, a huge tapestry screen shutting off the staircase, and, best of all, by a brass brazier which, piled high with blazing coals, diffused both light and heat, and seemed to speak a cheery welcome to each new-comer. The Bechstein grand piano was not only a gain from a musical point of view, but made a decided improvement in the sparsely furnished drawing-room, while a few good pictures and ornaments gave a homelike air which had hitherto been conspicuous by its absence.

Rowena regarded these improvements with the numb unconcern which a prisoner might manifest over an unimportant alteration in his cell; but Dreda, as usual, was afire with enthusiasm, and spent a radiantly happy day playing the part of a charwoman, in apron and rolled-up sleeves. She washed all the ornaments, exulting in the inky colour of the water after the operation, and insisting that each member of the household should ascend to regain the same.

"Isn't it beautifully dirty?" she cried in triumph. "I scrubbed them with the nail brush. You should have seen the dust come out of the chinks! I simply dote upon seeing the water turn black. It's no fun washing things unless they are really dirty!"

When the additions were viewed as a whole, however, Dreda was not so content. She even frowned with displeasure at sight of the luxury in the hall.

"It's not consistent!" she pronounced, judicially. "We are rejuiced, and it doesn't look rejuiced! People in the neighbourhood coming to call will think we are richer instead of poorer. You will have to explain, mother. It wouldn't be honest if you didn't."

Mrs Saxon's smile was a somewhat painful effort.

"I imagine there will be little need of explanation, Dreda. News flies fast in a country place, and our neighbours probably know our affairs as well as we know them ourselves."

"And are gossiping about us behind our backs, and longing to call and see how we bear it!" continued Rowena, with that new edge of bitterness in her voice, which sounded so sadly in her mother's ears. It needed a hard struggle with herself before Mrs Saxon could command herself to reply gently:

"Curiosity is natural, perhaps, but I don't think we need fear anything unfriendly. If there should be any exhibition of the sort, it's a comfort to feel that I can depend upon my grown-up daughter to set an example of dignity and self-restraint. My nature is like Dreda's, so much more impulsive, that you will be a great strength to me, dear."

Oh, that soft answer that turneth away wrath, how omnipotent it is! The sneer was wiped off Rowena's face as by a sponge, her blue eyes glistened, and she stooped her tall young head to press an impetuous kiss upon her mother's cheek. For the rest of the day she was her old, sweet loving self, and the mother was rewarded a thousandfold for the effort which it had cost her to repress a hasty retort, and replace it by a word of tenderness and appreciation.

At the end of a fortnight the three boys returned to school, placidly resigned to a change of circumstances which left their own lives untouched; and no sooner had they departed than the Spider in her turn began to pack her boxes, in preparation for her own exit. For the past ten years she had been regarded as a member of the family, spending the greater number of her holidays with her pupils, and being included in all the household festivities and rejoicings. It was inevitable that her absence would cause a blank, and the young people experienced sundry pangs of conscience as they recalled the want of appreciation with which they had received their efforts on their behalf. How they had teased and lazed, and plotted and schemed, to escape the tasks which she had so laboriously enforced! How they had laughed behind her back, imitating her little mannerisms, and exhorting each other after her invariable formulae: "Impertinence, my love, is not wit!"

"A young lady should be composed and dignified in demeanour."

"Concentration, my dear, concentration! That is what you require." Poor, dear, good Spider; her methods were somewhat behind the times; but she was the kindest, most faithful of souls. Everyone was thankful to know that owing to the recent receipt of a legacy she was able to retire comfortably from active work, and to look forward to a peaceful contented home in the family of a beloved niece. Neither was it a very serious parting, since nothing was so certain as that so true a friend must return again and again to the scene of her labours; to see Hereward in his first uniform; to attend Rowena's marriage; Dreda's coming out; and inspect the progress of her youngest pupils. A few tears were shed when the hour of parting actually arrived, but there was no bitterness in them on either side, nor were they of any long duration.

And now for Etheldreda's turn! When the morning dawned on which she was to depart for school, she felt it fitting that her toilette should express the melancholy of her mood. Dreda had a great idea of fitness, and a costume composed of an old shepherd plaid skirt, a grey flannel blouse and a black tie seemed admirably symbolic of what she herself described as "the mourning of her soul." When it was donned, however, the result was found to be so extremely unbecoming that resolution wavered, and collapsed. After all, the most important matter was to impress her new companions, and there was no denying that that could be done most effectively in blue -- in just such a blue as was at that moment hanging in the wardrobe ready for use. With light-like speed Dreda shed her dun-coloured garments on to the floor, and in a trice was arrayed in her prettiest, most becoming costume.

This time the reflection was so pleasing that it was quite an effort to pull down her chin, and drop her eyelids, with the air of melancholy resignation which she was determined at all costs to preserve during breakfast. Mrs Saxon's face brightened at sight of the pretty blue dress, but neither she nor any other member of the family mentioned the fatal word "school." Rather did each one try to give a cheerful turn to the conversation, and to lead it towards a discussion of those topics in which the heroine of the day was the most interested. "Sops!" murmured Dreda dramatically to herself. "Sops!" She struggled hard to restrain her longing for a second helping of bacon; but her courage gave out at the thought of the motor drive across the cold open country.

"I must strengthen myself with plenty of nourishment," she decided, as she handed over her plate, and accepted the offer of a third cup of coffee. Like all pleasant things, however, the meal came to an end at last, and then the great event of the day could no longer be ignored. Maud caught the glance exchanged between her parents, and felt herself freed from her promise of silence.

"Now!" she exclaimed, with a gusty sigh of relief. "Now for the Buns! Now you'll see which knows most, them or you. Them, I should think, 'cause they're clever, and you forget. Miss Bruce said your head was like a sieve. Do you remember the day she said it? She had on her jet chain, and jingled with the beads. You'll have to remember not to forget, or you'll be the bottom of the class. Fancy three Currant Buns on top!"

She stopped short, with her characteristic throaty little laugh, and Dreda glared at her with flashing eyes. It was really extraordinary that anyone so stupid as Maud should so often succeed in hitting upon just the most aggravating thing to say under the circumstances. Three Currant Buns on top indeed! Life would only be endurable if she herself could seize the leading place, and hold it relentlessly to the end. She would not condescend to reply, and Maud was hurriedly nudged, and poked, and "shoved" into silence by Rowena, who was in an unusually sympathetic mood, realising how she herself would have felt had fate cast her own scholastic lot with that of the Misses Webster.

"Never mind her," she whispered, consolingly, as she followed Dreda upstairs to put on hat and jacket before her departure. "It's not worth while troubling yourself about Maud's remarks. It's impossible to think that any of those girls will get the better of you! It's hateful, of course; but perhaps it may not be quite so hateful as we think -- "

"Oh, I don't mind. I'm resigned! One can only be as miserable as one can. Perhaps I'll have an accident some day, riding over those rough roads, and then it will all be finished. I don't mind how soon my life is over!" declared Dreda, harpooning her hat viciously with a pin of murderous length, ornamented at the head by a life-size imitation of a tomato. "But while I do live, I tell you one thing, Rowena, I'll --  I'll hold my own!"

"I'm sure of that," assented Rowena, with conviction. "Look here, Dreda, would you like me to drive over with you as well as mother? I could, you know; and it might break the ice!"

"No, no! Father wanted to come, but I begged not. Everything is arranged, and I don't want people looking on. It will be a hidjus ordeal!"

"Oh, my dear, come! Don't exaggerate. It's not so tragic as all that."

"Isn't it, then? Don't be so grown-up and horrid! How would you like it yourself, if anyone made the best of your having to teach Maud?"

That one trenchant question was sufficient to reduce Rowena to the depths of silent despair, and the two sisters descended the staircase with aspects equally lugubrious and mournful.

It was not a cheerful send-off, despite all the efforts of the family, who stood shivering in the porch to wave farewells, and call out encouraging prognostications so long as the motor remained in sight. Dreda drew a big sigh of relief as they turned out of the drive, and spun rapidly along the highway. The necessity for keeping up a part was over, and involuntarily she began softly whistling beneath her breath, for in truth she was by no means so miserable as she had striven to appear.

Novelty was the breath of Dreda's nostrils. Any novelty to her was better than none, and if the chance of returning to the house had at that moment been vouchsafed, it is doubtful if she would have accepted it at the cost of missing the excitements of the next few hours.

The car spun along strongly, so that the twenty miles' distance was speedily covered, and before Etheldreda was half-way through her dreams it had turned in at a gate, and there before her eyes lay Grey House, a square, pretentious-looking building, with a door in the middle and a stretch of three windows on either side. There, also -- oh! thrilling and exciting moment -- pressed against the panes of an upper window were a number of round white discs, which must obviously be the faces of pupils watching the advent of the new girl!

Dreda sat up, and throwing back her golden mane, tossed a laughing remark to her mother -- the first she had volunteered since leaving home, and showed her white teeth in a determined smile. If she were fated to arrive at all, she would arrive as a conqueror who would be regarded with envy and admiration. Privately, she might consider herself a martyr, but that was not a role in which she chose to appear before other people. She was smiling as she entered the drawing-room after her mother, smiling as Miss Bretherton came forward to greet them, smiling still, a forced, fixed smile, as she listened to the conversation between the two ladies.

"Hope we shall be very happy together -- "

("I shan't. I don't like you a bit! Scraggy, cross-looking thing! Your nose looks as if it would cut!")

"...Dreda is fond of society. She will enjoy working with other girls!"

("Shan't, then! I shall hate it. I should have enjoyed it in Paris.")

"...Beginnings always are a little difficult; but young people soon adapt themselves!"

("It's easy to talk!")

After a few minutes passed in the exchange of these and similar commonplaces, Mrs Saxon rose to depart. On a previous visit she had been shown over the house, and had seen the room where her daughter was to sleep, and now her presence would only prolong the agony. She cast a look at her daughter, full of yearning mother love and sympathy; but Dreda was smiling still, her grey eyes wide open, her very gums showing in the unnatural stretching of her lips. She submitted to be kissed, but offered no caress in return, and turned with a nonchalant air to examine the photographs on the mantelshelf, while Miss Bretherton escorted her mother to the door.

They were all photographs of girls -- old girls who had left school and could afford to be amiable and forgiving. One wore a cap and gown and was evidently a crack pupil who had won honours at college; another held a baby on her knee -- she was pretty, and had married young; a third supported her head on her hand and stared dreamily into space; another posed against a screen. Dreda stared at them with eyes that grew misty and unseeing, as the motor puffed down the drive. Now she was alone --  away from home for the first time in her life! Miss Bretherton was coming back -- Miss Bretherton with the thin face and the sharply pointed nose.

The door opened; the photographs looked mistier than ever; Miss Bretherton's voice sounded from an immense distance, saying in cheery tones:

"Now I am going to take you upstairs to see your room, Etheldreda. Susan Webster and Nancy West will share it with you. Susan you know already -- a delightful girl; and Nancy is equally charming. Most of the girls returned last night, but we have not yet settled into regular work: it takes a little time to arrange the classes. Are your boots quite clean? Better rub them once more on the mat! Pupils are not allowed to ascend the staircase in outdoor shoes."

She led the way forward, while Dreda followed, looking about with curious eyes. The carpet lasted only so long as the stair could be seen from the hall beneath, and was then replaced by oil-cloth, worn to a colourless drab by the tramp of many feet. On the first storey a narrow passage ran the whole length of the house, and innumerable doors seemed to open on each side. The murmur of voices could be heard from within, as one passed these closed portals; but one of the number, labelled Number 5, was not quite shut, and Dreda had a shrewd suspicion that it opened an inch or two wide as she passed by. Probably it gave entrance to the room from which faces had stared out on the drive; probably the same curious faces were peering forth through that crack at this very moment.

The bedroom bore a bleak look, despite the fact that the furniture was all in threes -- three narrow beds, three washstands, three chests of drawers -- topped by miniature mirrors -- and three small cane-seated chairs. Each of the three inmates had a portion of the room to herself, and against the wall stood two folding screens, evidently designed to insure privacy. Dreda noted with dismay that the two ends of the room, the one next the window and the one next the door, already bore signs of occupation. Her brow clouded, and instead of the usual polite remarks of approval, out shot an impetuous question:

"Have I to take the middle? I'd rather have an end!"

"Susan and Nancy have occupied the same beds for the last year. All are equally comfortable."

"There ought to be three screens. I want two to shut myself in. Suppose one of the others didn't want hers up!"

"Why suppose disagreeables, my dear? It is a great mistake. I feel sure your companions will consider your comfort as thoughtfully as their own. Hang your jacket on the pegs; then you can come to your classroom, to be introduced to your companions. Take off your hat."

Dreda pulled a face in the mirror. She felt cross and ill-used. At home she was accustomed to a big, beautiful room all to herself; she did not at all enjoy the prospect of owning a third of this chill grey dormitory. She took off her hat -- conscious that Miss Bretherton's eyes were regarding the tomato-topped pin with silent disapproval -- wriggled out of her coat, and bestowed a series of pats and pulls to hair, necktie, and blouse. Being one of the happy people who feel cheered rather than depressed by the sight of her own reflection in the glass, she followed the head mistress downstairs without any of the trepidations of nervousness which afflict most new girls, and was by no means surprised when that lady made straight for the doorway of Number 5.

It opened, and six girls were discovered seated before a table, wearing expressions of preternatural solemnity. One of the number wore spectacles; a second had a broad band of metal over her front teeth; a third had red hair and a thick powdering of freckles; "The Currant Buns" wore dresses of yellowy-brown tweed, which in Dreda's eyes made them appear "bunnier" than ever. So much was taken in by the first lightning glance, as at the appearance of Miss Bretherton the girls leapt mechanically to their feet and stood stolidly at attention.

"Girls, this is your new companion, Etheldreda Saxon. She is to share Number 20 with Susan and Nancy, and I expect will be in the fourth form. You had better leave your books and have a little chat beside the fire, until Miss Drake is ready. You may tell her that I gave you permission."

She left the room and shut the door behind her, and Dreda was left face to face with her new companions.



Chapter Eight.

For a moment the six girls retained their former positions, staring with blank, expressionless faces at the new comer. Then Mary Webster, the eldest of the "Currant Buns," advanced with outstretched hand, followed by her two younger sisters.

"How do you do?"

"How do you do?"

"How do you do?"

"So glad to see you."

"So glad -- "

"Very glad -- "

The murmurs died into silence, while Dreda smiled a radiant encouragement.

"Quite well, thank you. But rather cold. May we poke the fire? My feet -- "

She tapped expressively on the floor, whereupon Mary Webster poked discreetly at the fire and Susan, the youngest of the sisters, pushed a chair into the cosiest corner. The other three girls had come forward by this time, and introduced themselves in due form.

"How do you do? I'm Barbara Moore. It's hateful to be a new girl!"

"How do you do? I'm Norah Grey. Sorry you're cold."

"How do you do? I'm Nancy. Tell me truthfully -- Do you snore?"

Dreda laughed gaily.

"Sometimes -- when I lie on my back. I do it on purpose, because you dream such thrilling dreams. And I yell horribly when I come to the bad bits."

"Something will have to be done!" said Nancy, darkly. She was the girl with the band over her front teeth. It was ugly, but fascinating; one felt constrained to look at it, and looking at it could not help noticing how curved and red were the lips, how darkly lashed the long grey eyes. Nancy was evidently a person to be reckoned with. She sat herself down by the fire, stretched out her feet to the blaze, and appeared to be lost in thought. Dreda longed to talk to her, to inquire what she meant by that mysterious "something," but the "Currant Buns" were clustering round her, regarding her with anxiously proprietary airs as if, having the honour of a personal acquaintance, it was their due to receive the first attention. Dreda felt quite like a celebrity, on the point of being interviewed by a trio of reporters; but as usual she preferred to play the part of questioner herself.

"Were you doing prep when I came in? What classes are you taking to - day? I feel as if I've forgotten everything. One always does in the holidays, doesn't one? Such a bore having to grind through it all again. Seems such a waste of time."

"Have you a bad memory? Miss Drake, our English governess, is especially clever at developing the powers of memory. And holiday tasks are so useful, too; don't you find them so? It is impossible to forget, if one has to study for an elaborate thesis."

"The -- what?" questioned Dreda blankly. "But whoever does study in the holidays? I don't! If you did, they wouldn't be holidays. So stupid! Holidays are for rest and fun. Bad enough to have lessons for two - thirds of the year. One's brain must have some rest!"

She ended on quite an indignant note, and her companions stared at her with a mingling of admiration and dismay. Such a vivid bit of colouring had not been seen for many a long day in that neutral-tinted room. Yellow hair, pink cheeks, red lips, blue dress -- she was positively dazzling to behold. The two younger Miss Websters appeared absorbed in admiration, but the eldest and cleverest-looking of the three pursed up her lips with an air of disapproval and said primly:

"It depends upon one's idea of rest, doesn't it? Leisure may mean only a time of amusement, but it's a rather poor conception of the word. The ancient Greeks understood by it a time of congenial work, as distinguished from work which they were obliged to do. Their necessary work was undertaken in order that they might obtain a time of leisure, but when it came, instead of wasting it in foolish and passing amusement, they used it to strengthen their intellect and to store up ennobling thoughts."

"How did they do that, pray?" Dreda put the question with the air of one launching a poser, but Mary Webster showed no signs of discomfiture.

"They used to meet together in little companies, and discuss the deepest and most important topics of the day -- "

"I expect they gossiped horribly!"

"And they watched the dramas -- "

"I call that amusement! I wouldn't mind doing that myself."

"But the Greek dramas were not light and vapid like modern plays. They dealt with serious subjects, and the audience often used to commit the words to memory as a mental exercise."

Dreda yawned.

"Ah, well," she conceded indulgently, "it's a long while ago! One mustn't be hard on them, poor dears, for they knew no better. I don't approve of girls bothering their heads about ancient Greeks. Boys have to, for examinations, but if we want to grow up nice, domesticated women it's better to learn modern things, and leave those old fusties alone. They do one no good."

The girls stared at her in stunned surprise. Agnes, the second Webster, dropped her chin to an abnormal length; the youngest, Susan, bit nervously at her lips; Mary cleared her throat and showed signs of returning to the attack, but Dreda was already tired of the subject, and made a diversion by leaping from her seat and approaching the table where piles of blue-covered exercise books were neatly arranged at intervals of about a yard apart.

"Let me look at your books, and see what you are doing! I didn't bring any books till I saw what you used. I expect they will be the same. All school books are. I've got the ones Rowena used." She broke off, staring with dismay at the underlined questions which met her eye in one of Agnes's neatly written books:

"Characterise the work of Praxiteles, comparing it with that of Phidias."

"Describe the Caryatids of the Erectheum."

"More Greeks! How awful! You seem saturated in Greece." She threw down the book impatiently and took up another. "Write a short essay on Chaucer (I know Chaucer!) and his times (When did he live? Ages ago, I know, for he couldn't spell), dwelling on (1) the state of society as shown by the attitude of Wycliffe to the Pope, and the higher clergy; (2) the peasants' revolt" -- Dreda looked round with horrified eyes. "What a thing! Do you often have essays like that? Your governess must be a man in disguise!"

"She is exceedingly clever and well read, and a most interesting and original teacher."

"Humph! -- I prefer the old school! Our governess gives us essays on Spring, and Happiness, and quotations from poetry. They are far better, for if you don't know anything, you can make it up. You know the sort of thing. 'One has often felt -- ' 'Should we not all -- ' 'At this season of the year our hearts overflow -- ' I assure you I have often sat down not knowing what on earth I was going to say, and have written pages! That's far better for you than learning dull facts about people who were dead and buried hundreds of years ago, because it exercises your imagination and resource, and they are so useful for a woman. Now, just suppose you were married, and a lot of dull people were coming to dinner -- it would help you awfully if you'd been trained to make conversation out of nothing! And supposing you suddenly found that there was nothing to eat, and you had to make a dinner out of scraps --  what would be most useful to you then, Greek history or a good, resourceful brain?"

Mary and Agnes stared aghast, but the sound of a snigger came from the fireplace where Susan stood meekly in the background, and a moment later a ringing laugh drew all eyes to the doorway where stood a tall, bright - haired girl, whose white teeth gleamed pleasantly through her parted lips.

"Bravo!" she cried gaily. "Bravo, my new pupil! Very adroitly argued. But suppose now that one of your dull diners happened to be an enthusiast about Greece, and that its glories were the only subject on which he was prepared to talk! Suppose he spoke of the 'Caryatids,' for example, and you had no idea what the word meant -- how would you keep up your share of the conversation?"

"Quite easily. I'd say -- 'Really! How very interesting! Pray do go on!' Then he'd be charmed. People always are charmed to go on talking," declared Dreda smiling back with the utmost frankness into the face of this bright, friendly stranger.

So this was the English governess of whose cleverness and accomplishments she had heard so much! She looked quite young --  ridiculously young; not many years older than Rowena herself. Dreda had expected to see an elderly, spectacled dame, thin and spare, with scant locks dragged tightly back from her face. In the dark depression of her spirits she had thought it possible that she might even wear knitted mittens, and have cotton wool in her ears. Never for a moment had it occurred to her that an accomplished finishing governess could be young and pretty!

To judge from Miss Drake's expression she was experiencing very much the same pleasure in the sight of her new pupil, for her eyes brightened visibly as she looked Dreda up and down, down and up, with a keen, intent scrutiny. She laughed as she heard the girl's answer, and replied easily:

"That's quite true, Etheldreda. I am myself! That's one of the reasons which induced me to work -- for unless one is contented to play the part of hearer through life, it really is worth the trouble to store up a little general knowledge, so that one may talk as interestingly as possible. Lessons may seem dull and unnecessary at the time, but they are useful afterwards! Now, girls, take your places! Etheldreda shall sit here on my left, and I will read over the syllabus for this term's study, and draw out a timetable. As we come to each fresh subject I will show you our books, Etheldreda, and we will see if they are the same as those which you have been using, and how far you have progressed. I expect we shall be able to work along together, even if there is a little space to be gulfed on either side."

"Please!" cried the new pupil earnestly, "don't call me Etheldreda. Nobody ever does except when I'm in disgrace, and it's so long and proper. I'm always Dreda at home."

"Dreda, then! It is more get-at-able. Well, now, Dreda, take a pen and write down our syllabus in this book. I like my pupils to have a clear idea of the work ahead."

Dreda settled herself complacently to the task, but as she wrote her face grew ever longer and longer. What subjects were there which she was supposed to study? Political economy -- she had not the vaguest idea of what it meant! Physiology -- that was something horrid about one's body, which ought properly to be left to nurses and doctors! Zoology --  animals! She knew everything that she wanted to know about animals already; how to feed and tend them, and make them tame and friendly. She could not love them half so much if she were obliged to worry herself learning stupid names half a yard long, which no ordinary human creature understood! Latin -- Algebra -- Astronomy. She glanced round the table and beheld Mary and Agnes and Susan scribbling away with unruffled composure. No sign of alarm could be traced on their calm, bun-like countenances, the longest words flowed from their pens as if such a thing as difficulty in spelling did not exist. Dreda looked for a moment over Mary's shoulder, and beheld her writing a diphthong without so much as turning a hair.

A chilly feeling crept up her spine; her heart seemed to stop beating, then at the next moment thudded violently against her side. She was not going to be at the top of the class; she was to be at the bottom! Instead of leading the van, and victoriously trailing the Currant Buns in her wake, the Currant Buns would have to trail her; and a heavy, unenlightened load she would be! A stormy prospect lay ahead; straits of difficulty; seas of depression; oceans of humiliation. Pride, and pride alone, prevented Dreda from laying down her head on the dingy brown tablecloth and bursting into tears. Alas, alas! for the happy, easy days of History, Geography, and Arithmetic, with the old-fashioned Spider. Alas for the finishing joys of Madame Clerc's select academy, where the young ladies were taken about to see the sights of Paris, with no other restriction on their pleasure seeking but that on one and all occasions they should amuse themselves in French!

It grew wearisome to make ever the same reply to Miss Drake's question. "No, she had never studied that subject."

"No, she had never seen this book." Mary stared unblushingly with her little dark eyes. Agnes dropped her chin until it looked twice its natural length, Susan flicked over the pages of her exercises and appeared absorbed in their contents. Nancy smiled a furtive smile.

"No," cried Dreda desperately. "No, I know nothing about it! I -- I have been educated on quite different lines -- I think I had better go on as I have begun. I don't want to keep back the whole class. Let the others go on as usual, and leave me out. I can join in for the ordinary subjects."

"Nonsense, Dreda. Nothing of the sort. We take up each subject afresh at the beginning of the term, and if you work hard you will be able to manage quite well. It is better to make a little push to keep in this form than to go into a lower one with younger girls, and less interesting work. I am not unreasonable. I shall not expect miracles; do your best, and we'll help you on. I think you had better have a special coach to whom you can apply if you want help or explanation in your preparation. Now which of you girls would like to be Dreda's coach, and spare her a little time when it is needed?"

There was a simultaneous rustle of assent, but two voices spoke first, breaking the silence at identically the same moment.

"I!" cried Susan.

"Me!" cried Nancy.

Miss Drake smiled. "Oh, Nancy, Nancy!" she cried gaily; "a nice person you would be to coach another! Better give a little more attention to your own grammar, my dear. Very well, Susan, that is settled. You shall be Dreda's coach!"

Dreda and Susan looked at each other across the table in silence. Susan saw flushed cheeks and eyes suspiciously bright. Dreda stared in amazement, asking herself how it could be that anyone so much like the two elder sisters could at the same time be so diametrically different. Mary and Agnes were unusually plain, heavy-looking girls, but in Susan's face there was at this moment, a light of sympathy which made it strangely attractive. She possessed the family features, the family eyes, but Nature had evidently been prejudiced on her behalf and had given with a more generous hand. An extra shade of darkness on the eyebrows, an extra dip to the nose, a tiny curl to the lips, a tilt of the chin -- these were trifles in themselves, but what an amazing improvement when taken in bulk! Dreda gazed and gazed, and as she did so there came to her one of those delightful experiences which most of us encounter once or twice as we go through life. As she met this strange girl's glance, a thrill of recognition ran through her veins; a voice in her heart cried, "My Friend!" and she knew just as surely as if she had been told in words that at the same moment Susan's heart had sounded the same glad welcome.

She said: "Thank you, Susan," in a voice unusually subdued, and bit her lips to keep back the tears.



Chapter Nine.

At twelve o'clock work was laid aside and Miss Drake accompanied the girls for an hour's constitutional. She claimed Dreda for her companion for the first part of the walk, for she had noticed the girl's humiliation, and was anxious to have a few words with her in private.

"I am sorry that you should have had such a disagreeable cross - questioning this morning, Dreda," she began brightly, "but I am sure you will realise that it was necessary. I was obliged to find out what you had been doing before I could make plans for the future. Now that is over, and we can move ahead. You will enjoy working with Susan. She is appreciative and thoughtful -- a little slow in taking things in, perhaps, but for the present that will be a good thing, as it will make it all the easier for a quick girl like yourself to catch up to her in class work." Dreda glanced up sharply.

"I! Quick! How do you know?"

Miss Drake smiled mischievously.

"Oh, very easily -- very easily, indeed! I am accustomed to work among girls, and when I get a new pupil I know at once under which category she will fall. When I saw you I said to myself -- 'Quick, ambitious, versatile!' I have no fear that you will fail to do anything to which you persistently give your mind."

"Ah!" groaned Dreda tragically, "but that's just what I can never do. For a little time -- yes! I'm a wonder to work when I first get a craze. But -- it passes! I get -- bored! I've never stuck persistently to one thing in my life. The boys call me 'Etheldreda the Ready,' because I'm always bubbling over with enthusiasm at the beginning, and willing to promise any mortal thing you like -- and then," -- she snapped her fingers in illustration -- "Snap! the balloon bursts, and I collapse into nothing. It will be the same thing with lessons!"

Miss Drake held up her hand imperatively.

"Stop!" she cried clearly. "Stop! Never say that again, never allow yourself to say it. You know your failing in your own heart, and that is enough! Every time that you put it into words, and talk about it to others, gives it added strength and power and makes it more difficult to fight. My dear girl, you are not a child -- how feeble to take for granted that you are going to continue in your old baby failings! Take for granted instead that you are going to live them down, and trample them beneath your feet. You'll have to fight for it, and to fight hard, but it will do you more good than any lessons I can teach. That's the best education, isn't it, to achieve the mastery over ourselves?"

Now, if meek Miss Bruce had delivered herself of similar sentiments, Dreda would have tilted her chin and wriggled contemptuously in her chair, muttering concerning "preaching," and wishing to goodness that the tiresome old thing would stop talking and get on with her work, but Miss Drake wore such a young and gallant air, as she strode along the country lane with her head thrown back, and her uplifted hand waving aloft, that the girl's ardent nature took flame; she tilted her own head, waved her own arm, and felt a tingling of martial zeal. Yes, she would work! Yes, she would fight! She would tread her enemies under foot and emerge from the conflict victorious, untrammelled, a paragon of virtues. She turned a dazzling smile upon her companion and heaved an ardent sigh.

"How beautifully you talk! Our old governess was so different! She did not understand my nature. I have wonderful ambitions, but I am so sensitive that I can't work against difficulties. I need constant encouragement and appreciation. A sensitive plant -- "

"Oh, Dreda, please spare me that worn-out simile! Not work against difficulties, indeed! What nonsense you talk! It is not work at all when everything is easy and smooth. Don't deceive yourself, my dear --  you are going to find plenty of difficulties, and to find them quickly, too. This very afternoon they will begin, when you tackle the new subjects and realise your own ignorance. You won't enjoy being behind your companions."

Dreda threw out her arms with a gesture of despair, but she made no further protest. Difficulties arising in the dim future she felt herself able to face resolutely enough, but the thought that they might begin that very afternoon dispelled her ardour. She listened to Miss Drake's further utterances with so quelled and dispirited an air that that quick-sighted lady felt that enough had been said for the moment, and calling her elder pupils to her side, set the two younger girls free to walk together.

It was the moment for which both had been longing, but a mutual shyness held them tongue-tied for the first hundred yards. Naturally it was Dreda who broke the silence.

"It was ripping of you to offer to coach me. I don't believe in learning all those things, but if I must, I must, and it would have been difficult all alone. I hope you don't mind."

"I want to," said Susan simply. "I've always wanted to do something for you, since the first time we met. It was at a Christmas party at the Rectory and you wore a black frock. I never thought then that you would come to school with us, but I wished you could be my friend. When I've made castles in the air they have always been about you, and something we could do together. I sat beside you at supper. Do you remember?"

No! Dreda had no recollection of the kind. She and her brothers and sisters had always cherished a secret contempt for the Webster sisters and had sedulously avoided them on every occasion. If Susan had been seated on one side at supper, it followed as a matter of course that Dreda herself had devoted her attention exclusively to whoever sat at the other side. She felt a faint pricking of conscience, and answered tentatively: "It is so long ago. I have a wretched memory. I remember we had lovely crackers at supper -- but that's all. How did you come to notice me?"

"Because you were so pretty," Susan said. "Your sister is pretty too, very pretty, but she does not look so gay. And your brothers -- they are such big, handsome boys. You are all handsome, and big, and strong, and have such romantic names. You seemed far more like a family in a book than real, live people. The 'Story-Book Saxons' -- that was always our name for you when we spoke of you between ourselves. Do you think it is nice?"

"Very nice, indeed. 'Story-Book Saxons!' I must tell Rowena that." Dreda preened her head complacently. This simple admiration was most refreshing after the humiliations of the morning. "Perhaps we are rather unusual," she allowed. "Rowena is beautiful when she is in a good temper, and the boys are always bringing home prizes, and being captains in their sports. Maud is stupid, but she has lovely hair, and I, I'm not advanced in lessons -- your sort of lessons -- but Miss Bruce says I have a very original mind. When I'm grown up I don't intend to stodge along in the dull, humdrum fashion most women do. I mean to Do something. To Be something. To live for an Aim!"

Susan regarded her with serious eyes.

"What sort of aim?"

"Oh-h" -- Dreda waved her arms with a sweeping movement -- "I've not decided. There's plenty of time. But I mean to have a Career, and make my name known in the world."

"Don't you think," Susan asked tentatively, "that it is best to have a definite aim and to prepare for it beforehand?"

"You talk as if you had an ambition yourself!"

"I have!" said Susan quietly.

"You mean to be celebrated like me?"

"I am going to be an author. I hope I shall be celebrated. I shall try my best, but only time can show how I shall succeed."

"An author!" Dreda repeated disapprovingly. "You! How very odd! I have thought of being an author myself, and we are so different. I believe I could make up a very good story if I'd time. The only difficult part would be writing it out. Fancy perhaps fifty chapters! You'd get sick of them before you were half through, and have writers' cramp, and all sorts of horriblenesses. We might collaborate, Susan!"

Susan smiled, but showed no sign of weakening.

"I don't think that would do. We should never agree about what we wanted to say, but it would be delightful to read our stories aloud to each other, and discuss them together. The first heroine I make shall be exactly like you!"

"That's sweet of you. Begin at once -- do! and read each chapter as it's done."

Susan's smile was somewhat wistful. She looked in Dreda's face with anxious eyes, as though waiting for a promise which must surely come, but Dreda remained blankly unresponsive. It never occurred to her for a moment that it could be possible to make a heroine out of Susan Webster!



Chapter Ten.

West End School was conducted on lines differing somewhat both from those of the modern public school and the old polite finishing seminary for young ladies. It accommodated in all about fifty pupils, and although games and examinations formed important parts of the curriculum, they were not regarded as being of such absorbing importance as in many modern schools. Miss Bretherton was a woman of lofty aims, who was continually looking beyond her pupils' schooldays to the time when they should be the women of Britain; the wives and mothers, and sisters and friends of the men who were to carry on the work of our great Empire, and who, humanly speaking, would do that work well or ill according to the manner in which their womankind influenced their lives. Miss Bretherton realised that the chief result of school study was not the mere storing of information, but the training of the brain to grapple with the great problems of life. Lessons were only means to an end. Half of that which was learnt with such pains would be forgotten before a dozen years had passed by; but the deeper lessons of industry, patience, self-restraint, would remain as habits of daily life. Formation of character -- that was the one absorbing object which the Head held in view, and which underlay every scheme and arrangement. Miss Bretherton's manner was so staid, her nature so reserved, that her pupils were apt to credit her with being dull and easily deceived, little guessing that those quiet eyes were as searchlights turned upon their little foibles and vanities. During Dreda's first week at school her mood was pretty equally divided between enjoyment and misery. She loved the big, full, bustling house, the constant companionship of her kind, the chats over the study fire, the games in the playground; in a lesser degree she enjoyed the lessons also -- those, at least, in which she was fairly proficient -- and found Miss Drake a most interesting and inspiring teacher. She loved the interest which she excited, the flattering remarks of other girls, the quiet devotion of Susan; but she hated the rules of "early to bed and early to rise"; found it a penance to be obliged to practise scales, with icy fingers, for forty minutes before breakfast; was fretted and humiliated by her ignorance on many important subjects, and at the end of the long day often found herself tired, disappointed, and -- hungry!

There is no doubt that a school menu is a distinct trial to the girl fresh from home. The girl accustomed to mix cream in a cup of freshly roasted, freshly ground coffee takes badly to the weak, groundy liquid so often supplied in its place. She grows tired to death of beef, mutton, and resurrection pie, and is inclined to declare that if the only way to become strong is to consume everlasting suet puddings, why, then, as a choice of evils, she prefers to be weak!

"Is it always as bad as this?" Dreda demanded plaintively of her room - mates as they brushed their locks in company before retiring to bed on the evening of her fifth day at West House. "Do you never have anything nice and light, that doesn't taste of suet and oven? Does it get better as summer comes on?"

"Worse!" pronounced Nancy shortly.

Dreda had devoted five whole days to the study of Nancy's character, and to this hour could not make up her mind whether she most liked or detested her. She was the oddest of girls: nothing seemed to excite her, nothing to trouble, nothing to please. Occasionally she would show swift, kindly impulses, as when she had offered to become Dreda's coach; but not a flicker of disappointment did she portray if such impulses were repulsed, not a gleam of pleasure if they were accepted. At other times she seemed to take a perverse pleasure in making the worst of a situation and playing the part of Job's comforter.

"Worse!" she sighed. "Much worse! Because it's warm weather, and your fancy lightly turns to nicer things. It's a bit of a cross to see strawberries in the shop windows, and them come home to 'Brother, where art thou?'"

"What brother?"

"Raisins!" said Nancy, and sighed again. "They lose each other in such steppes of suet."

Conscientious Susan exclaimed in protest.

"Nancy! Too bad. There is always stewed rhubarb!"

But this was poor comfort, for Dreda disliked stewed rhubarb almost as much as suet itself. She pouted disconsolately for several moments, then smiled with sudden inspiration.

"I'll get a doctor's order!"

"What for?"

"Plenty of fresh ripe fruit. Vegetarian diet. Fruit, and cream, and eggs during the summer heat!"

"How will you manage to get it?"

"I'll have something... I'll ask Rowena what's the best complaint: headaches or dizziness, or feeling tired. I'll tell mother it's the heavy food, and mother'll tell him, and he'll write to Miss Bretherton. I shall eat strawberries, and watch you search for 'brothers.'"

Nancy stared solemnly with her long, dark eyes.

"There was a girl here who tried that before -- Netta Bryce. That very same dodge."

"Well?"

"She wished she hadn't."

"Why?"

"Try, and you'll find out."

"Nancy, you are horrid. What happened to her? Where is she now?"

"Dead!" croaked Nancy, and drew the screen around her bed. After that Dreda might question as much as she liked, but she knew well that never a reply would Nancy vouchsafe. It was really most tiresome!

She lay awake for a good ten minutes pondering over what could have happened to Netta Bryce, and if she had died soon, and under what conditions. Nancy was really the most aggravating of creatures!

Besides Miss Drake, commonly called "The Duck," there were two other resident teachers at West Hill. Mademoiselle -- a tiny, pathetic-looking little creature, warranted to fly into a temper in a shorter time, and upon less provocation, than any other woman in the United Kingdom; and Fraulein, a lumpish but amiable creature who gave lessons in German and music. Miss Bretherton herself took the whole school for the morning Bible lesson, and had a disagreeable habit of descending upon the different forms at unexpected moments, and taking the place of the regular teacher. Of course, the surprise visit invariably happened just at the moment when the girls had "slacked," whereupon fright being added to ignorance, they would make such a poor display that they themselves were covered with confusion and their instructor with mortification. Almost every day at dinner time two or three girls could be observed with crimson cheeks and watery eyes gazing miserably at their plates, when the beholders would nudge each other significantly, and exchange glances of commiserating understanding. "Our turn next!"

Two masters also visited the school. Mr Broun, the professor of music, was a small, shaggy-looking personage, with a bumpy brow and eyes set extraordinarily far apart. He was a born musician, and, as a consequence, found it infinitely irritating to the nerves to be obliged to teach young ladies who had not one note of music in their composition, but whose parents considered an acquaintance with the pianoforte to be a necessity of education. When one of these unfortunates went up for her lesson, shouts and groans of despair could be heard outside the door of the music-room, accompanied by the sound of heavy footsteps pacing helplessly to and fro, and at the end of the half-hour the victim would emerge, red and tearful, or red and defiant, as her nature was, to recount gruesome stories of brutality to her companions. "He rapped my ringers with his pencil. I won't stand it. I'm sixteen. I'll write home and complain." Sandwiched in among the poor pupils were one or two who possessed real musical ability -- Nancy, for instance, whose supple fingers seemed to draw mysterious sweetness and depths from the keys of the well-worn piano -- and in these cases the lesson would extend far beyond its legitimate length and would take upon itself something of the nature of a recital, as Mr Broun himself took possession of the piano stool, to illustrate the effect which he wished produced. Then the girls in adjoining rooms would find their attention wandering from their books, and little groups "changing form" would linger outside the door listening with bated breath. Ah! if one could only play like that!

Mr Minns, the mathematical master, was built on wires, and expected one rapid explanation of the most complex rule to make it clear as crystal. After twenty years spent in teaching, he still professed to be prostrated with horror at each fresh exhibition of feminine obtuseness, and would groan, and writhe, and push his fingers through his hair, until it stood up round his head like a halo. He was Dreda's special bete noire, for, like many girls who excel in literature and composition, she detested the sight of a sum and had never grown beyond the stage of counting on her fingers beneath the table. If it had not been for Susan's laboriously patient explanations, nothing could have saved her from the most hopeless humiliation; but Susan had a gift of apt and fitting words, and of inventing illustrations which showed daylight through the thickest mist.

She rose early and worked late in order to have time to spare for her duties as coach, and Dreda was lavish in gratitude.

"You really are a saint! What should I do without you? Expire of pure misery and despair. As it is, I'm dying of overwork. I've a buzzy muzzy feeling in my brain which must mean something bad. Softening, I believe. It does come on from overstrain!"

Susan would smile, her quietly humorous smile, at these exaggerated statements, refusing to feel any anxiety about the health of such a blooming invalid.

Apart from arithmetic, however, Dreda made wonderful progress in her studies. Her native quickness of wits stood her in good stead; she learnt easily, and seized nimbly on salient points, so that, though her knowledge was superficial, she was always ready with an answer, and could enlarge so cleverly on what she did know, that the gaps of ignorance remained unsuspected. Susan, the prudent, shook her head over this juggling with fate, and foretold confusion in the coming examinations; but Dreda was content to sun herself in the present atmosphere of approbation and leave the future to take care of itself. Given a free hand by her parents, she had entered her name for every examination on the school list, and hardly a day passed that she did not propose a new scheme or exploit to her companions.

The time for these propositions was generally the cherished half-hour after tea, when the fourth form girls gathered round the fire in the study to chat over the doings and happenings of the day. Then Dreda was in her element, and every day, as it seemed, was filled with a fresh ambition.

"When does your school magazine come out next?"

"Never! Haven't got one to 'come out.'"

"Haven't got one? A school without a magazine! How disgraceful! I should be ashamed to confess it. Why haven't you?"

"Too much fag!"

Dreda gasped with horror.

"Why, even at home, where we are only six, we have an -- an -- " She paused, anxiously searching for a word which should be sufficiently vague -- "an annual, with stories, and illustrations, and correspondence columns just like real. I was 'Aunt Nelly' and answered the questions. Such sport! ... 'Yes, my dear, at fifteen you are certainly far too young to be secretly engaged. Confide the whole story to your dear mother. A mother is ever a young girl's wisest confidante.' -- (Of course, no one really asked me that. I made it up. You have to make up to fill the page.) ... 'So sorry your complexion is spotty. Rub it over with lemon juice and oil. Never mind if you are ugly. Be good, and you'll get a sweet expression, and that is better than any beauty.' ... Ha, ha!" She tossed her golden mane with a derisive laugh. "Just like a real mag.! Then I put things in for the boys, of course -- got them out of cricket reports and encyclopaedias -- it looks out well to have learned bits here and there. And you can give lovely hints! It would be awfully useful in a school, because you could say whatever you wanted without being personal ... 'No! the old adage, "Finding is keeping" does not apply to your companions' indiarubbers and pencils. It is not considered honourable in good society to pare off initials inscribed thereon for purposes of identification.'" She chuckled happily. "Don't I do it well? I really have the knack! ... I can't think why you don't have one."

"How should we find the time?" queried Susan earnestly. "First to compose the things -- and then write them out neatly would take hours and hours."

"I would write them out. It looks ever so much better if it's all in one handwriting."

The girls exchanged glances. Dreda certainly wrote a very legible hand, but they were already beginning to feel a trifle dubious about her ready promises.

"My dear, it would take years! You would never get through. Only yesterday you were preparing us for softening of the brain from overwork. You really must curb this overflowing energy." Nancy narrowed her eyes in her most fascinating smile, in which still lurked a spice of derision. "Your welfare is very precious to us; we can't afford to risk it for the sake of a magazine!"

Dreda flushed, and wriggled impatiently on her seat. She never could tell whether Nancy was in fun or in earnest.

"I am not proposing to take on more work. It would be a distraction!" she declared loftily. "I love making up stories and poetry, and reading what other people have written. I'd get up early, and do it in play hours. It would be a labour of love. Besides, it would cultivate our style. 'The Duck' is literary herself. I dare say she'd let it count as composition!"

The girls brightened visibly at this suggestion. It would be distinctly more amusing to write for their own magazine than to cudgel their brains to produce a sheet full of ideas on the abstruse subjects suggested by Miss Drake. They edged a little nearer the fire, straightened their backs, and fell to discussion.

"Perhaps she might."

"We'll ask her."

"She might be editor."

"She could write a lovely story herself."

"Bertha could illustrate. She draws the killingest pictures. There was one of the fifth dormitory at 6 a.m. You saw all the girls asleep, and their heads were killing. Amy had a top-knot that had fallen on one side, Phyllis a pigtail about two inches long, and as thin as a string. You know her miserable little wisp of hair. Mary was lying on her back with her mouth wide open. It was the image of her. She's nearly as good as Hilda Cowham. We might call her 'Hilda Cowman' as a nom de plume. Wouldn't it look professional?"

Dreda was a trifle annoyed that the position of editor had not been offered to herself as the originator of the movement, and she likewise cherished the belief that she was entitled to take a prominent place as illustrator; but she consoled herself with the reflection that when the magazine was really started her previous experience could not fail to be useful.

"We'll have stories, and essays, and poetry, and competitions, and advertisements at the end. You have to pay for advertisements, and that pays for stationery."

"What sort of advertisements?"

"Every sort. Exchanging stamps and post cards, selling snapshots --  anything you like. I should put: 'Fifth form pupil will coach junior for ten minutes daily in exchange for fagging: hot water, sewing on buttons, darning, etcetera.' I'm not used to mending. It's the limit! What shall we call it?"

"The magazine? The Grey House Monthly -- Messenger -- Herald --  something of that kind. We ought to bring in the name of the school."

"I don't see why. I think it would be nicer without. Less amateury. The -- Casket. Wouldn't Casket be good? It implies that it is full of treasures."

"The Torch! That's nicer than Casket, and sounds more spirited. We could have a picture of a woman holding up a lamp, with the word 'Progress' written across the beams -- like they do in the Punch cartoons. I think Torch would be lovely."

"Why not Comet?" asked Nancy in her brief, quiet tones, narrowing the double line of black eyelashes as she spoke so as to hide the expression of her eyes.

There was a moment's pause, broken by Dreda's quick, suspicious question:

"Why Comet?"

"Why not?"

"Do you mean because of the tail?"

"Comets do have tails, don't they? So do magazines!"

That was all very well, but the silence which followed the explanation showed that suspicion still rankled. Dreda arched her eyebrows at Barbara, who shrugged in reply. Susan wrinkled her brows, and Norah pursed her lips. What was Nancy really thinking inside that sleek, well-shaped little head? Comets appeared suddenly; remained to be a ten days' talk and wonder, and then -- mysteriously disappeared! Instinctively Dreda stiffened her back, and registered an inward vow that she would spare neither time nor pains to make the magazine a permanent and shining light!



Chapter Eleven.

To the delight of Dreda, and the more subdued satisfaction of the other pupils, a magazine received the sanction of the headmistress and Miss Drake, provided that it did not aim at more than a quarterly appearance.

"It will waken you up!" said the latter, smiling whimsically at her pupils. "You are all rather apt to go to sleep at times, especially when a little originality is desired; but remember that the magazine receives official sanction as a means of education, not as a receptacle for any rubbish you may choose to scribble. We'll have stories, of course; but I have suffered under stories in other amateur magazines, and am determined to raise ours above the usual level. Every girl who wishes to write a story must draw out a synopsis of the plot and submit it to me before she embarks on the task of writing it out. I will then refuse or accept it, and in the latter case will talk it over with the author, giving her some hints as to arrangement, treatment of points, which will, I hope, be of value to the story. In fact, I should like to have the entire synopsis of the magazine drawn up and brought to me a month before publication. So what a Tartar of an editor I am going to be! I have quite decided that if I am to get through the work at all, I must have an understudy, a sub-editor, so to speak, who can keep the contributors up to time, collect their suggestions, and submit them for my criticism. It will involve a good deal of steady, methodical work. I wonder -- "

"I'll do it, Miss Drake. Let me. I offered to be editor before."

The words leaped from Etheldreda's lips before Miss Drake's eyes had wandered halfway round the class. Mary's face wore its usual blank stare, Barbara sniggled with obvious contempt, Nancy veiled her eyes with her thick, dark lashes, Susan flushed suddenly a brilliant red.

Both Miss Drake and Dreda herself were arrested by the sight of those flaming cheeks, for Susan was, as a rule, so calm and self-restrained that any exhibition of excitement on her part was bound to attract attention. What was the matter? Why did she look so anxious and eager? What were the words which seemed trembling on her lips? Dreda felt complacently convinced that as her own friend and ally Susan was longing to champion her cause. Miss Drake smiled and asked encouragingly:

"Well, Susan, what is it? What were you going to say?"

The red mounted higher and higher until it reached the roots of the tightly brushed hair. Susan's very ears seemed aflame, and her voice had the husky note of repressed excitement.

"I -- I was going to offer -- I thought I could do the work for you, Miss Drake."

Etheldreda's gasp of dismay was heard throughout the room. Her cheeks rivalled Susan's in their flame of indignation. Susan to play her false, to endeavour to wrest a coveted place from a friend! Susan an enemy, a rival! Dreda felt a vehement, overwhelming disgust for the whole universe and its inhabitants, a shattering of faith in every cherished ideal! Never, no never again, could she bring herself to believe in a human creature!

The two girls sat silent, awaiting the mistress's decree, and Miss Drake looked slowly from one flushed face to the other, her usually smooth forehead showing two deep horizontal lines. It was her "thinking look" -- the look which she wore when she was trying to explain an unusually difficult point in the day's lessons. The girls watched her anxiously, saw the lines clear away, and the light of decision drawn in her eyes; wondered if it were in imagination only that at the same time they caught the sound of a faint sigh of regret.

"Thank you, girls," she said slowly. "It is sweet of you both to be so ready to help. I am ever so much obliged to you, Susan -- but Dreda spoke first. I think I will decide to give the post to her."

Nobody heard any more than this, though Miss Drake continued talking for several moments. Dreda was thrilling from head to foot with triumphant joy. Susan's flush had deepened from crimson to an absolute magenta. The other girls were torn between sympathy and amazement! For once in their lives they were unanimous in condemnation of the beloved Duck's judgment, and could not imagine what she had been dreaming about to choose Dreda Saxon for a post of responsibility, when that most reliable of Susans could have been had for the asking. No one made any remark, however, and Dreda, glancing expectantly around, failed to meet any of the congratulatory smiles which were surely her right on so auspicious an occasion. The girls were sitting stiff and straight in their seats, staring at their desks in their most prim and wooden manner. Susan was the only one who ventured a struggling smile, and from her Dreda contemptuously turned aside. Hypocrisy was a failing for which she had no tolerance!

It was with a visible effort that Miss Drake continued the discussion in her usual bright, cheery manner.

"The term is already a month old. I should like to have the synopsis of the contents of the magazine by to-day fortnight -- say the tenth of next month. We can then allow three weeks for composition and a week for typing, and still have the magazine ready a week before the holidays. I have quite decided that everything must be typed: the effect, as a whole, will be far better. Faults in style and composition stand out before us in print as they never do in our own familiar handwriting. Moreover, I have other schemes working in my head." She paused, smiling mysteriously. "I won't explain now, but later on, perhaps ... Do your best, girls! Some of you have real talent. Who knows, this little venture may be the beginning of some great career. How proud I should be in time to come if I could say of a celebrated author: 'She was my pupil. She wrote her first story or essay or poem for our school magazine!'"

She paused, looking round the class. Once more her gaze lingered on Susan's downcast face, but there was no response in its immovable lines. The other girls vouchsafed strained, uneasy smiles. Only from Dreda's ecstatic eyes there flashed back a joyful comprehension. How beautiful the girl looked! Her vivid colouring, all pink, and white, and gold, made an almost startling contrast to the duller tints of the other girls.

It was impossible to resist the fascination of so fair a sight, yet there was a touch of wistfulness in the teacher's smile.

The class dismissed, it was time to go upstairs to dress for supper, and Dreda found herself alone in the bedroom with her two companions. Nancy peeled off her blouse, threw it upon the bed, and brushed out her heavy locks in determined silence. Susan approached Dreda with a tremulous smile.

"Oh, Dreda -- I'm glad! I hope the magazine will be a success. If I can help you in any way do let me try."

But Dreda glared at her with sparkling eyes.

"You are not glad! You tried your very best to be editor yourself, though you knew how disappointed I should be. I thought you were my friend. You are not. You are an enemy, and not even an honest enemy at that! You need not trouble yourself about me any more, for lessons or anything else. I can get on quite well alone!"

Susan shrank, as if from a blow.

"Dreda, you are angry. You don't understand. It's no trouble. I love to help you."

"Much obliged. I don't care for such help. Please don't talk to me any more. I am angry. I have a right to be angry!"

Dreda pulled her screen with a jerk, cutting herself off from the corner where Susan performed her toilet. Seated on her bed, Nancy brushed at her long, sleek hair, keeping it spread as a veil before her face. Dreda waited in vain for a glance of sympathy, or understanding, but it never came, even when Susan had crept softly from the room and the constraint of her presence was removed. Nancy finished brushing her hair, and rose to her feet in the lightest, most unperturbed of fashions:

"Got any pins you can spare?"

Nancy was celebrated for the number of pins which she used in her toilet. Things wouldn't fasten without them, she declared. She was fairly bristling with pins, so that her most ardent adorers moderated their embraces, mindful of the scratches which had been their reward in days of inexperience. Dreda eagerly selected half a dozen of her most cherished fancy-headed pins, and handed them across the bed.

"Of course. As many as you like. I say, Nance, I'm sorry to have made a scene. I could not help it!"

"Oh, don't apologise. I like a good row now and then. Not for myself --  it's too much trouble -- but it's amusing to listen to other people when they get excited. They give themselves away so delightfully."

Dreda flushed, and knitted her brows.

"I wasn't at all excited in this case. I was angry -- righteously angry! It's one's duty to protest against mean, underhand actions."

"Such as wanting the best positions for ourselves?"

"Certainly not. That is only natural ambition -- laudable ambition. The mean thing is to try to oust someone else -- your own best friend, when you know she could do it better than you!"

"Yes!" mused Nancy thoughtfully. "That does sound mean ... This sub - editor post is going to be so difficult that it ought certainly to go to the right person. A careful, methodical, machine-like sort of creature, who will never forget or let others forget. The girls are slack enough about regular work, and will be a hundred times worse about an extra, and The Duck is a tartar about punctuality. It's going to be a problem to please them and 'keep the peace.' But you have had a magazine at home, so you know all about it. Susan has had no experience."

Nancy had seated herself on her bed once more, her hands clasped round her knees, her lips slightly apart, showing a glimpse of the golden bar round the front teeth; her long, Eastern-looking eyes met Dreda's without a blink, yet for some mysterious reason Dreda felt her cheeks flush and a jarring doubt awoke in her mind. "A machine" -- "never forgetting -- never late!" Not even her youthful complaisance could apply that description to herself. The ghosts of past enterprises seemed to rear reproachful heads, reminding her of their existence. To each of the number had been sworn eternal fidelity, yet how short had been their lives! The factory girl, for instance, who had received three long, enthusiastic letters, and after the lapse of a year was still awaiting the receipt of the fourth. Poor Emma Larkins had been so appreciative and grateful. Dreda had been able to talk of nothing else for the first week of the correspondence. She had planned a lifelong friendship, and in imagination had seen herself, aged and wealthy, acting the gracious benefactress to a second generation. How had she happened to forget? She had been busy, her father had taken her for a trip abroad, she had joined a society for the study of French classics. The time had flown by until she had been ashamed to begin writing again. No doubt another correspondent had taken her place ... "Susan has no experience." True! Yet if one wished to describe Susan's character, could one do it more aptly than by using Nancy's own words? "Careful, methodical, machine-like as to accuracy!" What did Nancy mean? Was she really and truly in earnest, or did some hidden meaning lurk behind the seemingly innocent words? Dreda drew a long breath, and set her teeth in the determination to set an example of diligence and punctuality to all sub-editors beneath the sun, and by so doing to demonstrate in the most practical of fashions her suitability for the post.



Chapter Twelve.

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy -- and Jill a dull girl also. Miss Bretherton was a firm believer in this old adage, and loyally tried to provide a due proportion of amusement for her pupils. In the winter terms bad weather often interfered with outdoor sports, but every alternate Saturday evening a reception was held in the drawing-room between the hours of seven and nine thirty, on which occasions thirty pupils dressed for the fray with gleeful anticipation, and the thirty - first with trembling foreboding, for it was she who was chosen to play the part of hostess and take sole management and responsibility of the entertainment.

All pupils in the fourth and fifth term were considered old enough to be hostesses, so that no girl was called upon to play the part more than twice a year; but when the great occasions arrived, ambition mingled with nervousness, and the heroine of the hour, calling to mind the errors and failings of her companions, determined to profit by them, and achieve a brilliant success for herself.

The duties of the hostess were sufficiently onerous. She was responsible for the arrangement of flowers in the drawing-room, could distribute chairs and sofas as she thought fit, and punctually at seven o'clock must be on duty prepared to receive her guests and direct the passing round of tea and coffee. The first hour was dedicated to conversation; for the second, some form of amusement must be designed and arranged, and lastly, a sum of ten shillings had to be so expended as to provide some form of light refreshment which should be consumed before the company dispersed.

To take the last duty first, ten shillings divided into thirty portions (the younger pupils were not allowed to stay up for "supper") did not allow a very handsome sum per head! Most hostesses came down and down in their ambition until they reached the ignominious level of lemonade and buns, but there had been occasional daring flights of fancy, as when Nancy had provided thirty large sausage rolls, and the poor sufferers whose digestions forbade playing with such dainties last thing at night found no choice offered to them, and were obliged to retire to bed hungry and wrathful. An hour's amusement was also somewhat difficult to arrange, as nothing short of an official decree would induce a music pupil to perform in public, a singer to sing, or an elocutionist to give a recital. Paper games and competitions of a somewhat feeble nature were the general refuge of the destitute, though each hostess started out with the determination of hitting on something more amusing and exciting. No difficulty as to amusement or provision, however, could compare for one moment with the ordeal of that first hour, that hour of reception and conversation, the horrors of which each fresh hostess seemed to find more onerous than the last. To sail forward and shake hands with Miss Bretherton in her best grey silk, to welcome her to her own drawing-room, and engage in light conversation about the weather --  could one imagine a more paralysing ordeal? Then no sooner was the Head disposed of in one arm-chair, than in would come a party of your best friends, all primed with mischievous determination to make you giggle, and so reduce you to humiliation. While one was elegantly shaking hands, a second was furtively pulling hideous grimaces, a third was pinching your arm, and a fourth treading on your toe. Crimson-faced and quivering, you would convey these last arrivals across the room and introduce them to Miss Bretherton, for it was one of the tiresome rules that no one guest was supposed to know another at the moment of entering these social gatherings. Thick and fast they came at last, and more and more and more, all needing to be welcomed with appropriate words, conducted to seats, introduced, provided with tea. The poor hostess had no time to think of herself, and her worst moments began when all her guests had assembled, for then she must perforce watch for the moment when conversation became forced and fitful and promptly move the pawns about the board, introducing them to fresh pawns, lingering until conversation was safely afloat! The members of the staff never deigned to help the poor struggling novice in the art of entertainment; it was darkly suspected that they rather added to her difficulties by adopting haughty, reserved airs which called for greater displays of generalship. With what a sigh of relief was the striking of eight o'clock greeted by the harassed mistress of the ceremonies!

Dreda Saxon's first experience as hostess arrived just about the middle of the term, and, unlike her companions, she was greatly elated at the prospect. No fears disturbed her night's rest; she received the half - sovereign for refreshments as gratefully as if it had been a fortune, and graciously "allowed" a few favoured friends to join the troupe of "dramatic impersonators" who were to provide the hour's amusement.

Everyone wanted to be a dramatic impersonator. It sounded much more exciting than sitting primly looking on beneath the eyes of the teaching staff; but Dreda had made a careful selection of Susan, Nancy, Barbara, and two lanky, overgrown third form sisters, Molly and Florry Reece, and sturdily refused to add to their number. Norah West in especial was much injured at being passed over, for she cherished a schoolgirl's adoration for the quiet Susan, and until Dreda's appearance on the scene had invariably been included in any scheme in which either she or Nancy were interested.

"I always did everything with everybody. I was always in everything until you came," she cried resentfully.

"Were you? Dear me! Then you should be glad of a rest," responded naughty Dreda, when, needless to say, Norah waxed more indignant than before.

"That Etheldreda Saxon is really getting insupportable," she announced to her companions at dinner on Saturday morning. "A new-comer and a fourth form girl, and she tries to boss the school. She's not a bit good at her work either, except at things she can make up out of her own head at a moment's notice. What right has she to give herself airs?" The companion shrugged her shoulders with disappointing indifference.

"I don't know. What does it matter? It pleases her, and it don't hurt us. She's good at hitting on new ideas anyhow, and that's a comfort. Dramatic impersonations sounds a lot better than paper games. I'm quite looking forward to to-night."

Now Norah had had paper games on a recent occasion when she had played the part of hostess, so she felt herself snubbed, and sulked for the whole afternoon, disdaining to take any notice of the whispering and laughing, the rushings to and fro, the wholesale confiscation of "properties," indulged in by Dreda and her troupe.

When the evening arrived she put on her second best dress, and purposely dallied until the very last moment before entering the drawing-room. She wished and expected to annoy Dreda by slighting her hospitality, but Dreda was too much absorbed in the excitement of the moment to remember past differences, so that the reluctant Norah found herself greeted with the most radiant of smiles, and was promptly escorted across the room and introduced to Mademoiselle in characteristic fashion.

"Mademoiselle, may I introduce my friend Miss West? Miss West is quite a distinguished example of our jeune fille sportive! I am sure you will like to know her. Miss West -- Mademoiselle Saudre."

Mademoiselle chuckled with delight, and subdued splutterings of amusement sounded round the room while the jeune fille sportive took her seat with a very red face, miserably conscious that she was handicapped with a new nickname which would remain with her for the rest of her school life.

It was amusing to note the expression, half-approving, half-dismayed, with which Miss Bretherton watched the self-possessed young hostess. These evening At Homes had been instituted with the express design of preparing the elder pupils to be of social use to their mothers on their return home; to be able to make an introduction in due form, and to overcome awkward self-consciousness. It was a trifle disconcerting, however, to behold so very full-fledged a bantling, to find oneself treated with benevolent patronage, and to see the old rules set at naught in favour of startling innovations. Dreda had requisitioned two of the maids to take charge of the tea-table, and ordered their movements with the air of a commander-in-chief; she strolled about the room -- taking part in the conversations of the different groups, and, when necessary, introducing new subjects with unblushing inconsequence.

As, for instance: "Yes; it has been terribly foggy. Quite the worst October on record. Have you ever been in Switzerland?"

The startled hearers were dumb for some moments, and then one of the number announced that she was going to Saint Moritz in January to take part in the winter sports, whereupon everyone was full of interest and curiosity, and Dreda swept onward to another bored-looking group, and hurled another conversational arrow.

At last -- far sooner than usual, as everyone allowed -- the clock struck eight, and immediately the two maids came forward, and, still under Dreda's superintendence, moved all the seats to the far end of the room, shutting off the portion by the door by means of three outstretched screens. The dramatic impersonations were about to begin!

A scene from English history formed the first item on the programme, and the screens being duly removed, an imposing figure was discerned strutting slowly to and fro, clad in a white bath gown on which a selection of shining dish-covers had been fastened with a very fair effect of armoury. Behind this imposing personage paced two other figures, cloaked and draped in would-be old-world fashion, who smirked as they went, and, bowing and scraping, pointed mysteriously to a green baize tablecloth stretched on the floor in mysteriously lumpy outline. The haughty person in the dish-covers waved aside these confidences with an air of impatience, then suddenly waxing wrathful, turned upon his companions and issued dumb but imperious commands. A chair was produced, and the attendants stood by in evident discomfort the while their seated master pointed his hand rebukingly towards the green patch on the floor. And then began a curious phenomenon, for the lumpy mass beneath the green tablecloth suddenly awoke to movement; a rhythmical, regular movement which swayed to and fro, up and down, creeping ever nearer and nearer to the seated monarch. When at length the edge of the cloth actually touched his august feet, horror and consternation were depicted on the faces of the attendants, while their master arose in leisurely dignity, and delivered in pantomime what was evidently a most instructive and admonitory address.

Hearty clapping and cries of "Canute! Canute!" from the stalls greeted the end of this performance, whereupon the green tablecloth was hastily thrown aside and the "waves" appeared in the persons of Molly and Florry, somewhat hot and red in the face as a result of their seclusion, but satisfied that their efforts had produced quite the most striking effect in the performance.

A bell rang. The screens were hastily pushed forward, and Barbara's fingers could be heard laboriously pounding out her latest "piece" on the piano, the while audible preparations were taking place for item number two. Barbara was not musical by nature, and in addition to a woodenness of touch, possessed a habit of playing the treble notes a distinct beat in advance of the bass, peculiarly exasperating to her instructress. Poor Fraulein! her expression suggested an attack of indigestion rather than an amused spectator of a dramatic entertainment!

Te-tum, te-tum, tum-tum! The last uncertain chords quavered to an end, the screens were again withdrawn, and the stage was discovered full of characters, dressed with some ingenuity to represent the principal personages in "Young Lochinvar." In arranging the dramatis persona some difficulty had arisen from the fact that none of the girls was willing to represent the elderly bridegroom so unflatteringly described as "a laggard in love and a dastard in war." It was not an ingratiating character, and Nancy and Barbara flatly refused to personate it. Susan could do it, she was the smallest, and would best look the part. For two minutes on end Susan stoutly refused to do anything of the kind, and then placidly consented, being of a peace-at-any-price disposition, which found it easier to submit than to preserve a determined opposition. She submitted, therefore, and reaped her reward in the shape of a costume which was beyond doubt the most striking in the group. A Norfolk jacket, a shawl pleated to represent a kilt, and a plaid thrown across her shoulders, were but insignificant details compared to the delight of sporting a pair of whiskers manufactured out of two long heads of pampas grass, so white, so silky, so bushy that they had really to be seen to be appreciated! The pampas grasses had been Dreda's inspiration, and when she had tied them securely into place, run several long black crayon marks from nose to chin, and popped a pair of spectacles over the eyes, behold the demure Susan transformed into so comical an imitation of an old man that the spectators rocked on their seats with merriment. There he stood, "plucking his bonnet and plume," while Dreda simpered in a corner, and Nancy as Lochinvar interviewed Barbara in the character of indignant father. Both actors had donned imitations of the Scottish costume, and the former made a picturesque figure as he led forward his lady love.

"One touch to her hand, and one word in her ears, And they reached the hall door, and the charger stood near."

The charger was represented by an ancient and battered hobby horse, astride which the eloping lovers galloped violently across the stage, to disappear from sight through the open doorway. Confusion followed among the spectators, who hurriedly supplied themselves with imaginary steeds and galloped off in wild pursuit.

Again there was no difficulty in guessing the poem represented, but long and continued applause testified to the delight of the audience, while a special call was given to the wearer of the pampas whiskers.

After an interval of several minutes the screens were withdrawn for the third impersonation, when an impromptu bed was beheld placed on the extreme left of the stage. Lying snugly snoozled into a pillow was a fair head, at sight of which the audience laughed uproariously, for the head belonged to Dreda Saxon; but her fair hair, parted in the middle and plastered straightly down on either side, gave a ridiculously staid and old-world effect to her pink and white face. She snored gently, unperturbed by the mocking laughter, and presently two stout dames hurried into the room, and with a great show of agitation, roused the damsel from her sleep. Her arms were thrust into a blue dressing-gown, her bare feet into bedroom slippers, and, thus attired, she was escorted past a second screen into the presence of two grave and reverend segniors, who fell on their knees and humbly kissed her outstretched hand. The ludicrous solemnity of Dreda's face beneath the plastered bandeaux of hair brought down the house, and no one had the least difficulty in recognising in the representation the youthful Queen Victoria at the moment of her accession.

There was only enough time left for two more representations: Sir Walter Raleigh spreading his cloak on the ground so that Queen Elizabeth could escape the mud, and a spirited rendering of Horatius keeping the bridge, in which last representation Nancy won much applause as the "great Lord of Luna" clanking a four-fold shield in the shape of large-sized tea trays. The bridge was typified by a blackboard stretched between two tables -- and the manner in which Horatius made his final dive into a nest of cushions was blood-curdling to behold. In truth, the hour's amusement passed like a flash, and when Dreda in ordinary dress re - entered the drawing-room at the head of her troupe, she was everywhere greeted with congratulations and applause.

"Supper" was another surprise, consisting, as it did, of fruit salad and whipped-up cream. The fortunates who were first in the field waxed eloquent in appreciation, but, alas! the cream soon fell short, and the last helpings of "salad" were so small as to be almost invisible.

"But some people are never satisfied," quoth Dreda scornfully. "What if the salad did run short! It was a feast of reason and a flow of soul. I've no pity for a person whose mind can't soar above stewed prunes!"



Chapter Thirteen.

The energy with which Etheldreda the Ready set about her work as sub - editor threatened to ruin the magazine before its birth, for intending contributors grew so tired of daily and sometimes hourly reminders that by the end of a week weariness had developed into right-down crossness and irritation. "For goodness' sake leave me alone. I'm sick of the name of the old magazine! If you worry me once more I won't do a thing -- so there!" Such answers were more than a little disconcerting to one who had worked herself up to a white heat of enthusiasm, and could neither think, dream, nor speak of any other subject under the sun. So engrossed was Dreda in trying to keep other writers to the mark, that it was not until ten day's of the allotted fourteen had passed by that she set to work to think out her own contribution. It was to be a story, of course -- not a stupid, amateury, namby-pamby story, such as you could read in other school magazines, but something striking and original, that would make everyone talk and wonder, and lie awake at night. So far so good; but when the time for writing it arrived it was astonishingly difficult to hit upon a suitable idea! Dreda chewed the end of her pen, wrote "Synopsis of Plot" at the top of her paper in an imposing round hand with the downstrokes elaborately inked, dotted wandering designs here and there, and cudgelled her brains for inspiration. There must be a girl, of course -- a girl heroine, blonde and lovely, and an adventuress (brunette), and a hero. But she did not intend to write a love story -- that was piffle. Something really thrilling and dangerous! She mentally ran over a list of misadventures -- fire, flood, shipwreck. She had read of them all dozens of times over; and, mentioned in a synopsis, they would have quite an ordinary effect. It was after hours of anxious deliberation, during which ordinary lessons went completely to the wall, that the brilliant idea of an earthquake flashed upon Dreda's mind. An earthquake story might be as complicated as one pleased, for all the superfluous people could be killed off at the crucial moment, while legal papers and wills could disappear, so that one could not even be expected to unravel the mystery! She hovered uncertainly between three sensational titles -- "A Hopeless Quest," "For Ever Hidden," "In the Twinkling of an Eye!" -- and plunged boldly into the first sentence of the synopsis without having the faintest idea how it should end:

"A lovely young girl, Leila (English, yellow hair, sixteen) lives on a beautiful isle which had been a volcano hundreds of years before. (This will not be mentioned till the last, but mysterious remarks made about rumblings, to prepare the mind.) Dolores (Spanish), aged seventeen, pretends to be her friend, but is really jealous. They stay together at a country house with a veranda, and exciting things happen. Leila is supposed to be an orphan, and Dolores patronises her because she is poor. An English officer comes to call, and staggers back at sight of Leila. (He is really her father.) Dolores makes mischief, and persuades him to leave her all his money. They go to the lawyers, and Leila goes out for a sail in a boat to cheer her spirits. While she is sailing, the volcano blows up and everyone is killed. Leila is picked up by a passing ship, and inherits the money."

Compared with this sensational programme, Susan's story promised to be deplorably tame and uneventful, and Dreda curled her lip in scorn as she read the neatly written lines:

"I want to write the story of a man who was naturally very nervous and afraid, but who hid it so well that everyone believed him to be a hero. I want to show that he really did become brave, because his friends believed in him, and he tried to be worthy of their trust."

"Gracious! How dull. It sounds like a tract. Susan is a dear; but she's a currant bun when all is said and done, and she can't get away from it. They are stodgers!" quoth Miss Dreda, with a shrug, as she placed the paper beside her own in her desk. Her anger against Susan had died a rapid death, for the double reason that she herself found it impossible to harbour resentment, and that Susan steadily refused to be a second party to a quarrel. Scornfully though her help had been refused, she offered it afresh every evening, and after three days' experience of struggle and defeat, Dreda was thankful to accept.

"But you were mean about the editorship, all the same. It wasn't like you, Susan!" she declared severely, feeling it would be too great a condescension to capitulate without protest. "You are generally quite sweet about helping other people. I don't understand what you were thinking about!"

Susan's quiet smile seemed to express agreement with this last statement, but she made no protest and allowed herself to be kissed and petted with a condescending "We'll say no more about it, will we, dear? Now for this exercise -- it's a perfect brute!"

It was only by dint of ceaseless entreaties and cajoleries that the sub - editor succeeded in collecting a respectable number of entries for the first number of the magazine before the appointed date, and if the absolute truth had been known she was already feeling overweighted with the cares of office. It was a fag to be worried out of one's life, and as a result to be disliked rather than praised.

"I shake in my shoes at the very sight of Dreda Saxon!" said Norah West of the spectacles and freckles. "There's no peace in life while she is on the rampage. This school has never been the same since she came. She seems to have upset everything."

Nancy offered to contribute an article on "Characteristics of School Celebrities -- Literary and Sportive," and refused to be coaxed to a more decorous subject. "That, or nothing!" was her mandate, so down it went on the synopsis, followed, by way of contrast, by Mary Webster's "Essay on Ancient Greece," and the head girl's "Great Women of History." Beryl Turner, who had a passion for figure drawing, unjustified by skill, submitted half a dozen sketches of an impossible young woman apparently entirely devoid of joints, to explain which she proposed to write a story, thus entirely reversing the usual process of illustration; and, fired by a desire to show her own artistic superiority, Dreda hastily embellished her own paper with two vignette paintings of her own heroines. Leila, with luxuriant locks of yellow, splashed with green, and Dolores with inky hair and eyes of a rich gamboge. On the afternoon of the fourteenth day of the month Dreda spent her recreation hour in arranging the collected sheets to the best advantage, and in fastening them within the cover of an old exercise book. She was aglow with self - satisfaction at having accomplished her task in time, and intended to lay special stress on the fact in her next letter home and so win from the home circle that admiration and praise which her schoolfellows were so slow to bestow.

On the whole, she was well pleased with the result of her labours, and looked forward with a lively curiosity to Miss Drake's comments and criticisms. When the booklet was finished and a printed label pasted in the middle of the black cover, she laid it carefully inside her desk and went to rejoin her companions by the study fire. They stopped talking as she approached, and began to "rag" in true school fashion.

"Here comes our literary friend. Quite worn out with the strain of her intellectual efforts! Sit down, my love, and calm your fevered brow!" This from Barbara, while Norah cried scornfully:

"Look at her fingers -- inked to the joints! Anyone could tell she was a budding author!"

"Did you tie the papers together with blue ribbon? That's an absolute necessity. I have a piece I could give you."

"Thank you, Nancy. I'll accept it with pleasure -- for my hair. The book is finished and needs no trimmings. It looks beautifully neat and professional. I can't show it to anyone until my -- my colleague has seen it and made her alterations; but as soon as it comes back -- "

She nodded in condescending fashion, and the girls chuckled and exchanged twinkling glances.

"'My colleague'! That's good!"

"Good word, Dreda! Bring that in in your story. It has a fine effect."

"I'm thankful it is finished at last. We shall be able to sleep in peace to-night without being disturbed by your plunging and snortings. I've always heard that geniuses were trying to live with, but they are even worse by night than by day!"

"At what time are you going to present the Opus to your colleague? After prep, to-morrow? Then I beg to suggest that until it has been reviewed and the verdict passed the subject shall be forbidden. The strain is too great!"

Norah rolled her eyes, a performance rendered weirdly effective by the presence of her large round glasses, and the other girls taking up the clue, flopped in their seats, leant feebly against a neighbouring shoulder, and fanned themselves faintly with their handkerchiefs. As a rule, Dreda was as quick to take offence as she was to forgive, but this afternoon she manifested no signs of irritation. "They laugh who win," and no one could deny that she had won this time -- won all along the line -- in gaining consent to the establishment of a magazine, in obtaining the post of sub-editor; lastly, and most striking of all, in being ready up to time, despite the gloomy prophecies to the contrary.

For the next twenty-four hours she was her brightest, most charming self, so radiant with happiness that she overflowed with sympathy and kindness to all around. She nursed little Vida Neale, the baby of the school, on her knee, and recounted such fascinating stories that earache was forgotten in squeals of delighted merriment. She went up early to dress for the evening and carried hot water to the cubicles of her four best friends; she talked in the most amiable of fashions to poor, dull Fraulein at supper; listened to remarks on the superiority of Germany with a self-control bordering on the miraculous; and finally laid her head down on the pillow of her bed with the feeling of being at peace with all the world.

"Prosperity suits me," she told herself, snuggling cosily beneath the clothes. "It brings out the best points in my disposition. I ought never to be crossed!"

The next morning passed slowly. Dreda did not distinguish herself at lessons, and it was with a somewhat strained manner that Miss Drake crossed the room to speak to her at the end of the preparation hour. She had been obliged to find fault with her new pupil several times in the course of the day's classes. There was that in her manner which showed that she feared lest yet another reprimand might be necessary.

"Dreda, have you remembered that to-day is the fifteenth of the month?"

"Yes, Miss Drake."

"Have you the synopsis of the school magazine ready to show me?"

"Yes, Miss Drake."

"Quite ready?"

"Yes, Miss Drake."

The Duck smiled her prettiest, most approving smile.

"Good girl! I like punctuality. Bring it up to me now, please, in my sitting-room."

"Yes, Miss Drake."

Up the stairs ran Dreda, light of foot, bright of eye, heart beating high with happiness, into the bare empty schoolroom, where the windows stood open and the fire smouldered on the grate. She switched on the electric light, crossed the floor to her own desk, and threw open the lid. Stupid! She had imagined that she had left the manuscript book on top ... How came she to be mistaken in so strong an impression?

... She lifted a pile of exercise sheets, pushed the books aside, and scattered miscellaneous possessions to right and to left. Her eyes distended as if about to fall from her head. She sank back on a chair and gazed stupidly before her. The synopsis had disappeared!



Chapter Fourteen.

The synopsis had disappeared! Incredible though it seemed, it was but too true. For the first few minutes Dreda was too much stunned to move from her seat, but presently with a painful effort after self - possession, she arose, and began hastily lifting the contents of the desk, and dropping them one by one on the floor. In this way it seemed impossible to overlook anything, but still no sign of the shining black cover met her sight. She scooped everything together with impatient fingers, pushed them back into the desk, and ran breathlessly into the study.

The girls were amusing themselves in various fashions after the fatigues of "prep.," but one and all looked round with expressions of astonishment at the violent opening of the door which heralded the unexpected appearance of the sub-editor, white-cheeked, and tragic of demeanour.

"What in the world's the matter?"

"The list! The synopsis! It's gone! It was in my desk. Miss Drake sent me for it. She is waiting for me now, and it's gone: I can't find it. Has anyone moved it? Does anyone know where it's gone?"

The girls' faces lengthened; there was a moment's tense silence, then everyone spoke at once.

"Dreda! How dreadful! Are you sure? In your desk? No one would take it out of your desk!"

"Dreda! You are always mislaying your things. You have put it somewhere else. Think! Remember your keys! You vowed you had put them in your glove drawer, and they were found in the box with your best hat."

"Have you been upstairs to look in your cubicle?"

Dreda stamped with impatience.

"Of course I haven't. My cubicle, indeed! As if I would keep a book there! It was in my desk, I tell you. I left it there last night. I saw it with my own eyes this morning. Oh! don't ask silly questions --  don't waste time. She is waiting for me. What am I to do?"

"Come!" cried Susan quickly, and sped upstairs towards the classroom, while Dreda followed hard in her wake, leaving the other girls to discuss the situation round the fire. The universal impression was that Dreda had stowed away the book in some hiding-place, and had promptly forgotten all about it. She was always doing it; never a day arrived but she went about inquiring in melancholy accents if anyone had seen her indiarubber, her penknife, her keys, her gloves. She was always leaving things about, and, upon suddenly discovering their presence, popping them into impromptu hiding-places to save running upstairs --  behind a photograph, in an empty flower-pot, beneath a mat or cushion, anywhere and everywhere, as circumstances prompted. Nothing was certain but that nine times out of ten she would forget the whole incident, and would have no better clue to help her in her search after the missing article than that she had put it "somewhere!"

"Poor old Dreda!" said Barbara sympathetically. "Hard lines, when she has worked so hard! The Duck will be down upon her like a ton of bricks. She loathes untidiness. Poor old Dreda -- she'll get a rowing instead of praise. It's tragic when you think of that fine cover, and all the beautiful black letters!"

"She's been an awful bore. It will do her good to be taken down a bit."

"Poor Dreda all the same. Things that do you good are so very disagreeable. I like her enthusiasm, when it doesn't interfere with me! And she's a real good sort. A bore at times, but a good little meaner."

"It's no use meaning, if you don't perform, where The Duck is concerned. I wouldn't be in her shoes."

Meanwhile Dreda had turned out the contents of her desk for a second time, while Susan stood anxiously looking on. When the last paper had fluttered to the ground, the two girls faced one another in eloquent silence.

"It isn't there," said Susan at last. "There must be some mistake. Think, dear! Are you quite sure that you put it here, and nowhere else? What did you do after you finished binding the papers? Where did you go? Think of everything you did."

"But I did nothing!" cried Dreda miserably. "I only dressed and went down to supper. I never took it out of this room at all -- I'm certain, positive -- as certain as I'm alive!"

"But we could look. It is worth while looking. We must find it!"

But at this very moment the door of Miss Drake's room opened, and a quick voice called out a summons.

"Dreda! I am waiting. Kindly come at once."

The colour ebbed still further from Dreda's cheeks, her eyes grew wide and tragic, she extended her hands towards Susan, as if mutely appealing for help, and felt them clasped with a strong protecting pressure.

"You must go, but I'll search. I'm a good looker, you know. Poor darling! It is hard, but I'll help -- I will help."

Then Etheldreda the Ready threw her arms round her friend's neck and cried brokenly:

"Susan, dear Susan, you are good, and I love you! I was horrid about the editorship... You would have been far better than I. This is my punishment -- I have brought it on my own head."

Her voice was so sweet, her eyes so liquid and loving, she drew herself up and marched to her doom with so gallant an air, that her faithful admirer thought instinctively of the martyrs of old. She turned and ran hurriedly upstairs.

Meantime Miss Drake sat looking towards the door with an impatient frown. The frown deepened at sight of Dreda's empty hands, and she tapped on the table with the end of her pencil. Dreda's heart sank still further at the sound which Miss Drake's pupils had learnt to associate with their blackest hours.

"You have kept me waiting for ten minutes, Dreda. Where is your manuscript? I have no time to waste."

"I -- I -- can't -- I can't find it, Miss Drake."

Miss Drake leant back in her chair and became in a moment a monument of outraged dignity. Looking at her, it was impossible to believe that one had even ventured on the liberty of calling her by so familiar an epithet as "The Duck." She turned her long neck from side to side, elevated her eyebrows, and cleared her throat in an ominous manner.

"I am afraid I don't understand. You told me a few minutes ago that everything was ready."

"So it was. In my desk. I left it there last night -- I went to find it just now, and -- it's gone! Disappeared. I can't think what has happened. It was bound like a book. It looked beautiful. It's not my fault!"

"Nonsense, Etheldreda!" cried Miss Drake sharply. "If you had put it in your desk, it would be there still. This is just another example of your careless, unmethodical habits. You have put the book in some unlikely, out-of-the-way corner, and have forgotten all about it. I feared some contretemps of the kind, and was much relieved when you told me that all was ready. I am very much disappointed and annoyed!"

"Miss Drake, it was there! I'm absolutely positive. I never was surer of anything in my life than that I left it there last night, and saw it again this morning."

Miss Drake shrugged her shoulders expressively.

"Extravagant assertions do not prove anything, Etheldreda. In a case of this sort I judge by previous experience. I have repeatedly warned you about your careless habits, but apparently without success. In this case you had a responsibility to fulfil for others as well as yourself, which should have made you doubly careful. You had better continue your search in the other rooms."

"It is no good, Miss Drake. The book was in the desk."

Dreda kept her place stolidly, and there was a settled conviction upon her face which Miss Drake was quick to note. She watched the girl in silence for several moments, her brow knitted in thought, then suddenly her expression softened and her voice regained its habitual kindly tone.

"If you put it there, my dear child, it must be there still. Perhaps it is! I know your sketchy fashion of looking. See! I will come and help you to look again. Perhaps we shall find the book hidden away in a corner where you have never thought of looking!"

Dreda thought ruefully of the scattering of her treasures which had twice over left the desk bare and empty, but it seemed easier to allow Miss Drake to see for herself than to protest any further; so she meekly opened the door and followed the governess down the passage. From above could be heard the voices of the girls ascending to dress for the evening; doors opened and shut, and echoes of suppressed laughter floated to the ear. Everybody, Dreda reflected darkly -- everybody was happy but herself! She led the way to her desk and opened the lid, revealing the confused mass of books and papers. She was miserably resigned to receiving yet another lecture on untidiness, but The Duck smiled in a forbearing fashion, and said:

"You have been making hay of your possessions! No wonder you could not find what you wanted. Now what was this book like? You said that the papers were bound."

"A shiny black cover with a paper label on the back."

Miss Drake lifted up the loose papers with her pretty white hands, laid them daintily on one side, and proceeded to examine the exercise books one by one, while Dreda stood by in hopeless silence. One might search all day and all night, but it was impossible to find what was not there. Her eyes looked listlessly on the map book, the arithmetic book, the French exercise book; even the big untidy note book roused no flicker of animation, though if it chanced to fall open it would reveal caricature drawings of school authorities which must needs draw confusion upon her head. She would never have the heart to draw caricatures again! The thick book with the mottled cover contained the compositions which had won praise and distinction. She had felt so proud of the "Excellent" written in pencilled letters at the end of the final sentences. Never again would she know what it was to be happy and gay! The big drawing - book must have suffered from its fall -- for the leaves appeared to be bent and doubled back. Dreda felt the calm indifference of despair, but Miss Drake frowned and made a clicking sound of disapproval.

"My dear! Your drawing-book! You are really incorri -- "

She stopped short in the middle of the word, for the moment that the drawing-book was opened her quick eye had caught sight of a shiny black cover behind the crumpled papers. She lifted it rapidly, saw the printed label on the back, and held it out towards her pupil with a mingling of triumph and impatience.

"My dear Dreda! What did I tell you? All this fuss for nothing. You are really too trying. Why didn't you look properly before coming to me?"

Dreda's exclamation of bewilderment was echoed by another, as Susan entered the room on her return from her unsuccessful search upstairs. She added her own quiet testimony to Dreda's excited protestations that the synopsis was not, could not conceivably have been in the desk when she had turned it out ten minutes before, but Miss Drake refused to listen. Her temper was ruffled, she enforced silence with an imperative gesture, bade Dreda follow her to the study, and seated herself at her desk with her most severe and school-mistressy expression.

As for Dreda, she feebly dropped into a chair and sat staring blankly before her, the image of limp dejection. The very stars in their courses seemed conspiring to fight against her, for no ordinary, every - day reason could explain the extraordinary happenings of this afternoon! She was so stunned and bewildered that she forgot to watch the effect of the great synopsis on the Editor-in-chief, and so missed a delightful study in expressions, as The Duck's irritation gave place to smiles and dimpling spasms of amusement. It was only after she had finished the reading (after all the labour of production what a short time it took to read), and had asked a word of explanation, that Dreda seemed suddenly galvanised into fresh life, but as usual with her, when the awakening came, it came with a vengeance. She leapt to her feet, and disregarding the question, launched her thunderbolt with dramatic vehemence.

"Miss Drake, I wish to resign being editor."

"Do you, Etheldreda? Why?"

The voice was so calm, Miss Drake's whole manner so devoid of surprise or chagrin, that Dreda felt as if a douche of cold water had been suddenly poured down her back. No kindly protests, no encouragement, no sympathy. Nothing but that cool, level "Why?" She stood gaping and hesitating, for in truth it was hard to answer. To say that she was sick of the whole thing because she had encountered a few initial difficulties and worries seemed mean and poor-spirited, and Dreda could not think so lightly of herself. In the minute of hesitation she had lightly brushed aside difficulties, and felt a swelling of righteous renunciation.

"Because -- I want Susan to take it. She would do better than I."

"Have you only just discovered that, Dreda?"

The question was put in a tone which Dreda had never heard before from Miss Drake's lips -- a tone so tender, so gentle and conciliatory, that it startled as much as the words themselves. Dreda stared, the colour paling on her cheeks, her hands clenched at the back of her chair. What did it mean? Susan had volunteered her services, and Miss Drake had deliberately rejected them in favour of herself, and now she said, she implied --  The girl's lips quivered as she spoke again:

"You chose me!"

"Why?" asked Miss Drake once more, in the same gentle voice. "Why, Dreda? Think a moment! Does it not occur to you, dear, that I might have chosen you, not because the work needed you, but because you needed the work? Your duties called for patience, and perseverance, and method, and punctuality, and neatness, and tact -- all qualities which needed development in your case; while in Susan's -- "

"You would rather have had Susan! You didn't really want me at all!"

The bitter disappointment in the girl's voice went to the hearer's heart. It was one of the hardest tasks which she had ever had to perform to answer truthfully, and so give another pang to the sensitive young heart. The colour rose on her cheeks and her brows twitched nervously, but she would not allow herself to prevaricate.

"Yes, Dreda, dear. For the sake of the work I should have preferred Susan, but I wanted to help you to get the better of your failings. I wanted it so much that I was prepared to undertake the extra work which your carelessness might involve, for the magazine could not be allowed to suffer. I am afraid it is painful to you, dear, to hear this, but if your vanity is wounded, you can comfort yourself with the remembrance that I was so much interested in you, so anxious for your improvement, that I rejected a most capable helper on your account."

"Thank you!" sighed Dreda faintly. There was not a sign of irritation or resentment in her manner, and her thanks were evidently genuine. She might have posed as an image of humility and abasement as she stood with bowed head and downcast eyes before the desk. The swing of the pendulum had brought her into the valley of humiliation, and in characteristic fashion she felt a melancholy pleasure in playing her part as thoroughly as possible. "Thank you. You are very good. I am very grateful. We have to learn our lessons in life, I suppose, but it's hard at the time. It's been a great shock, but it's good for me, I suppose. I can never be careless again. I've read in books about something happening and finishing the girl's youth. I feel like that now! You meant me to learn, and I have learnt, so there's no need to go on. You can have Susan, and no more bother -- "

Miss Drake's lips twitched in a smile which fortunately Dreda did not see.

"I think not, Dreda. I should prefer to keep to present arrangements. If you have really learnt your lessons so quickly there will be no 'bother' to fear. You may go now, dear. We will discuss the synopsis later on. I dare say you will like to have a little quiet time before dinner. Come to me to-morrow at the same hour."

Dreda backed silently from the room a picture of tragic despair, and slowly mounted to the dormitory where the faithful Susan awaited her coming. The two girls faced one another in silence for several moments before Dreda spoke.

"Susan! on your word of honour will you answer me a question truthfully?"

"Yes, Dreda, of course I will."

"Why did you offer to be sub-editor after I had asked?"

Poor Susan! The freckles disappeared in a crimson blush which mounted to her temples, and tinged her very neck beneath the stiff brown band. She twisted her fingers together, and stammered incoherent nothings.

"Go on! You promised. The truth, and nothing but the truth."

"Dreda, dear -- "

"Go on! I'm prepared. I've suffered so much humiliation already that a little more or less doesn't matter. Well?"

"I thought -- I was afraid -- I didn't want you to get into trouble, dear. You are so clever, and original, and sparkling, it is natural that you should get tired. I am just a dull, plodding old machine."

Dreda bent her tall young head and kissed her friend with an air of humble adoration.

"You are good and true, and I wronged you. I thought you were as despicable as myself. All my life long I shall try to be worthy of your forgiveness. My heart's broken, Susan! Everyone despises me in this school, and I've an enemy, a secret enemy, who is hiding like a snake in the grass. You know perfectly well that that book was not in the desk when we looked!"

Susan was silent. She was as sure of the fact as it was possible to be, but her cautious nature reminded her of the possibility of mistake, and she would not venture on a definite assertion.

"I thought it was not; I thought we turned out everything."

"I know we did! It was the work of mine enemy. Some day I'll discover her, and then -- "

Susan looked sharply upwards.

"What then?"

"I'll heap coals of fire on her head! I'll forgive her, and try to lead her into better ways. That's all that's left to me now -- to be a beacon to others!" Dreda's voice shook, her composure breaking down before the force of her own eloquence. She sank down on her bed, and the tears rolled down her cheeks. "Oh! Oh! My heart will break. If it wasn't for the exeat next week I should lie down and die. I'm going home! They love me there. I never, never valued it before. I'm going home to mother and the girls!"



Chapter Fifteen.

It was a very subdued, a very humble, a touchingly affectionate Etheldreda who made her appearance at The Meads a few days later, and her mother and sisters regarded her demeanour with anxious curiosity.

"Poor darling, poor darling! She is so sweet and quiet -- I'm glad, of course; very glad," repeated Mrs Saxon, with a forced emphasis, which seemed to show that she needed to convince herself of her own sincerity, "but it seems so short a time to have brought about such a change. I'm afraid she has been unhappy!"

Rowena stared thoughtfully at the fire. Her face looked older, the cheeks less rounded, the red lips dropping at the corner. She was a beautiful girl, but the old sparkle had given place to an air of weary endurance sad to see on a young face. At the moment when she had expected most of life, she had been obliged to give up her dreams, and to accept in their place a monotonous, uneventful existence, which left too much time for the indulgence of her own thoughts. The weather was depressing, visitors few and far between, and, from a girl's point of view, lacking in interest when they did arrive. Maud was stupid and obstinate, Dreda and the boys at school, and the parents depressed. Lessons, walking, and practising occupied the days until four o'clock, then the curtains were drawn, the lamps lit, and each afternoon afresh Rowena counted up the long hours which must elapse before bedtime, and asked herself how she could get through the time. Poor Rowena! She had counted the days until Dreda's return, and now felt yet another pang of depression at meeting this subdued edition of her lively sister. She sighed in melancholy, long-drawn fashion, while Maud wriggled and grimaced.

"I expect she's misunderstood. There's lots of people are, besides the book. I know One who is. She's misunderstood by people who think they know best, and are always scolding and finding fault. ''Tis better far to rule by love than fear.' I shall, when I'm big. You could do something then, but when people are always grumbling, it's no use trying. I expect Dreda has some one like that, and it's broken her spirit. If you don't let her leave, she'll pine away and die!"

"Is that what you contemplate doing yourself beneath the persecution of the people, or person, to whom you so eloquently refer? I must give you a lesson in nominatives to-morrow, my dear. They are evidently another point which is misunderstood," retorted Rowena with cutting composure. It was one of the little encounters which was daily, almost hourly, taking place between the two sisters, whose widely differing dispositions seemed to jar more than ever in the close relationship of teacher and pupil. Mrs Saxon was greatly troubled by the continual friction, and she, like her daughter, had been anxiously looking forward to Dreda's visit as a healthful enlivening influence which could not fail to do good. And now Dreda was so mysteriously subdued and silent! What had happened to change the child so strangely in six short weeks?

As for Miss Dreda herself, she was not only conscious of, but felt an acute enjoyment in observing the anxiety of her relatives on her behalf, and, like a true actress, warmed to her part under the consciousness of an audience. The more intently did her mother's eyes regard her, the more meek and downcast became her air; she figuratively turned the other cheek to Maud's tactless sallies, and played humble handmaid to Rowena's lightest wish. For one whole day -- and then of a sudden weariness fell upon her. She reflected with horror that only two more days of the exeat remained, and determined to waste not another moment in repining. Within five minutes' time from the forming of this decision Maud was dumbfounded to find herself brutally snubbed, while a request from Rowena was received with a callous exhortation to "Do it yourself!"

"I was wondering how long it would last," said Rowena, with a smile. "It was really an admirable impersonation, but what was the idea, Dreda? I can't quite see what you were driving at, but I suppose there was some reason behind!"

"Yes, there was; several reasons! I've recovered, Rowena, because I am young and elastic, and time is a wonderful healer -- but I've been through awful difficulties! Treachery and humiliation, and things turning to dust and ashes when you expected to enjoy them most. Talk of martyrdoms!" -- Dreda rolled her eyes to the ceiling -- "I look back, my dear, to the time when I lived quietly at home, and I can't believe it was the same person!"

"Rubbish! Bunkum! Bosh! What high-falutin' you talk, Dreda! You're not changed a bit, and I'm glad of it, for, oh, my dear, I have missed you! I've been so dull! Come down from your stilts and talk sensibly. I'm aching for a good old talk."

Dreda beamed with delight. Here was appreciation! No sign of superiority, no condescension from a young lady in long frocks and done - up hair towards a schoolgirl fledgling, but an open avowal of need, an invitation to a heart-to-heart talk on a basis of affectionate equality. She clasped her hands together in the intensity of her delight, and hitched her chair nearer her sister.

"Yes, yes, let's talk, let's -- let's grumble! We're both in the dumps, and it's so cheering to grumble and get it off your mind. Go on, you're the eldest -- you've the first turn. Is it Maud?"

"Oh, Maud! Maud is enough to drive anyone crazy; but she's only a part."

"What's the rest?"

Rowena leant her head on her hand and stared out of the window. The garden was dank and deserted, the country beyond showed no sign of habitation; the wind moaned among the tall, bare trees.

"Dreda," she asked unexpectedly, "am I pretty?"

Dreda's grey eyes widened with surprise.

"What in the world has that to do with it?" she asked curiously. "Pretty? Yes, of course. Awfully, when you're in a good temper. We all are. It's in the family. Do you know what Susan calls us? -- the youngest Currant Bun, you know -- 'The Story-Book Saxons.' Isn't it a jolly name? Because, she says, we look as if things would happen to us like they do to people in a book."

"Well, they don't to me, anyway. That's just it! What's the use of being pretty if one is buried alive? Think of it, Dreda! nothing has happened all these six long weeks, except old ladies coming to call, and going to tea with mother at the vicarage. I should think there never was such a dull place. We didn't notice before, because it was holiday time, and the house was full, but it's awful for a permanency. The nearest interesting girl lives four miles off, the others are too boring for words. I asked one of them if there were ever any dances, and she laughed and asked whom we should dance with. There are only three young men within a radius of miles. There might perhaps be a Hunt Ball at C --  next autumn. ... And I thought I should have a London season!"

Dreda meditated, hunched up in her chair, her chin resting upon her hand. For the moment the scarcity of dances did not affect herself, but she loyally endeavoured to regard the situation from her sister's point of view.

"Are the three young men nice?"

"Oh, my dear, what does it matter? There aren't enough of them to count. Bob Ainslie is one; he used to come over to umpire for the boys' cricket matches. You remember him -- freckles and stick-out ears. He has a moustache now. I expect he's quite nice, but he is not exciting. Another is Frank Ross, at the Manor House -- I believe he is generally in town. And that nice old Mrs Seton has a son, too. He's handsome; I've seen him riding along the lanes; but, of course, he doesn't pay afternoon calls. What are you to do in a neighbourhood where there are no nice girls, and two and a half young men?"

"Improve your mind!" returned Dreda glibly. "Providence evidently doesn't mean you to move in the social round. Perhaps if you had, you'd have grown proud and worldly. I think myself you would, for I saw symptoms of it before we left town. Perhaps you've got to be chastened -- " Dreda stopped short with a hasty remembrance that she had promised to sympathise, not exhort, and added hurriedly: "Maud's enough to chasten anyone! It's sickening for you, dear, for you would have had lots of fun, and been the belle wherever you went. Let's pretend the Hunt Ball is to-night, and you are going to make your debut, a radiant vision in white satin -- no, satin's too stiff! -- silver tissue. Yes, yes! Silver tissue -- how perfectly lovely! -- and a parure of matchless diamonds flashing like a river of light upon your snowy neck."

"Debutantes don't wear diamonds, and it's not snowy. These boned collar bands leave horrid red marks. An antique medallion of crystal and pearl swung on a silver chain -- "

Dreda pranced up and down on her chair in delighted appreciation.

"Yes! Yes! You're splendid, Ro; you know just what to say! And a feather fan, with a tiny mirror let into the sticks; dear little silver shoes with buckles, and a single white rosebud tucked in your hair below your ear. That's the place they always put it in books. It would fall out before the first waltz was over, but no matter! Then your opera cloak. That must be white, too -- ermine, I think, or perhaps white fox, worth hundreds and hundreds, that a Russian prince had sent you in token of his devotion. Oh, my dear, my dear; what an angel you would look!"

Rowena laughed gaily. Her cheeks had grown pink, and her blue eyes sparkled with enjoyment.

"Dreda, Dreda! What a mad hatter you are! Where did you get such ridiculous ideas?"

But it was evident that the ideas, ridiculous though they might be, were by no means unpleasing, and Dreda was about to venture forth on a fresh flight of imagination when, to the annoyance of the sisters, the door opened and Maud, the stolid and unimaginative, stood on the threshold.

"No admittance, Maud. Go away! We're having a private talk."

"I can't go away. It's business. Something awful's happened!" announced Maud calmly. "A man's called, and Mason said mother was in, and she's out, and he's in the drawing-room, and it's rude to send him away. I came to tell you."

"A man! What man?"

"The Seton man. The young one with the nose."

The two elder girls exchanged quick, eloquent glances.

"Are you sure mother is out? She was in half an hour ago."

"She's out now. She went across the fields to bandage the hand of the baby that the kettle scalded in the white cottage in the dip. You'll have to see him instead."

Rowena turned a face of despairing resignation upon her sister.

"In this blouse! A flannel blouse. Oh, Dreda -- the contrast. Think of the silver tissue!"

Dreda looked, and her face was eloquent. Truth to tell, the flannel blouse, though neat and tidy, as were all Rowena's garments, could by no manner of means be called becoming. It did seem tragic to appear to an interesting stranger under such disadvantageous circumstances.

"You must change it!" she cried hastily. "Put on your blue dress; you look ripping in that. I'll go in for a minute, and tell him to stay while I run for mother; by that time you'll be ready, and can talk till she gets back. I'll tell Mason to get tea. Fly! You are so quick, you can be ready in five minutes."

Rowena flew, and Dreda smoothed her hair with her hands and prepared to leave the room in her wake, but Maud's square figure blocked the way, and Maud's voice demanded instantly:

"And what shall I do?"

"You? Nothing! It's not your affair. Go up to the nursery and keep quiet."

Maud gurgled with indignation. Not her business, indeed! She who had been first on the scene, and had carried the message! Dreda was hateful! Simply hateful! After pretending to be so good, too. "Nursery, indeed! I'll show her!" growled Maud eloquently.

Guy Seton was standing before the fire as the door opened in Etheldreda's impetuous hand, and the man and the girl stared at each other in mutual admiration and approval. "Fair hair, clean shaven, twinkly eyes, big shoulders, Norfolk suit, gaiters. I do love men in country clothes," decided Dreda in a mental flash. "Halloa! whom have we here? A schoolgirl daughter. What a pretty, bright-looking girl!" thought the young man almost as quickly. Then they shook hands and Dreda plunged into explanations.

"How do you do? It's so stupid. Mother's out! The maid didn't know, but she has gone across the fields to see a little boy who upset the kettle. Burnt, you know! Mother dresses it. If you will sit down and wait a few minutes, I'll run and bring her back."

Mr Seton smiled, a delightful twinkly smile.

"Oh, please don't hurry her. I should be so sorry. You mustn't trouble about me. I can call another day."

But this was not at all what Dreda desired, and her voice took a tone of keen personal entreaty as she replied:

"Oh, please don't go away! Mother can finish the dressing and be back in ten minutes from now, and I've ordered tea, and my sister will give it to you while you wait. We have so few callers, and it's such a dull, wet day. Do please stay and have tea!"

At that the smile gave place to a laugh. Mr Seton found it altogether delightful to be welcomed in so appreciative a fashion, and told himself that it was a treat, indeed, to meet a girl so natural and unaffected. He made no further demur, but when Dreda left the room sat down in a comfortable chair and stretched his long legs towards the fire, smiling to himself with obvious enjoyment of his recollections. It was indeed a grey wintry afternoon, and he was by no means averse to sitting by this cheery fire, looking forward to tea and further conversation with "Miss Golden-locks."

And the sister who was to entertain him meantime -- that must be Miss Saxon, the grown-up daughter of whom he had heard, though he did not know her by sight. He did not care for grown-up girls as a rule, they were too self-conscious and self-engrossed -- schoolgirls were far more fun. Then the door creaked once more, and he started to his feet to behold a square, stolid form advancing towards him, and to receive a pompous greeting from Maud, who had waited only until Dreda was safely out of the house, and had then hurried into the drawing-room determined to enjoy "her turn" before Rowena arrived.

"How do you do? My mother will soon be here. My sister has gone to fetch her. I hope you are quite well."

"Perfectly so, thank you. I hope you are the same. To whom have I the pleasure of speaking?" inquired Mr Seton, with a sudden change of demeanour which said much for his powers of adaptability. With Dreda he had been all candour and friendliness; confronted with Maud he became at once a solemn model of decorum.

"I am Maud -- Maud Saxon. We are all named to match, because we are Saxons by name as well as appearance. You are the Mr Seton who lives in the grey house at Fenley. I have seen you on the roads riding a grey cob with a white nose."

"Very probably. He is a great treasure. Are you interested in horses? Perhaps you ride yourself!"

"I did once, but I don't now. We're rejuiced!" announced Maud, rolling out the new word with an enjoyment at which the hearer had much ado to retain his composure. "We used to keep five horses, and ride in the Row, but horses cost too much now. Stables and grooms, and things to eat, and, of course, they may die. We've got nothing now except the car, and that saves money, for you can bring home the stores from the station, and drive Dreda to school, and save the fares."

"Just so," said Mr Seton dryly. "Gars are most useful. Especially in the country." Maud had taken possession of a chair at the opposite side of the fireplace, and as he looked at her square, solemn face, he prayed that it would not be long before Mrs Saxon and her elder daughter returned. "Do you also go to school?"

"No," Maud pursed her lips with an injured air. "Dreda was going to a finishing school in Paris this term, and I had a resident governess. Then -- we were 'rejuiced,' and she had to go to a cheaper one at Horsham. That was her trial. There are horrid girls there, and she's misunderstood, and when she came home she was so quenched you wouldn't know her, but after a day she was just as bad as ever. And our governess went away, and Rowena teaches me, to save expenses. She hates it, and so do I. She hasn't enough patience for training the young."

Guy Seton privately thought that quite a large stock of patience would be required to train this particular specimen of the young. He was embarrassed by the personal note of Maud's confessions, and cast about in his mind for a means of changing the conversation. The elder sister! Was she in the house? Could she be expected to appear?

"Is Miss Saxon at home? I should like to see her before I go."

Maud nodded solemnly.

"She's coming! She's changing her dress. She had on a flannel blouse, and rushed upstairs to put on her best frock when she heard you were here."

"You little wretch!" cried Guy Seton, mentally. The colour mounted to his face in mingled anger against the offender, and sympathy for the absent sister whose efforts on his behalf had been so ruthlessly betrayed, but before he had time to reply in words a sudden sound from behind attracted his attention, and he turned, to behold the blue-robed figure of Rowena standing in the doorway, her face white and set, her wide reproachful eyes fixed on her sister's face!



Chapter Sixteen.

It was an awkward moment for all three occupants of the room. The young man stood, flushed and silent, looking from one sister to the other, conscious of an increasing anger towards Maud, and a kindly and chivalrous sympathy for the confusion of her sister. Poor girl! She was too young, had too little experience of the world to carry off the situation with a laugh. A young woman of society would have seized the opportunity for cementing a friendship, would have swept gaily forward holding out her skirts, and laughingly demanding his approval, but Rowena could do none of these things, her utmost efforts could succeed only in hiding the signs of confusion beneath a frosty coldness of demeanour.

How unnatural was this manner was plainly demonstrated by the behaviour of the offender herself. At the first moment of Rowena's appearance Maud had appeared embarrassed indeed, but with a fearful joy mingling with her shame, the joy of one who has greatly dared, and is prepared to endure the consequences; but when Rowena swept forward, calm and stately, when she seated herself and began to talk polite nothings, with never so much as a word or a glance in her own direction, then, visibly and unmistakably, terror fell upon Maud's childish heart -- she made a bee-line for the door, and slunk hastily out of sight.

"Little wretch!" soliloquised Guy Seton once more. "Lands me into this pleasant position, and then sneaks away, and leaves me to fight it out alone! Poor little girl!" -- this last epithet obviously did not refer to Maud! "Hard lines to arrive at such an awkward moment. Furious, of course, with the whole three -- the child for speaking, with me for hearing, with herself for having given the opportunity! Such a pretty frock, too; and she is ripping in it! Jolly good of her to have taken the trouble, but now I suppose she'll hate the sight of me, and bear me a lasting grudge. Hope to goodness Golden-locks is not long in coming back!"

"Quite a chilly wind. We are so very exposed and open in this house!" Rowena was saying in high, artificial tones. She hailed the arrival of tea with evident relief, and the conversation flowed on a trifle more easily when there was something definite to do; nevertheless both heaved sighs of joy as the sound of Dreda's high, cheery voice was heard from without, and she entered the room by her mother's side.

Guy Seton privately expected Rowena to follow Maud's example and quietly disappear, so he admired all the more the pretty little air of dignity with which she stuck to her post and forced herself to take her natural part in the conversation.

"Plucky little girl! Stands to her guns, and won't allow herself to run away," he told himself approvingly, as he proceeded to unfold the object of his visit.

"We are arranging a small frolic for Friday in the shape of a paper - chase. Everybody within five miles is coming on horseback or bicycles, as suits them best, and we ought to have a good run. We start at eleven prompt from our gates, and return for a scramble luncheon at about two. I hope you will all come!"

His glance wandered from Dreda to Rowena -- the first he felt sure would accept with enthusiasm; the latter he feared would politely refuse; but Rowena smiled again, her set meaningless little smile, and allowed a subdued murmur of thanks to mingle with Dreda's rhapsodies. It was cleverly done, for without being in any way committed she had escaped drawing attention upon herself by a refusal; nevertheless as he met her eye, and held her limp, unresponsive hand in his at parting, Guy Seton felt more convinced than ever that whoever else might honour his paper chase, Miss Rowena Saxon would not be among the number!

He walked down the drive twirling his stick in a threatening manner, his face grim and set. It was bad luck indeed to make such a bad beginning with one of the prettiest and most attractive-looking girls he had ever met, and a near neighbour into the bargain. He had a momentary vision of Rowena spinning along on a bicycle, her fair face flushed with exercise, her sweet eyes alight with interest and excitement; and of a sudden it seemed a dull, senseless thing to fly over the country-side, with ordinary everyday neighbours and friends. How ordinary and everyday they seemed, when contrasted with Rowena's stately young grace! And now she was prejudiced against him for ever, and at this very moment was probably denouncing her sister's stupidity, and vowing never willingly to meet him again!

Rowena, however, was doing nothing of the kind. Calm and composed, she sat on beside her mother and Dreda, and declared that the idea of a paper-chase failed to attract her, and that she had no intention of tiring herself out, and running needless risks by riding breathlessly across country on so stupid and frivolous an aim! Mrs Saxon was both puzzled and disappointed, while Dreda expostulated in her usual violent fashion.

"Rowena, how mad! How idiotic! What are you raving about! What's the use of grumbling and growling because there's nothing to do, and no one to see you, and then the moment anyone appears -- such a dear, too, with such sweet, twinkly eyes! -- to behave like a cold-blooded frog, mincing your words, and looking as if you were made of ice, and then saying you won't go, when it's a chance of no end of fun, and seeing everyone there is to be seen! Idiotic!"

"Dreda! Dreda, dear, really is it necessary to be quite so violent?" Mrs Saxon shook her head in smiling reproach, and Rowena tilted her chin in air, but Dreda refused to be suppressed.

"Oh, mum, dear, let me speak as I like! We have to be so proper at school. You can't say a word of slang while the govs. are about, and ordinary language is so tame. You can't make a really good effect with ordinary words. Suppose I said to Rowena: 'Your conduct, my dear, is inconsistent, with your sentiments as expressed in conversation,' she wouldn't mind a bit, but when I call her a frog she's furious. Look how she's wagging her head! You can always tell by that when she's in a bait."

"Really, Dreda!" cried Rowena in her turn. She rose from her seat, and sailed haughtily out of the room, disdaining to bandy words with so outspoken a combatant. In truth, she herself was bitterly disappointed in being forced -- as she thought -- to refuse Mr Seton's invitation, the possibilities of which appealed to her even more strongly than to her sister. To meet a party of young people, to wheel gaily along in the brisk, keen air, laughing and jesting as in the old happy days; to return tired and hungry to the hospitable scramble luncheon -- to sit around the fire rested and refreshed, feeling as if those few hours of intimate association had been more successful in cementing friendships than many months of ordinary association. Oh, how tempting it sounded! What a blessed change from the level monotony of the last few months! And she needs must give it up, and stay quietly at home, darning stockings, or writing orders to the "Stores," because Maud's blundering tongue has laid her dignity so low, that everything else must needs be sacrificed to its preservation! Rowena is putting on her best dress -- she had on a flannel blouse, and she ran to change it because you were here! One would need to be nineteen once more to realise the shame, the horror, the distress with which poor Rowena recalled those thoughtless words! She pressed her hands against her cheeks, and gave a little groan of distress. It was characteristic of her that the one thing she now asked was that no one else should know of her humiliation; her mother might remonstrate, and Dreda declaim to her heart's content, but nothing on earth should induce her to disclose the real reason of her refusal. As for Maud, having done the mischief, she might be trusted to keep quiet for her own sake; and even with her, Rowena would have kept silence if she had been allowed. Beyond an added touch of dignity, there was no change in her manner towards her younger sister, but, strange to say, the culprit was by no means satisfied to escape so easily. Maud suffered from an insatiable desire to be observed, and -- so to speak -- live in the public eye. If she could be observed with admiration, so much the better, but given a choice between being disgraced or ignored, she would not have hesitated for the fraction of a moment. Better a hundred times to be scolded and denounced than to be passed by in silence as if one were a stick or a stone. So it happened that when Rowena treated her with stately indifference, Maud found it impossible to keep silent.

"You might as well say it out!" she declared, wriggling about in her seat, and pouting her lips with an air of offence. "I hate people who bottle things up when all the time you see them fizzling inside. I suppose you're furious with me about what I said."

Rowena drooped her eyelids, and smiled a smile of haughty detachment.

"It is a matter of perfect indifference to me what you say."

"It was quite true!"

"Perfectly true. I should be the last person in the world to accuse you of imagination."

"You were furious. You went white with rage, and he saw it as well as me. Now, I suppose you'll tell mother, and stop me going to the chase."

"I should not dream of interfering with your plans. It is a matter of perfect indifference to me whether you go or stay."

"But," -- Maud's eyes positively bulged with excitement -- "I might say something else. You never know."

"Possibly you might. What then? Do you really imagine, my dear Maud, that anyone notices what you say!"

Maud wriggled and spluttered, trying in vain to think of something scathing to say in return. Compared with this lofty indifference the most violent denunciations would have been enjoyable. "Nobody noticed what she said!" Rowena could not have launched an arrow which would have rankled more bitterly. For the remaining hours of that day Maud crept about with a melancholy hang-dog expression, taking little or no part in the general conversation.

The next morning Rowena held firmly to her decision, and the two younger girls were obliged to start without her, Maud unfeignedly relieved, Dreda irritated and perplexed. Something must have happened to account for so unreasonable a change of front, something that had been said or done during that quarter of an hour during which she herself had been absent from the drawing-room. So much was certain, but what could it be? Rowena refused to be questioned, and Dreda was all unsuspicious of the fact that Maud had ventured to interview the visitor on her own account, and so had no suspicions in her direction. The first doubt arose when Guy Seton shook hands with both sisters as with old friends; this fact, combined with Maud's blushing discomfiture, gave Dreda a flash of insight, but for the moment she was more occupied with the young man's very evident disappointment at Rowena's absence.

"Is Miss Saxon not coming?"

"No. I'm so sorry. She sent apologies."

"Is she quite well?"

"Oh, yes, thanks." Dreda was too honest to plead the conventional headache. "She said two were enough. She is going to bicycle to Smitton this morning for some stupid messages. I did my best to make her come."

"I'm sure you did," said the young man kindly. Dreda, looking at him, saw him murmur "Smitton" below his breath, and knit his brows in thought. A minute later he walked away to speak a few farewell words to the hares, who were mounted on horseback, bearing fat bags of paper fragments on their saddles, after which he returned with a smiling face to keep Dreda entertained until "The Meet" had begun to assemble. Excitement and anxiety not to be late had caused the sisters to arrive before their time, but Dreda could not regret the fact, for it was so interesting to watch the new arrivals on horseback and bicycles; to greet old acquaintances, be introduced to new, and finally to meet a beam of welcome from Susan's brown eyes as the Currant Buns wheeled up in a line. Even the sober Mary had condescended to join the chase.

"Fresh air is a tonic. With so much mental exercise on hand I considered it would be a saving of time to spend a day in the open," she said confidentially to Dreda, as she polished her glasses on a large pocket-handkerchief, and replaced them over the red rim on her nose. Dreda sidled carefully away from her side, and when the moment came for the start, was delighted to find Guy Seton riding determinedly by her side.

"I thought you would be on horseback," she said, then looking at him with faintly curious eyes: "Why aren't you, when you have a horse all ready? It's so much more interesting than bicycling."

"Sometimes," said Guy, smiling. He waited a moment or two, and then added tentatively: "If you are fond of riding, and would accept a mount sometimes, I'd be delighted to give you one. Our horses have not half enough exercise. I've a nice quiet mare -- "

"Oh, thanks, but give me spirit! None of your quiet mares for me. But I am at school; there's no chance for a free day for another three months. This is only the exeat; we go back to-morrow, worse luck!"

"To-morrow! That's very soon. I'm glad I arranged the chase for to - day. You are at Horsham, aren't you?"

Dreda turned her head quickly.

"Yes! Who told you?"

"Your sister. The young one -- the one who is here to-day."

"Oh, Maud! Did she come into the drawing-room with Rowena yesterday?"

"Before then. She amused me after you left until Miss Saxon arrived."

"Oh-h!" Dreda's face clouded uneasily. How had Maud amused him? What had she said? In what fashion had she managed to prejudice Rowena against so amiable and kindly a neighbour, for she had now not a moment's doubt that Maud was the cause of the trouble. She determined to put a few leading questions.

"What else did she tell you? She's a dreadful child. We never know what she is going to say next. I don't believe she knows herself. What did she say?"

"Oh, nothing particular! G-general information -- don't you know -- general information," stammered Guy Seton uncomfortably. But Dreda was not to be put off the scent. She stared at him fixedly, noted his rising colour, and nodded in quiet conviction.

"I know! I can guess one thing at least. She told you we were rejuiced."

"I -- I -- " he began to stammer again, but the corners of his mouth twitched, and the next moment they were laughing together in hearty, youthful enjoyment.

"Too bad of you! Why are you so abnormally sharp? Have pity on my embarrassment," he pleaded, while Dreda shook her yellow mane in derision.

"You are not embarrassed a bit! You laughed before I did! It's easy to guess, because that's Maud's favourite subject at present. She overheard the servants talking, and took a fancy to the word, and now she drags it in on every possible occasion. What else did she say? Anything about me?"

"Er -- er -- "

"She did! I know she did. Don't try to deny it. Was it -- nice?"

"Er -- " stammered Guy Seton once more, whereupon Dreda drew herself up with sudden dignity.

"You shouldn't have allowed it! She is only a child; you should not have allowed her to talk personalities -- "

"But I tried to stop her -- I did, indeed! I was most uncomfortable. I tried to change the conversation, but it was no good. Please don't scold me, I've suffered enough as it is!"

"How have you suffered?" Dreda's eyes widened eagerly. Now she was on the track of the mystery, and determined to push her inquiries until all was made plain. "Who made you suffer?"

"Miss Sax -- ," said Guy involuntarily, and then quickly drew himself up. "I mean -- it's rather awkward for a fellow, don't you know, to listen to things that he ought not to hear -- that are not his business -- that would annoy other people if they happened to overhear."

He flushed as he spoke, and Dreda beamed at him with undisguised approval. He was so boyish and honest, so blunderingly transparent, that she felt quite elderly in comparison -- a very Sherlock Holmes of diplomacy!

"And what was it that Rowena did overhear? Oh, I guessed there was something! She would never have refused to come to-day unless something had happened to offend her. She has such a dull time of it, poor dear, and she loves a change. What did Maud say?"

"Miss Dreda, if your sister didn't tell you herself, do you think I ought to repeat a thing that has already annoyed her?"

"Certainly you ought. It's my business to know, so that I can make things right. I could easily explain -- "

Guy gave a short, irritated laugh.

"There's nothing to explain! Your young sister made an indiscreet remark which Miss Saxon overheard as she came into the room. It is only human nature, I suppose, to vent her annoyance upon me, but it's hard luck all the same, for I could not help myself, and it was horribly embarrassing for me too!"

"But what did she say?"

Then with another twitch of the lips Guy repeated Maud's betrayal, at which Dreda was at once horrified and amused.

"The little wretch! I shouldn't have minded a bit myself, but when you are grown up it's different! Poor old Ro! It was my fault, for I made her do it. I wanted you to see her in that jolly blue."

"Thanks, so much! It was worth seeing; but it's a pretty big price to pay if your sister is prejudiced against me for life. Perhaps you had better not refer to the subject directly. If I read her aright the less that is said about it the better she will be pleased; but if you get a chance you might speak a good word for me sometimes. I'm not such a conceited fool as to imagine that she took any more trouble for me than she would have done for any other caller who happened to come along, and I've a wretched sort of memory. If I choose to forget a thing, it's surprising how easily I can do it. It would be so jolly if she could manage to forget it too, and start afresh."

"Leave it to me!" cried Dreda, with the air of a young oracle. She had not the slightest idea what she was about to do, but, as ever, had not the slightest doubt of success in tackling a difficult situation. For the moment, however, she felt that she had devoted enough attention to Rowena's affairs, for the excitement of the paper-chase increased with every mile as the track was discovered, only to be lost again and again, forcing the cavalcade to wheel about in all directions searching for the little snow-like flakes of paper which were again to guide them forward.

When a couple of hours had passed Dreda was quite oblivious that the circling paths had led the chase to the little village of Smitton, and was therefore overcome with surprise to come face to face with no less a person than Rowena herself at the corner of the high road. Rowena would have passed by with a bow, but she was instantly surrounded by a little party of friends, all eager to greet her, and to inquire why she had not joined the chase. Guy Seton dismounted with the rest, and stood silently in the background until the first rush of inquiries were over, when, meeting Rowena's eye, he made a simple straightforward request.

"As you have finished your messages, Miss Saxon, won't you join us for the rest of the morning? We could send a wire from the post office if you think Mrs Saxon would be anxious. Please say yes!"

There was nothing extravagant about the manner of his invitation, perhaps in courtesy he could hardly have said less, but there was a transparent sincerity about those last three words which it was impossible to ignore. Rowena hesitated. Poor Rowena! What a morning of heartache and disappointment it had been. Ten minutes ago, five minutes ago, she had been wheeling along her solitary way, all melancholy and dejection, and behold, one turn of the road and she was in the midst of a merry cavalcade, and the chance which she had thrown away was once more within her grasp.

She hesitated, and half a dozen voices answered in her stead. Of course, she must come! Of course! After this fortunate meeting she could not be allowed to escape. She could not be so cruel as to refuse, and then once again Guy Seton's voice repeated those three quiet words: "Please say yes!"

Well, she was only longing to accept, and having been duly entreated, gave way with a blush and a smile which made her look as pretty as a picture. The cavalcade carried her off in triumph, and Guy Seton kept discreetly in the background, waiting until time should give him his opportunity. His acquaintance with this charming girl had had an unfortunate beginning; he was determined that no haste or imprudence on his own part should give it a second check, but that afternoon Master Leonard Merrick, the hare, went home, made happy by a tip the amount of which was truly princely in his schoolboy estimation!



Chapter Seventeen.

Six months had passed by. The elder pupils at Horsham had gone tremblingly through the ordeal of the Oxford senior examination in July, and Mary, having achieved distinction in three separate subjects, was now busy preparing for the mathematical group of the Cambridge higher local examination in December. She was eventually going on to college, and intended to devote her life to teaching, to which prospect she looked forward with an equanimity which Dreda regarded with mystified amazement.

"And you like it! You are content to think of spending your life in a schoolroom, going over and over the same dull old books, Mary! How can you?"

But Mary could very easily, it appeared.

"Why not, Dreda?" she inquired. "The books are not dull to me, and surely it is a noble and interesting life to hand on the lamp of learning from one generation to another. It's the work that appeals most to me. Ever since I was a child I have wished to be a schoolmistress."

"Oh, well, I shouldn't mind it myself -- for a time," Dreda conceded carelessly. "When one has suffered under the yoke, it would be a kind of satisfaction to boss it oneself for a change. I'd quite like to be a headmistress -- a horribly strict Head -- and make all the girls c-c-ringe before me -- for a term, say; but after that -- no thank you! I want a wider scope for my life than a stupid old school-house."

Mary smiled, in an elderly, forbearing fashion.

"We are all different, dear Dreda. It would not do if we were made alike. You and I have not the same vocation."

"No; I shall marry," announced Dreda, blandly unconscious of the inference of her words. "I am one of the old-fashioned womanly girls -- (it says in the papers, 'Would there were more of them!') -- who shine best in their own homes. I'm not learned, and I don't pretend to be; but I can keep house, and order servants about, as well as anybody, and I intend to be very hospitable and give lots of dinners and parties and make my husband proud of me by being the best-dressed woman in the room, and so witty and charming that everything will go with a roar. That's all I want. I haven't an ambitious nature."

Mary's long upper lip looked longer than ever as she listened to this egotistical tirade. She was a plain-looking girl, and the lack of humour in her composition made her somewhat dull and unattractive in manner; but she possessed great strength of character, and was never found lacking in the courage of her opinions. Her opinion at this moment was that Etheldreda Saxon needed a downright good snubbing, and she set herself to administer it without a qualm.

"My dear Dreda, there is nothing in the world you understand as little as your own character. I never met a girl who was so blind to her own defects. Not ambitious! How can you say such a thing in the same breath as that in which you express your longing for admiration? One may be ambitious for unworthy aims as well as for worthy ones; and your desires are all for poor, worldly things which pass away, leaving no one better or wiser. It is false modesty to say you are not clever; you would not allow anyone else to make such a statement unchallenged. If you chose to exert yourself to overcome your faults of carelessness and frivolity, you might take a very fair average position among your companions."

To say that Dreda was taken aback by this very candid criticism of her character is to state the matter far too calmly. She turned white with agitation, and the pupils of her eyes dilated until they appeared to cover the entire iris. It was characteristic of her that it was not anger which so affected her, but real honest horror and distress that a fellow-creature should live and entertain so poor an opinion of her delightful self. She was not, it was true, particularly devoted to Mary, but it had never for a fraction of a second occurred to her that Mary could be otherwise than enthusiastically loyal to herself. And now that the horrible truth was disclosed, her absorbing desire was to reform so mistaken an attitude of mind as speedily as possible.

"Oh, Mary!" she cried tragically. "How you misjudge me! How little you know my real inmost nature! Ask mother -- ask Rowena -- ask anyone who knows me well; they will all tell you the same thing -- I am all heart. I live on my affections; I don't want anything but just to be happy, and have people love me. What have I ever said or done to you that you should think such perfectly horrid things? It hurts me to be misjudged -- it hurts awfully! It's like a knife sticking into my heart."

"Because you want to be praised, and can't endure reproof, even if it is for your good. It isn't pleasant to find fault, Dreda," declared Mary judicially; "but if I don't speak out I may blame myself in the future. I am afraid of what may happen if you float along as you are doing, blind to your own failings. Some day something may happen to put you to the test, and then you will fail, and be humiliated in your own eyes and those of the world."

Dreda regarded her with eyes full of a solemn reproach.

"May you be forgiven, Mary! I forgive you. I'm sorry for your want of charity and understanding. I'm not surprised that you don't understand me; we are made on such different lines; but you ought not to judge. -- I don't judge you. I think you are very painstaking and industrious. I bear you no ill-will, Mary. I'm only sorry for you."

So far from being melted by this touching forgiveness, Mary flushed with anger, shrugged her shoulders impatiently, and turned back to her desk, whereon lay the first lines of an essay on one of Addison's "Spectator" Essays. An extract from the essay had been given as subject, with the significant words: "Discuss this," inscribed beneath, and Mary's mood was not improved by the fact that with regard to ethical sentiments she seemed to have no idea to discuss. She was fifty times more at home with cut-and-dried figures about the correctness of which there could be no two opinions, whereas Etheldreda the Ready was invariably in the front rank for compositions. The two girls were indeed made "on different lines," and at that moment Mary was not unnaturally provoked to be confronted by a task in which Dreda was undoubtedly her superior.

Dreda was laboriously amiable to her opponent for some days after this "heart to heart" talk, but the endeavour to pour coals of fire was so obvious as to be more irritating than soothing, and Mary had no wish to reopen the discussion. "I've warned her -- she must go her own way now. My conscience is clear," she told herself stoically, and Dreda went her own way -- danced gaily along it, so to speak, and had no thought of danger. She had become accustomed to school routine by this time, and, like most girls, found interest and enjoyment in the full busy life and in the companionship of her kind. She was a favourite with both teachers and scholars, and Susan's quiet devotion could always be counted upon in those moments of need which seemed to be inevitable occurrences in her life. Dreda forgot, and Susan reminded; Dreda procrastinated, and Susan hastened to the rescue; Dreda grew discouraged and Susan cheered; Dreda failed, and Susan succoured; yet with such diffidence were these services performed that self-love felt never a wound, and Dreda was left with the agreeable sense of having conferred, rather than accepted, favours.

"You turn yourself into a nigger slave for Dreda Saxon," grumbled Norah of the spectacles one day when she and Susan walked together in the "crocodile" along a dull country lane. "A regular black, cringing slave -- and what thanks do you get for it, I'd like to know? None! Not one little scrap. She's such a bat of self-conceit that she doesn't even know that she is helped. If you did a hundredth part as much for other people they'd go off their heads for joy!"

The spectacled eyes rolled wistfully Susan-wards as the last words were spoken, for Norah cherished a schoolgirl's sentimental devotion for her companion, and could not overcome her chagrin at being so completely eclipsed by a new girl -- a girl, moreover, who had given to her the undignified nickname of "Gig-lamps," which had been instantly adopted by the whole school. She gazed at Susan as humbly as a dog begging a favour from its master's hand, but no favour was vouchsafed.

"I don't want Dreda to be grateful. I need no thanks. I love her so much that it is my greatest pleasure to be able to help her," said little Susan proudly; but when Norah persistently demanded to know why she had no answer to give. In truth, she herself was sometimes puzzled to account for her own devotion to the hasty, undisciplined creature who fell so far short of her ideal feminine character. Susan's quiet brown eyes were not blinded; probably no girl in the school was more conscious of Dreda's faults, yet her love lived on unchecked by the discovery. She did not realise that it was Dreda's personal beauty and charm which had captivated her imagination, and that all the starved instincts of her beauty-loving nature were finding vicarious satisfaction in another's life. Susan had lived her life in a prosaic household, where beauty was the last consideration to be taken into account. If an article had to be bought, Mrs Webster gave consideration to strength and durability, and to strength and durability alone. In buying curtains, for instance, she sought for a nondescript colour which would defy the sun's rays, a material that would stand repeated washings, and a pattern which would conceal possible stains. A discovery that the cloth would ultimately cut up into desirable dusters was sufficient to give the casting vote of decision, and thereafter draperies of dingy cinnamon would be hung against walls of yellow ochre, with complacent and lasting satisfaction. Amid such drab surroundings Susan had spent her life, and when she looked in the glass it was to see a replica of her sister's faulty features and pallid skin, yet hidden away within that insignificant exterior there burnt the true artist's passion for beauty, for colour, for grace, of which three qualities Etheldreda Saxon was so charming an embodiment. When Susan mentally worked out her novels of the future her heroines invariably wore Dreda's guise, the romantic figures of history took upon themselves Dreda's form, and smiled upon her with Dreda's confident eyes.

The ordinary sentimental school friendship was glorified into a selfless devotion in which her highest joy was found in denying herself for Dreda's good. The two girls -- one tall, golden-haired, with vivid colouring and an air of confident strength; the other small, plain, neutral-tinted, timid of mien -- were inseparable in work and at play.

Six months' experience of school life had destroyed Dreda's early ardour with regard to examinations. Arithmetic was such a hopeless stumbling - block in her path that it was doubtful whether she would be able to secure a bare pass, and having once realised the fact she readjusted her ambitions with facile speed, announced that she disapproved of modern methods, had no wish to enter the public arena, and was anxious to abandon a course of dangerous cram. Her favourite subject was composition, and here and here alone, she and Susan ran an even race, it being a moot point each week which would gain the highest marks. Susan's essays were more thoughtful, and were written with an apt and dainty choice of words which was a delight to Miss Drake's literary taste, but a certain primness and conventionality still remained to be conquered, in contrast to which Dreda's dashing breeziness of style was a real refreshment. After reading through a dozen essays, all of which began in almost exactly the same words, and ended abruptly after dragging through a dozen commonplace sentences, the tired reader rejoiced at the sight of Dreda's bold handwriting, and was disposed to forgive many failings in gratitude for the one great gift of originality.

Miss Drake was aware of the literary ambitions cherished by the two friends, and in leisure moments sent many a thought into the future, wondering what the years would bring, and if the time would ever arrive when she should say proudly of a well-known writer: "She was my pupil. I helped her towards the goal!" It seemed impossible to prophesy to which of the two girls success would come -- Susan of the eloquent brain, the tender heart, or Dreda, with her gift of charm to gild the slightest matter. The young teacher pondered over the question, and one day in so doing there came to her mind a suggestion which promised interest to herself and a useful incentive to her pupils.

The third number of the school magazine would soon be due, and Miss Drake was fully aware of the fact that the sub-editor had grown to regard her responsibilities as a distasteful burden; while the contributors one and all exhibited a lamentable falling away from their early ambitions. Fragments of conversation had reached her ears as she made her way along the corridors. "You must write something -- you must! I haven't a thing ready."

"You and your old magazine! What a nuisance you are! I've something better to do."

"Here comes Dreda Saxon! Let's hide! She's on the rampage about the mag."

Miss Drake's heart softened towards her "sub" in this difficult plight; she waited a few days to mature her plans, and then made an interesting announcement to the pupils at the conclusion of a history class.

"Before you go, girls, I want to speak to you for a few minutes on another subject. The third number of the school magazine is nearly due, and I am afraid from what I hear that contributions are coming in slowly. You will remember the one condition on which you were allowed to start the paper was that it should be continued for at least two years. One of the lessons you have to learn in life is that a duty once undertaken cannot be lightly thrown aside because it weighs more heavily after the first enthusiasm is past. Steady, quiet perseverance is a great force, and can overcome mountains of difficulty, but," -- she glanced whimsically at the row of depressed young faces -- "I am quite aware that it is not a quality which makes a strong appeal at your age, so I propose to be generous, and offer an extra stimulus. You all know the name of Henry Rawdon, one of the greatest -- many people think the greatest -- writer of our times. He happens to be not only a family connection but my very good friend, and he has promised to help me to carry out a little scheme for your benefit. Instead of the usual nondescript contributions, you will all be required to write an essay on a given subject for the next number of the magazine, and after it has been circulated in the school, the typed papers will be sent to Mr Rawdon, marked with numbers instead of names, and he will judge them, and select the best as the prize number. Miss Bretherton is giving the prize. She is most interested in the competition, and it will be a prize worth having -- a complete edition of Mr Rawdon's works, which he has promised to present in person at our breaking-up gathering. Now is that not a splendid stimulus? I hope you feel inspired to do your best to rise to the occasion, and do honour to yourselves and the school." She paused, and the girls stared at her in a solid phalanx of amazement. Henry Rawdon's name was a household word; his works adorned every library worthy the name; it was, in the literal sense of the word, stunning to think that such a celebrity should condescend to read their poor little efforts! Etheldreda Saxon was naturally the first to recover her voice.

"And the subject, Miss Drake -- what is to be the subject?"

Miss Drake smiled quietly.

"The subject is a very big one, and one on which the youngest girl is as competent to write as the oldest. No one can plead ignorance on this point, or if she does no outsider can give her enlightenment. The subject, chosen by Mr Rawdon himself, is 'My Life -- and how I mean to use it.'"

A subdued murmur sounded in the room, the chief notes of which were wonder and dismay. The girls looked at each other with startled looks, their lips fell apart, a blank, half-stupefied expression settled on their faces, as though they found themselves confronted by a task with which they had no power to grapple. But Susan's brown eyes shone like stars; she clasped her little hands tightly together beneath her desk.



Chapter Eighteen.

For the next few days conversation circled incessantly round the subject of the forthcoming literary competition, concerning which there were naturally many diverging opinions. "My life, indeed! Well, my first principle has always been 'One thing at a time, and that done well.' I'm cramming for an exam., and have no time to waste on meanderings," declared Barbara, whose compositions invariably received the lowest marks in her form, while Nancy smiled her enigmatical smile, and stared mysteriously into space.

"I shall write it, of course, but I shall not put in my real sentiments. It would not be fair to my future. If my plans are to succeed they demand secrecy -- breathless, inviolate secrecy, until the hour arrives!"

"Gracious, Nancy! You talk as if you were an Anarchist in disguise!" gasped a horrified voice from the far corner of the fireside round which the girls were assembled, whereupon the gratified Nancy endeavoured to look more mysterious than ever.

"Why in disguise? Is there anything in my appearance which is out of keeping with a life of noble rebellion against tyranny and oppression? A bomb may be often a blessing in disguise, but there is so much narrow prejudice and ignorance in this world that people must be trained to appreciate the true meaning. Till that hour arrives my life's ambition must remain locked within my own breast!"

"I haven't got one -- at least, only to have a good time and be done with work. You couldn't put that in an essay. It sounds so mean," confessed blue-eyed Flora with a sigh. Dreda looked at her quickly, and as quickly averted her eyes. Put in bald language was not that her own ambition also? In thinking over the essay, she had mentally rehearsed many grandiose phrases; but now, with a sudden chilling of the blood, she realised the emptiness of the high-sounding words. What had she ever wished from life but pleasure, approbation, and easy success? How much thought had she given to possible trials and difficulties? How much effort to train herself for the battle of life? It was one of those blinding moments of self-revelation which come to us all, and before which the noblest natures shrink aghast. Dreda leant her head against the wall to hide herself from the dancing firelight, but her unusual silence could not fail to attract attention, and Norah was quick with a gibing question.

"Why so silent, Etheldreda the Ready? Can it be that you have been so busy arranging the lives of other people that you have not had time to think of your own?"

The dart struck home once more, but before there was time to answer Susan rushed to the defence.

"It's just because Dreda is thinking that she does not talk. Dreda will win the prize. No one has a chance against her, but it is such a thrilling subject that it will be interesting to try. The difficulty will be to keep within the limit; only three thousand words -- "

"Only! My dear, do you know what three thousand words mean? I counted up one sheet of foolscap, and it came to two hundred and fifty. How on earth could one find enough to say about life to fill twelve whole pages?"

Flora was transparently in earnest, her blue, opaque-looking eyes roving from face to face, inviting sympathy and understanding; but Susan gave a clear little laugh of derision.

"I could fill volumes! It's a wonderful, wonderful theme -- a voyage into the dark -- a battle to be fought, a victory to be won, a mountain to be climbed, or perhaps no mountain at all, but just a long, long road, on a dead level plain. Work and effort, and failure and success, sorrow and joy, and at the end the secret -- the great secret -- solved at last!"

Susan's voice trembled, her slight little form shook with emotion, she pressed her hands against her knees to still their trembling. The girls stared at the floor, or exchanged furtive glances of embarrassment. Susan was "too too for words" in her high falutin' moods; she talked just like people in books; silly nonsense that no one could understand! She was going to leave school when she was eighteen and help her mother in the house, because the two elder girls wanted to be teachers. Why couldn't she say so straight out, instead of mooning about secrets, and battles, and mountains to be climbed? Flora sniggered into her handkerchief, Barbara gaped, Nancy tilted her head, and rolled her eyes to the ceiling, Dreda wakened out of her dream, and sat up flushed and eager.

"Susan, stop! You mustn't! If you tell us your ideas we may copy them without meaning to do it... If you put thoughts into our heads they stay there and grow, and we can't send them away, but they are yours. You ought to keep them to yourself."

"My dear, she says she has enough to fill a volume. She needn't grudge a few to her starving friends," cried Nancy in would-be reproach. "Confide in me, Susan dear! I'll sit at your feet, and gobble up all the pearls that you drop, and perhaps in the end I may win the prize myself. I don't see why it should be taken for granted that only two girls have a chance. There's a lot of vulgar prejudice in this school, but Mr Rawdon will judge with an unbiased mind. I have thought more than once when I've been reading his books that the style was rather like my own, and I've a sort of a -- kind of a -- what's the word? -- premonition that he'll like me best."

There was a general laugh, but Nancy was a favourite despite her teasing ways, so the laughter was good-tempered and sympathetic, and it was easy to see that if by chance the prize fell to her lot the award would be a popular one. Nancy was incurably lazy, but the conviction lingered in the minds of her companions that "she could be clever if she chose," and it would seem quite in character that she should suddenly wake up to the surprise and confusion of her competitors. Dreda looked round with an anxious air, as if recognising a new, and formidable competitor. She determined to begin making notes that very evening, and asked suddenly:

"Has anyone seen my stylo? My things seem to be bewitched nowadays. They are always disappearing. I searched for my French book for a solid hour yesterday, and this morning it was my penknife, and now it's the pen -- I waste half my time hunting and searching."

"You are so untidy. If you would be more methodical -- "

"I didn't ask for moral reflections, Barbara. I asked for my pen."

"Is it a black one? A little stumpy black one -- about so long?"

"Yes -- yes! That's it. Have you seen it, Nancy?"

Nancy stroked her chin with a meditative air.

"I did see a stylo somewhere! I remember noticing it -- a very nice one. Quite new."

"Yes -- yes; that's it. Where was it? Do think, Nancy! Cudgel your brains."

"I am cudgelling them -- I'm cudgelling hard." Nancy nipped her chin between her finger and thumb, and knitted her brows till her eyebrows appeared to meet. "I saw it this morning. It was lying on a shelf, near a window. I can see it before me now." She waved her hand in the air. "Like a picture. Distinctly!"

"Yes -- yes -- yes! But where? Think! In the big classroom?"

"No-o; I think not. No; certainly not the big classroom?"

"Miss Drake's room, then? The study? Number 5? Our bedroom? If you can see it distinctly, you must know."

Nancy frowned on, apparently plunged in thought, then slowly a flash seemed to irradiate her features.

"I have it!" she cried triumphantly. "It was in the window of the chemist's shop! I saw it as we passed by in walk. -- A beautiful black brand-new stylo!"

The audience sniggered with enjoyment, for though not quite so heartless as their brothers, it cannot be denied that most school-girls take a mischievous delight in teasing their companions. Dreda Saxon was, moreover, from this point of view an amusing victim, for when a joke was directed against herself her sense of humour was temporarily eclipsed, and she took refuge in what was laughingly dubbed "heroics." Now, as usual, her eyes flashed, her chin tilted itself in air, and her voice swelled in deep-toned reproof.

"That is not funny, Nancy -- it is unkind! To laugh at people who are in trouble is a sign of a mean, unprincipled mind. I am surprised that you condescend to such depths."

A shriek of laughter followed this reproof, and as she marched majestically from the room Dreda caught a glimpse of Nancy beaming and unrepentant, pretending to wring tears out of a dry pocket-handkerchief. In that moment she mentally added three "heads" to the essay on life, and headed them with large capital letters: Misunderstanding. Mockery. Faithless Friends.

During the next week Dreda spent every moment that could be spared from ordinary school-work in working at her essay, alternating between wild elation and depths of despair as her thoughts flowed or flagged. Her home letter was full of the all-absorbing topic, but Rowena's reply was a great surprise -- for behold, pessimistic repinings had given place to an outlook which was positively jaunty in tone.

"It's a nice old world, after all," Rowena wrote. "It is stupid to allow oneself to get humped, for sometimes at the very moment when you believe that all is over, the very nicest things are just about to begin. Put that in your essay, and make moral reflections. 'Oft-times in our ignorance we believe ... but looking back over a gap of time we can see -- A trivial word, a passing glance, the choice of a road, on such trifles may depend ... Discipline is good for us all, but joy cometh in the morning.' You know the sort of thing. For once I really wish I could write your essay for you. I feel just in the mood to write pages. I've been out riding with Mr Seton and his cousins three times this week, and the exercise is so exhilarating. The cousins are staying at the Manor House -- such nice girls! We have taken quite a fancy to one another, and they lend me a mount, so that we can go about together Mr Seton sends you his best wishes for the competition. We talked about it together when we were riding to-day. He is so clever, and has such beautiful thoughts. He is looking forward most awfully to his life, and says it gets better and better all the time. I feel quite ashamed to remember how depressed and discontented I have been, and how irritable with poor old Maud. She can't help it, poor dear, if she is stupid; one ought to be patient with her, and satisfied with a peaceful home life! I am satisfied now. To-morrow I go to lunch at the Manor House."

"But it was to me he offered the mount," was Dreda's comment, not without a touch of offence. Then with a benevolent impulse: "Oh, well, Ro can have it until the holidays, and then he'll take me." Rowena's suggestions as to the essay were too valuable to be ignored, and the fact that they were in exact contradiction of the pessimistic passages on persecution last added, was no hindrance to an author of Etheldreda's ingenuity. She had simply to write, "On the other hand, it may be said," and in came Rowena's reflections as pat as possible. During those next few days her versatile mind seized on everything that she heard, saw, or read, which could by any possibility be turned into material for the essay, until page after page was filled with her big straggling handwriting, and while her companions were still biting their pens in search of inspiration, she was confronted by the task of reducing her masterpiece by at least one-half of its length. And what a task that was!

"Really," she told Susan with a sigh, "cutting down is more difficult than making-up! I read over each bit by itself, and it seems as if I love it more than all the rest put together, and I simply can't endure to lose it; but the next bit is the same, and the next, and the next." She rolled her eyes dramatically to the ceiling. "I am like a mother, called upon to sacrifice one of her children. Whichever I choose, it will break my heart! How I wish I could send in two papers, and have two chances!"

Such a proceeding was, of course, out of the question, so with much groaning and lamentation Dreda cut out the quieter passages, reserving the highly coloured flights of fancy which she considered more likely to attract an author of Mr Rawdon's standing. When at last the typed copies of the twelve essays were circulated in the school it was found, as had been expected, that Susan and Dreda had far out-distanced the other competitors, but Susan's most devoted admirers confessed that her production appeared tame and dull when compared with Dreda's sparkling eloquence.

"I don't quite know what she's driving at," Barbara admitted, "but it sounds awfully grand all the same; and dear old Sue's so painfully in earnest! We'd better resign ourselves to the worst, for Dreda's bound to get the prize, and lord it over us for the rest of the term. Our lives won't be worth living."

"It's the unexpected that happens in this world. I have a feeling that there will be strange developments about this prize. Wait and see!" said Nancy, darkly.



Chapter Nineteen.

After a week's circulation in the school, the twelve typed essays upon "My life, and what I hope to do with it," were packed up and sent to Mr Rawdon for judgment, and Miss Drake begged her pupils to dismiss the subject from their minds as far as possible.

"Mr Rawdon has promised to attend our prize-giving on December the nineteenth, and will announce the result of the competition himself, so that nothing can be gained by discussing the matter before then. It will be useless to question me, for I shall know he more than yourselves, and we have the serious work of preparing for examinations before us. Give your whole minds to your work, and don't waste time on useless speculation."

"Easier said than done," was Dreda's comment on this exhortation as she walked to the hockey field with Susan after the class was dismissed. "It's easy for The Duck to be calm and cold-blooded; she isn't in it, and doesn't much care how it's decided; but to you and me it means life or death. Susan, tell me exactly how you will feel if my name is read out. Will you hate me with a deadly hatred?"

"Dreda, how can you? As if I could ever hate you -- as if such a thing were possible!" Susan was breathless with horror, her brown eyes turned reproachfully upon her friend. "Would you hate me?"

"Yes," returned Dreda calmly; "I should. At that moment my love would change into gall and bitterness. I should hate the very sight of your face. Of course," -- she drew a deep sigh of complacence -- "of course, in the end my better nature would prevail, but I'm so emotional, you know --  my heart is strung by every breath -- like an Aeolian harp. -- I could not answer for myself for the first few moments, so keep out of my way, darling, if you get the prize, until I have fought my battle and overcome."

"I hope you will win, Dreda. I expect you will. All the girls think your essay the best. I should be miserable if I won and you were angry," said little Susan in a low, pained voice. But Dreda was too much occupied with a sudden suspicion to notice the pathos of her attitude.

"Do you think it the best?" Susan hesitated painfully; her nature was so transparently honest that she could never succeed in disguising her real sentiments.

"I like -- bits of it -- awfully, Dreda!"

"Like the curate's egg. Thanks. But not all?"

"Not -- equally well, dear."

"You think your own is better?" Susan's usually sallow face was flooded with a painful red.

"It sounds horribly conceited to say so, Dreda. I wish you hadn't asked. It's only my own opinion, dear. All the others like yours best. I believe it will win. Honestly I do."

Dreda walked on in silence, her lips compressed, her back very stiff and erect. She deigned no answer until the pavilion was only a few yards distant, and even then her voice had a strained, unnatural tone.

"I think we will not discuss the subject any more. Miss Drake said, if you remember, that she would rather we didn't. We ought to respect her wishes."

"I'm sorry," said Susan meekly. She was not the one who had introduced the subject, but she was quite willing to take the blame upon herself, willing to endure any amount of blame if only Dreda would be kind and love her once more.

For the rest of the term the whole routine of the school was arranged for the benefit of those girls who were going in for the different examinations at Christmas; and those who, like Dreda, had not entered their names were necessarily somewhat left out in the cold. They took part in the same classes, but it was not in teacher-nature to take quite so keen an interest in them as in those whose prowess might add to the reputation of the school. If an ordinary scholar were inclined to "slack," now was her chance to do so with the least chance of discovery or punishment, and it is to be feared that Dreda, among others, did not disdain to do so.

"I disapprove of this modern method of cram," she announced in a home letter. "Young girls need rest and amusement, not one long, continual grind; and I don't think it's feminine to be so learned. Accomplishments give far more pleasure, and you ought to be unselfish in life. I should like a new dress for the prize-giving, please. Something very nice -- blue -- and extra well made, because it may be noticed a good deal. I'm so glad you are all coming. It will be nice for you to see Mr Rawdon. I am looking forward to it fearfully much."

The new dress arrived in due course, and was all that could be desired. Dreda beamed complacently as she fastened the last button and regarded her reflection in the glass at two o'clock on the afternoon of the nineteenth of December; but her satisfaction was somewhat damped by the discovery that her favourite little pearl brooch was missing, making still another of those mysterious disappearances by which she had been annoyed during the whole of the term.

"I really can not bear it. It's too much! It would try the patience of Job!" she cried passionately. "Someone is bent on driving me frantic, and whoever she is she's a mean, dastardly wretch. Sometimes," -- her eyes flashed upon Nancy, who sat upon her bed leisurely brushing out her long brown mane -- "sometimes, Nancy, I believe it is You."

Susan, glancing fearfully across the room, saw Nancy's shoulders give a slight involuntary jerk, but she made no other sign of perturbation, and voice and manner remained as usual, calmly nonchalant.

"Do you?" she queried, smiling. "How interesting! And what has led you to that conclusion, may I ask?"

"Your own character. You take a delight in teasing and worrying and mystifying people out of their senses. You probably think it amusing to hide my things, and see me rushing about searching desperately in every corner. I'm good sport, I suppose, because I'm so easily roused. Things affect me more than other people, because I'm so sensitive. I'm like -- "

"An Aeolian harp -- I know! I've heard the comparison before," said Nancy, with a quiet nod of the head which was infinitely exasperating. Dreda stamped her foot upon the floor.

"Have you hidden my brooch or have you not? Answer me this moment! I have not time to waste."

Nancy rose to her feet and selected a hair ribbon from a drawer with an air of unruffled composure.

"I'm sorry, but I find myself unable to oblige you. If I am the person who has been playing tricks with your things all this time, you can hardly expect me to prove my guilt out of my own mouth. On the other hand, if I am innocent -- "

"Well?"

"Then I should naturally be too proud and wounded to vindicate my honour!"

Dreda stood irresolute -- swayed one moment towards penitence, the next to anger. From the farther end of the room Susan mutely gesticulated appeals for peace. What would have happened next it is impossible to say, for at that moment a knock sounded at the door, and a voice cried:

"Miss Saxon. Wanted, please! In the drawing-room."

No need to inquire the meaning of that summons! Dreda flew breathlessly downstairs, and in the moment of opening the drawing-room door beheld her four dear visitors standing in the alcove made by a rounded window --  father, mother, and two sisters. Such darlings -- such darlings; so infinitely more attractive than the other relations with whom the room was full! Father was handsomer than ever, mother so sweet and elegant, Maud was for the moment quite animated, while Rowena in her blue dress and ermine furs was a beauty -- so dazzling a beauty, and withal so sweet, and bright, and womanly in expression, that the schoolgirl sister was breathless with admiration. When the first greetings were over and the parents were talking to Miss Drake, Dreda slipped her hand within Rowena's arm, and gave it a rapturous squeeze.

"Ro, you are lovely! Everybody is staring at you, and I'm just bursting with pride... You dear old thing! What have you done with yourself to look so nice? You are fifty times prettier than you were!"

"Oh, Dreda! Am I -- am I, really? I'm so glad!" cried Rowena, smiling. But Dreda noticed with amazement that she didn't seem a bit conceited; if such a curious thing could be believed true, there was a hitherto unknown modesty and self-forgetfulness about her manner. "You look a darling yourself," Rowena added affectionately. "Are you going to get a lot of prizes to make us proud of you too?"

"Nary a one," said Dreda with a grimace. "The girls are so horribly clever in this school. I have no chance against them. We Saxons are different; we have the artistic temperament; it's more interesting for daily life, but it doesn't pay in exams. I am simply nowhere in the lists."

"But the essay, dear -- the great essay on Life! Surely there -- "

Dreda bridled, and held up a modest hand.

"Impossible to say. Nobody knows. Mr Rawdon will announce it himself. There he is -- over by the fireplace, talking to Miss Drake. Fancy an author looking like that! Quite smart and shaved, like an ordinary man. I expected yards of beard. Oh, dear! my life is in his hands, and he is laughing and talking as if nothing were going to happen! At three o'clock we have all to go down to the big classroom. Sit where you can see me, Ro, and smile at me encouragingly when he gets up; but if someone else wins, look the other way -- I shall want to hide my anguish."

Rowena laughed -- a trill of merry, irresistible laughter, and the stare of scornful reproach failed to move her to penitence.

"You funny girl -- you funny girl! Oh, Dreda, you do exaggerate! A passing disappointment like that! Such a little, little thing, when there are such big prizes waiting in life! Oh, Dreda, you are young!"

"Oh, Rowena, you are -- " The retort hung fire, for at the moment it seemed impossible to think of the right word to express what Rowena was. "Changed!" came at last, as a somewhat tame conclusion, but at least it had the effect of making Rowena blush from the tip of her dainty chin to the very roots of her flaxen hair. Now, why should one blush as though one had been detected in a crime at simply being accused of change?

At five minutes to three the pupils left the drawing-room, and took their places ranged at the back of the big classroom. A small platform had been erected at the farther end, on which sat the teachers, with Mr Rawdon in the place of honour, just behind the water-bottle on the table. Parents and friends sat in chairs running sideways down the room, so that they were able to see the girls and watch the progress of happy prize-winners towards the platform. Rowena smiled confidently at her sister, but Dreda had forgotten her sister's existence. Her heart was beating in quick, sickening thuds; her feet and hands were icy cold; her knees jerked up and down, and in her throat was a hard, swelling pain. It seemed as if all the happiness of life depended upon the next few minutes; as if she could never hold up her head again if she failed now. The girls were smiling and nudging each other gaily; Norah was whispering to Susan, and Susan was listening with an air of genuine interest. Were they all sticks and stones, who had no capacity for feeling? Then Mr Rawdon rose to his feet, and there was an outburst of clapping from the audience. Dreda's own hands moved automatically, and again she wondered at their cold. The first few sentences sounded like a meaningless buzz; then gradually her brain took in the words. Mr Rawdon was expressing conventional pleasure at the "privilege" accorded him by his "kind friend;" these formal civilities were just the clearing of the way before the real business began, and speaker and hearers alike heaved a sigh of relief when they were over and the interesting criticism had begun. Mr Rawdon considered that four out of the twelve essays submitted to him were decidedly above the average of such productions, showing evidences of originality, thought, and literary style. His lips twitched humorously as he described himself as having been quite overwhelmed by the flights of eloquence of one of these budding authoresses, but although four essays had stood out conspicuously from the rest, he had not had a moment's hesitation in deciding on the prize-winner. The essay of this young writer bore the inevitable marks of youth and inexperience, but it bore something else too -- something which it was a joy to discover -- something which had given himself as a writer a deep pleasure and satisfaction -- it bore the marks of a strong literary gift. The girl who had written this essay possessed the great gifts of wit, pathos, and charm; she could not only feel, but she could clothe her thoughts in apt, telling words. She had faults to overcome, and her apprenticeship to art might be long and hard; but he had confidence in making a prophecy to-day, a prophecy which he called upon his hearers to remember and recall in after years, a prophecy that the writer of this schoolgirl essay would live to make an honoured name for herself in the English-speaking world.

A wild burst of applause sounded from the benches at the back of the room. Mr Rawdon smiled, and lifted a slip of paper from the table before him.



Chapter Twenty.

Mr Rawdon deliberately fastened his eye glasses on his nose, and looked down at the slip of paper. There was a dead breathless silence in the room.

"The name of the prize-winner is Etheldreda Saxon."

It seemed to Dreda that her very heart stopped beating in that moment of wild, delirious joy. It was almost as though she had received a blow on her head, so dazed and paralysed did she appear; then dimly she was conscious of the sound of clapping and stamping, and looking across the room the four dear familiar faces stood out in bold relief, while all the others remained a mist and blur. Father quite pale, with his eyes shining like blue flames; mother with the tears streaming down her face -- why did mothers always cry when they ought to be glad? -- Rowena, one sweet, glowing smile of delight. Maud with her mouth wide open -- one could almost hear her snore.

The clapping went on -- everyone seemed to be staring in her direction, and someone was pressing her arm, and saying gently: "Go, dear -- go! They are waiting for you. Go for your prize!"

It was Susan's voice. Susan's face was looking at her with the sweetest, kindest smile... With a start Dreda came back to herself, and as she did so half a dozen words sounded in her brain as distinctly as though spoken by a real human voice. "That is love!" said the voice. "That is the true love!" As she walked up the bare centre of the floor she was thinking not of her own triumph, but of Susan's unselfish joy; it came to her mind that Susan's triumph was greater than her own.

Once on the platform, however, face to face with Mr Rawdon, with Miss Drake by his side beaming with happy smiles, conscious of being the cynosure of every eye, it was impossible not to feel a natural pride and elation.

Before presenting the pile of handsomely bound volumes -- ten in all -- Mr Rawdon held out his hand with a very charming gesture of friendship.

"Etheldreda Saxon, I congratulate you on what you have achieved in the present; I congratulate you still more on what you are going to achieve in the future! My good friend Miss Drake, knowing of old my unmethodical methods, told me not to trouble to return the manuscripts of the various essays submitted for my criticism, but before leaving home to-day I put your typed copy in my pocket, thinking that you would naturally like to have it. I return it to you now, together with these books, which, to my mingled pride and embarrassment, have been chosen for your prize. I hope and expect that the time will come when those present this afternoon may feel it one of their happiest recollections that they were present on the occasion when Etheldreda Saxon received her first literary recognition."

Thunderous applause. Dreda walked down the little stairway, carrying her heavy load of books with the folded manuscript slipped beneath the cover of the topmost volume. The visitors on either side beamed congratulations as she passed; on the faces of her school friends was an expression which she had never seen before -- proud and yet awed, affectionate yet shrinking. It was as if they said to themselves:

"Who is this Dreda who has changed into a genius before our eyes? We have laughed at her, and made fun of her pretensions, and behold, they are not pretensions at all -- they are real! We have been blind. We have never really known her as she is."

The girls in the second row made way for her as she came, pulling their skirts aside, and tucking their feet beneath the bench to allow her to pass along to her seat. She saw each face quite close as she passed along -- Flora, Barbara, Nancy, Norah, Grace -- all smiled shyly upon her --  all except one. Norah's eyes remained hard and cold -- Norah was not glad. She wanted Susan to win the prize.

The clapping was dying down, and Mr Rawdon was beginning his promised address.

"My dear friends -- It is my privilege this afternoon -- " It was not possible to listen to an address at this supreme moment of realisation --  even the words of Mr Rawdon himself were a meaningless jargon in Dreda's ears. Someone tried to take the books from her, but she clung tightly to the volume containing the precious essay which had brought this triumph into her life. Such a wonderful essay that on the strength of it one of the greatest of living authors had confidently prophesied a worldwide reputation. She, Dreda Saxon, an author whom strange people talked about, whose name appeared familiarly in newspapers and magazines! She herself had dreamed of such fairy tales, had expatiated on their probability to sceptical friends; but now that Mr Rawdon had prophesied the same thing she was none the less surprised and tremulous. He who has experienced what the world calls triumph knows well that at those moments the inmost feeling of the heart has been humility rather than pride. He alone knows his own limitations, his own weakness; he trembles lest he may prove unworthy of the praise he has won. As the first delirious moments passed by, Dreda was amazed to feel a sense of depression chilling her blood. She questioned herself as to its cause, and discovered that it arose from a new and disagreeable doubt of her own capacities. Mr Rawdon thought her very, very clever; but was she -- was she really? He believed that she could write books -- long books of hundreds of pages, like the one lying on her lap; many books --  one after another -- all different, about different people, different things. Could she do it? Was her brain really full enough, wise enough, original enough for such a strain? Face to face with herself Dreda experienced some horrible moments of doubt. It had been so difficult to write that one essay -- of herself she had seemed to have no ideas. She had merely pounced on what other people had written and said and rearranged their words. "I am quick, I am sharp. I am what they call ready," said Dreda to herself in that rare moment of modesty; "but I am not really clever. I don't think thoughts of my very own like Susan. It's all a mistake. I shall fail, and everyone will know."

She began to tremble again, and the form creaked behind her. Some one edged nearer and pressed a supporting arm against her side. It was Susan. Dear Susan! If she had been cross and jealous it would have spoiled those first wonderful moments of triumph. Dreda remembered her own prediction of how she would have felt had positions been reversed, and pressed lovingly against the thin little arm. Her eye fell on the sheets of manuscript folded within the book on her lap, and at the sight she knew a returning thrill of confidence. After all Mr Rawdon was a better judge than herself -- he would not have spoken as he did if he had not been sure. It was one of the signs of greatness to distrust oneself.

Dreda smiled, and let her fingers touch the paper with caressing touches. She turned back a corner of the sheet and read some scattered words; even in this short time they seemed unfamiliar, and she searched mentally for the context. It refused to be recalled. She lifted another corner, and a third; her hand trembled, she turned a fourth corner; her fingers dropped the paper, and clenched themselves upon her knee, lay there motionless.

At the moment of tension when Dreda had been waiting for Mr Rawdon's announcement, she had felt a strange bursting sensation in her head; but now something really did snap -- it must have done, for she heard it with her ears -- a sharp, splitting noise, so loud that it seemed impossible that others had not heard it also; yet they still sat smiling and complacent. No one knew, no one suspected. They still believed what she herself had believed, a moment ago -- long, long years ago -- which was it? -- that she was the winner of the coveted prize, the clever, fortunate girl who had a future before her, whose name was to be a household word in the land. She had thought so too; she had walked down the room to the sound of applause, had felt every eye riveted on her face, had seen her mother's tears; but this paper which lay on her knee, the paper with "Prize Essay" scrawled across the back -- this was not her composition. The sentences which she had read were not her own; there had been some mistake -- some horrible, incomprehensible mistake! The numbers must have been confused together. It was Susan's essay which had won the prize, and not her own.

Three minutes ago she had been sure, yet she had not been happy; she had allowed herself to think of the future -- to worry and to doubt. Oh, the folly of it! And now she could never be happy any more; her triumph was turned into humiliation and shame.

What would they think -- do -- say? Mr Rawdon, Miss Drake, father and mother, the other visitors, the girls? What could they say? It would be miserable for everybody -- even for Susan. Susan could not enjoy her triumph at such a cost to her chosen friend. Susan's arm pressed lovingly against her side -- she was distressed that Dreda seemed unnerved, but she did not guess what had happened. Nobody guessed! No one could guess if she kept those sheets carefully folded, and destroyed them as soon as she reached the dormitory. It was not her own mistake. It was Mr Rawdon's. Was one called upon to taste the very dregs of humiliation because another person had made a mistake?

Mr Rawdon was still talking. The hands of the clock had only registered ten minutes since he began; it seemed a lifetime before the big hand reached the next figure. No; she would not tell. The mistake had happened, and she must abide by it. There were other people to think of besides herself. Mother had cried for joy; father's eyes had glowed with happy pride -- could they bear to have their joy turned to pain?

Mr Rawdon was talking about life, taking up the subject of the girls' essays, enlarging upon what they had tried to express. The words floated to Dreda's ears; she listened in curious, detached fashion. "Difficulties and temptations came to us all; they were hard to bear, bitterly hard at the time, but looked upon in the right light they were just opportunities given to us to prove our true worth, to help us farther on our way." Fine words, fine words! It was easy to preach when all was going well for oneself, and there was no terrible mountain of difficulty blocking up the very next step. She could not tell! All the eyes would stare at her again, but the admiration would be changed into pity -- perhaps even into suspicion. Some people might believe that she herself was responsible for this mistake. She would give Susan another copy of the books for Christmas. Susan should not suffer. She would not tell.

Mr Rawdon had put down his notes, the hands of the clock had touched yet another figure; he was looking down the room and smiling in her direction. She lost the drift of his sentence, but his last words were her own name -- "an Etheldreda Saxon," he said, and in the midst of the applause which followed a girl's voice rang out: "Three cheers for Dreda Saxon!" And once more the room was in an uproar of delight.

The girls leapt to their feet; Dreda leapt with them. Susan felt her thrust her way forward, and stared in surprise. She feared that her friend had turned faint with emotion, but when Dreda had cleared herself from the crowded forms she marched quietly up the room towards the platform. The unfolded essay was in her hand, her face was as white as the paper itself. The applause died away into a tense, uneasy silence. Something had gone wrong. What could it be?

Dreda held up the essay towards Mr Rawdon.

She opened her lips, but it was only after several ineffectual efforts that the husky voice would come.

"It is not mine! There has been a mistake. Susan wrote it -- Susan Webster -- the prize is hers!"



Chapter Twenty One.

A blank silence followed Dreda's announcement. Dismay, disappointment, and distress seemed printed on every face. Mr Rawdon and Miss Drake gazed first at each other, then at the girl, then at the paper which she had laid upon the table. Their foreheads were fretted with perplexity. For the first few moments they seemed unable to speak; but presently, bending towards Dreda, they appeared to question her in whispered tones, to question anxiously, to cross-question, -- to draw her attention to page after page of the typed essay, as if searching for a refutation of her statement. But Dreda shook her head, and could not be shaken. Then Miss Drake turned aside and sat down, turning her chair so that her face was hidden from the audience, and two little patches of red showed themselves on Mr Rawdon's cheek bones.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, "a mistake has arisen -- a most regrettable mistake. The numbers attached to two of the essays submitted to me have apparently been misplaced. It is impossible to say how this confusion has arisen. Neither Miss Drake nor I can think of any satisfactory explanation. If by chance it should be due to any carelessness of my own, I can only say that I am most deeply sorry, and that I feel myself painfully punished. It appears that the writer of the prize essay is not Etheldreda Saxon, as we believed. She herself discovered the mistake when glancing at the paper which I had returned to her while I was giving my address just now, and has taken the first possible opportunity of making public her discovery. I regret more than I can say that she should have had so painful an experience, and I am sure that you will all share my sorrow. Miss Saxon's essay was one of the four chosen from the rest, and I can only hope that the prophecies which I have already made as to her future will in all truth be fulfilled." (Great applause.) "I now call upon Miss Susan Webster, the author of the selected essay, to come up to the platform and receive her prize." (Faint clapping of hands.)

There is no doubt that it was a painful anticlimax. It is not often that a literary genius looks the part so delightfully as Dreda had done twenty minutes before -- Dreda, in her new blue dress, with her flaxen mane floating past her waist, her beautiful eyes darkened with excitement, her complexion of clearest pink and white. As she had mounted the steps to the platform the watching faces had shone with pure artistic pleasure in the sight. So young, so strong, so lovely, and so gifted -- it was a privilege even to look upon so fortunate a creature. And now! Guided by Miss Drake's thoughtful hand, the fairy princess had slipped behind the screen which hid the back of the platform, and creeping slowly across the floor came the mouselike figure of Susan in her dun brown dress, her plain little face fretted with embarrassment and distress, a victor with the air of a martyr, a conqueror who shrank from her spoils.

Despite himself, Mr Rawdon's voice took a colder tone as, for the second time, he presented the pile of books; despite herself, Miss Drake's smile was mechanical and forced; while the visitors made only a show of applause. "Hard luck for that fine, bright girl!" whispered the fathers one to another; the mothers almost without exception had tears in their eyes. "And she looks so sweet and pretty! It's a shame!" cried the sisters rebelliously. Even the girls on the benches at the back of the room -- Susan's companions who loved her and appreciated her worth -- even they looked oppressed and discomfited. The romance of Dreda's triumph had appealed to their young imaginations; they understood even more keenly than their elders the suffering involved in that humiliating confession. "Poor Dreda!" they whispered to each other. "Oh! poor old Dreda!"

At tea in the drawing-room the tone of the teachers was distinctly apologetic -- the high spirits characteristic of the early hours had ebbed away, and the visitors were glad to beat an early retreat. Mr and Mrs Saxon received Miss Drake's apologies in the kindest and most sympathetic manner, and would not allow her to take any blame to herself.

"It was an accident -- no one can be blamed. We are so sorry for you, too!" Mrs Saxon said sweetly. "It is a disappointment, of course; it was a very happy moment when we believed our dear girl had gained such a prize. We were so proud of her!"

"We are proud of her now," interrupted Dreda's father quickly, and at that both his hearers smiled and nodded their heads in sympathetic understanding. "Yes, yes; we are proud of her now."

To Dreda herself her parents made no allusion to the tragic mistake. The girl only made her appearance when the motor drove up to the door, and her cool, somewhat haughty manner showed that sympathy was the last thing which she desired at the moment.

"Good-bye, darling, till Thursday. Only two days more before we have you back among us."

"Good-bye, my girl. I'll drive over for you on Thursday morning."

"Dreda, darling, I'm so glad you are coming. I've such lots to tell you!"

"You've got your belt fastened on the wrong hook. The point's crooked."

For once Maud's literal mind was a blessed relief. Her parting words made everyone laugh, and the car drove off with the cheery sound of that laughter ringing in the air, and the remembrance of merry faces to cheer Dreda's aching heart. She turned and crept upstairs to the study. She had shed her own gala dress, thrusting it away in the cupboard as if she never wished to behold it again. The study was filled with odd pieces of furniture which had been taken out of the big classrooms, and the fire was dying out upon the grate.

"Here sit I, and my broken heart!" sighed Dreda dramatically, as she subsided into a chair and drew her shoulders together in an involuntary shiver. It had been cold work standing at the door watching the departure of the car, and the atmosphere of the deserted room was not calculated to cheer her spirits. "When you've had a great shock your constitution is enfeebled; when you're enfeebled, you are sensitive to chills; a chill on an enfeebled constitution is generally fatal. Perhaps I've received my death blow this afternoon in more ways than one." Dreda sniffed and shivered miserably once more. The stream of visitors was still departing, saying good-bye to Miss Bretherton and the teachers in the drawing-room and making their way to the door. Dreda would not risk leaving the study and encountering strange faces on the staircase; besides which, it did not seem her place to seek her companions at this moment. It was her companions who should seek her.

"In the hour of my triumph they all crowded round me; now I am a pelican on the housetop, and no one cares if I am dead or alive. I must get accustomed to it, I suppose. Shame and humiliation must henceforth be my portion. Only fifteen and a half -- in years. In suffering I'm an old, old woman! Mr Rawdon was sorry; I saw it in his face; but he liked Susan's best. Susan has won the prize. Where is Susan now? Has she forgotten all about me?"

As if in answer to this question the handle of the door turned, and a head was thrust round the corner. A voice exclaimed: "Here she is!" and Nancy entered the room, followed closely by Susan herself. They stood and looked at Dreda, and Dreda looked at them, but none of the three uttered a word. Then suddenly Susan whispered something in Nancy's ear, and while that young person hurried from the room with a most unusual celerity, Susan dropped quietly on her knees beside the dying fire and began coaxing it into a blaze.

Dreda sat back in her chair and watched the process with a dull, detached curiosity. Susan's back looked so narrow and small; the brown dress fastened at the back with a row of ugly bone buttons; as she knelt the soles of her new slippers seemed to fill up the entire foreground. They were startlingly, shockingly white! As she bent from side to side blowing skilfully upon the struggling flames, one could catch a glimpse of her profile, white and wan, with red circles round the eyes. Such a poor, weary little conqueror, on her knees striving to serve her fallen rival. Something stirred in Dreda's heart; the ice melted, she cleared her throat, and addressed her friend by name.

"Susan!"

Susan sat back on her heels, lifting scared, pitiful eyes.

"Susan," said Dreda regally, "I don't hate you. You needn't be frightened. I don't hate you a bit -- I'm sorry for you. This should have been your triumph, and I have spoiled it. It's very hard on you too, Susan!"

"Oh, Dreda!" gasped Susan breathlessly. "Dreda, you're magnificent!" She was wan and white no longer; her eyes blazed. No one seeing Susan at that moment could possibly have called her plain; the lovely soul of her shone through the flesh, working its transformation, even as the leaping flames were now turning the dull hearth into a thing of beauty and life.

Still on her knees, Susan crawled across the few intervening yards of floor, and rested her head against Dreda's knee.

"I'd have given it up a hundred times -- a thousand over, Dreda, rather than let you have this experience!" she said brokenly. And Dreda knew that she spoke the truth.

It was in this attitude that Nancy discovered the two girls when she entered the room a few minutes later, bearing in her hands a temptingly spread tea-tray. One glance of the red-brown eyes testified to her satisfaction at such eloquent signs of peace, but manner and speech disdained sentiment.

"Corn in Egypt!" she cried cheerfully. "The Duck fairly showered dainties upon me -- scones, sandwiches, cakes, and a fresh pot of tea. Let's fall to at once. I am fainting with hunger."

She placed three chairs round the table, seated herself in front of the tray, and, pouring out three cups of tea, handed them round with hospitable zeal. Dreda ate and drank and felt comforted, in spite of herself. It was wonderful how the mere creature comforts of warmth and food seemed to soothe the pain at her heart. She even began to feel a faint enjoyment in the dramatic element of her position, to realise that if she had failed she had failed in a noticeable, even in a tragic, fashion. To Susan belonged the glory, yet she, the beaten one, remained unquestionably the heroine of the day!

By the time that second cups of tea had been handed round, and an attack made upon the iced cake, Dreda was ready and eager to discuss her trouble.

"How could those numbers have been altered, Susan? Mine was five and yours was ten. They aren't in the least alike!"

"Dreda, I don't know -- I can't think! If they had come loose and Mr Rawdon had clipped them on again, he would have remembered doing it. At least, an ordinary person would; but he is a genius. Perhaps geniuses are different."

"You are a genius, Susan. You ought to know!" said Dreda, whereat the poor little genius flushed miserably, and Nancy, rattling the tea-tray, rushed hastily into the breach.

"Accidents will happen! It's no earthly use worrying your head about the how and the why. There it is, and you've got to make the best of it, and forget it as soon as possible."

Dreda rolled tragic eyes to the ceiling.

"I shall never forget. You can't reach the height of your ambition and then see your treasure crumble to pieces in your hands in less than ten minutes, and fall down into a very pit of humiliation without wearing a mark for life."

"Don't say humiliation, Dreda," cried Susan tremulously. "Don't, dear; I can't bear it. It was dreadful for you; but there was no humiliation. There was nothing -- nothing of which you could be ashamed. Your essay was very good, too; it has been mentioned as one of the best."

But Dreda was not in the mood to accept comfort. She was miserable, and she intended to be miserable in a thorough, systematic fashion, so that for the moment alleviations seemed rather to irritate than to cheer -- 

"My essay was only one of the best four. That's nothing. Except our three selves and Barbara Morton, there's not another girl in the school who can write a decent essay to save her life. The others were all as dull and stupid as could be. You have seen them, and know that that's true. If mine was only the fourth best, that's no praise at all. Mr Rawdon made no special mention of any but yours, except when he -- Oh - h!" Dreda's voice shrilled with sudden panic; she dropped her cake on to her plate and clasped her hands together, staring before her with wide, startled eyes. "Oh-h! Do you remember? He said that he had been amused by one of the four essays. His lips twitched, and he tried not to laugh. Amused at the 'high-flown eloquence.' That was the expression -- wasn't it? High-flown eloquence! That means rubbish, of course -- bombastic, stupid, exaggerated rubbish! Girls, that was mine! I feel it -- I know it! Susan, you know it, too. You wouldn't say that it was good, even when I asked you straight out. You were too honest to say 'Yes.' Oh! I am not angry. You needn't look so miserable. It was true, and down at the very, very bottom of my heart I knew it myself. When I thought I had won the prize I was only really happy for a few minutes; after that I grew frightened, for I knew it was a mistake, and that I was not really a genius at all, only a rather sharp-witted girl, a ready girl," -- she gave a dreary little laugh -- "who could pick up other people's ideas, and string them together as if they were her own. The girls weren't clever enough to know the real from the sham, but Mr Rawdon knew it at once. He saw how -- how -- " (she paused, groping in her extensive vocabulary for a word to express her meaning) "how meretricious it was! He was -- amused!"

The last word came with an involuntary quiver of pain, and there was silence round the impromptu tea-table. Dreda saw without surprise that the tears were rolling down Susan's cheeks -- it seemed natural that Susan should cry. What did give her a real shock of surprise was to hear a sound of subdued snuffling on her right, and on turning her head to behold the imperturbable Nancy suspiciously red about the eyes and nose.

"Nancy!" she cried involuntarily. "You are crying! I never believed that it was possible that you could cry! Why are you crying, Nancy? Is it about -- me?"

But Nancy only jerked the tea-tray, tossing her head the while in her most nonchalant fashion.

"Can't I cry if I like? Can't I cry for myself? If I don't, no one else will. No one thinks about Me! I tried for the prize as well as you, and I've far more right to be disappointed. No one ever said I might be great!"

She tossed her head and frowned and pouted, but Dreda was not deceived by the pretence. At her heart lay a warm feeling of comfort and gratitude. In recalling the incidents of this tragic day, it would always bring a throb of consolation to remember that Nancy, the imperturbable, had shed tears on her behalf!



Chapter Twenty Two.

Home again, and home with quite a festival air about it in honour of your return. Flowers in every corner, silver candelabra on the dining - table, favourite dishes for every course, a fire in one's bedroom, chocolates lying ready at every turn -- it was all most grateful and soothing! Dreda sunned herself in the atmosphere of tenderness and approval, and though no one referred in words to her disappointment, she knew that it was an underlying thought in every mind, and her sore heart was soothed afresh by each new instance of kindliness and care. The first evening was spent according to good old-fashioned custom, sitting round the schoolroom fire, brothers and sisters together, talking over the events of the term, and comparing exploits and adventures. In the dim firelight Dreda edged close to Gurth's side and slipped her hand through his arm; and, wonder of wonders! instead of pushing her away, Gurth gave it a quick little grip, and leant his broad shoulder against hers in response. The boys were on their best behaviour, amiable and conciliatory, without a hint of the overbearing condescension which was apt to mark the end of the holidays. If there was a blot on the general harmony it was to be found in the air of detachment with which Rowena took part in the conversation. She was perfectly amiable, perfectly sweet, conscientiously interested in the different exploits, yet one and all felt disagreeably conscious that she was no longer one of their number, and that her thoughts were continually straying off on excursions of their own. Dreda remembered the parting promise of "Lots to tell!" and looked forward to hair-brushing confidences later on, but none were forthcoming. Rowena remained loving, preoccupied, and inscrutable.

Alone with Maud, Dreda discussed the change in her sister's manner; but Maud's explanation, though verbose, was hardly enlightening.

"She's nineteen. She'll be twenty on the twenty-first of October next. She's got a train to her last new dress. And then there's teaching me... She orders me about as if she were a hundred, but lately she's grown moony. If I keep quite still and ask no questions she begins staring, and stares and stares and smiles to herself. So silly! But it passes the time. When the clock strikes she gives such a jump! I'm not getting on a bit; but I'm glad, because then I shall go to school. She takes no interest in me. I did the same exercises four times over and she never knew, and when I told mother she said, 'Poor darling!' I thought she meant me, but she meant Rowena. Well, if you grow up, you grow up, but you needn't be silly!"

Three afternoons after Dreda's return home a sharp rat-tat sounded at the door, and Maud, flattening her nose against the window, made one of her characteristic announcements.

"Mr Seton's horse. He's got on his new breeches!"

Dreda gave a glad exclamation.

"Mr Seton! Already! The dear thing! How did he know I was home?"

There was a short, tense pause, while Mrs Saxon and Rowena kept their eyes glued to the ground. A sensitive hearer would have felt that pause significant, but Dreda was too self-engrossed to be sensitive; she never doubted that Guy Seton's object in calling was to welcome herself on her return from school, and her first words informed him of the fact.

"Oh, Mr Seton, it is nice of you to come so soon! Have you got the horse yet? It's lovely of you to remember your promise."

"My -- my -- what horse? What promise?"

"The horse for me -- my mount! You said you would take me out riding -- "

"Oh -- er -- yes! Did I? Delighted, I'm sure!" stammered Guy Seton awkwardly. He looked bigger and stronger and handsomer than ever, but even Dreda could not delude herself that he looked "delighted" at that moment. There had been an expression of blankest surprise upon his face as she had stepped forward to greet him, as if he had been unprepared for her presence, and he had flushed uncomfortably at being reminded of his promise. Dreda stood looking on somewhat blankly while he greeted the other occupants of the room -- Mrs Saxon with punctilious politeness, Maud with a smile and a jest, Rowena in silence with a short grip of the hand. Why did he not speak to Rowena? Were they still at cross purposes as on the occasion of their first meeting? Dreda watched with curious eyes and felt confirmed in her suspicion, for Rowena stitched steadily at her embroidery, and Guy Seton never turned as much as a glance in her direction. It was true that on one occasion when she required her scissors he had pounced upon them as they lay on the table, and handed them to her before she had had time to reach them herself; but instead of forming the beginning of a conversation, as such an action should naturally have done, they both appeared overcome with embarrassment, and ignored each other's presence more persistently than before.

A quarter of an hour passed in a desultory and broken conversation, in which each member of the party seemed to continue his or her own train of thought, with little or no attention to the preceding remarks. As, for example:

Guy Seton: "It's such a ripping day. I thought I could ride over and see how you all were."

Maud: "Mr Morris dropped his spectacles in the stable when he was feeding his new mare. He heard something grind, so he thought she had eaten them by mistake. He sent off for a vet., and he gave her things and charged a guinea, and all the while they were on the dressing-table in his room."

Dreda: "I'm always losing things! There's been a perfect fate against me at school this term. It's not my fault, for I have grown hideously careful, and they all turn up again in time, but it's most wearing for your nerves!"

Mrs Saxon: "I met your mother in the village on Thursday, Mr Seton. I was glad to see her looking so well."

Guy Seton: "This brisk weather braces people up. There's a meet at Newstead Market Square on Monday at eleven. Ought to be a good run."

Maud: "Mr Morris's mare cost eighty pounds. Their coachman told our gardener. He said he thought she was gone for sure when the eyeglasses were missing. They've got a gold rim."

Dreda: "People always lose glasses. Flora Mason wears them at school. She draws most beautifully. She had caricatures of all the mistresses inside an atlas. She put them on the back of Balkan States because no one ever looks at them; but there was an earthquake or something, and The Duck turned them up. As a punishment, she made Flora stand up before all the class and draw a copy of her portrait on the board. Flora kept trying to make it pretty, and she said: -- 

"'Look at your copy, please, Flora; the nose goes to a point, and is inches larger!' Flora was purple with embarrassment, and so were we all."

Guy Seton: "I was wondering if you would care to follow with us on Monday, Miss Saxon? We'd take good care of you. My cousin is a very careful rider, and you need not be at all nervous of being led into awkward places. We could turn back as soon as you were tired."

Dreda's gasp of dismay sounded clearly through the room, but Guy Seton was apparently deaf to the sound. Rowena had raised her head from her embroidery, revealing a face of almost startling beauty -- cheeks as pink as a wild rose, eyes deeply, darkly blue, lips curving into the sweetest and shyest of smiles.

"Thank you so much. I should love to go. I should not be at all afraid."

"That's settled, then!" cried Mr Seton, and breathed a sigh of relief. The air of restraint which he had worn since entering the room gave place to his usual genial, happy manner. He turned to Dreda, questioned her about her work and games, joked and teased, recalled his own experiences, was everything that was kind and friendly, but never a word did he say about the promised "mount" -- not a hint that she also might like to attend the meet! Verily it was a world of grief and disappointment.

Gurth opined that it was a "beastly fag" having no horses, but saw no reason why the younger members of the party should not follow on bicycles. Dreda protested haughtily that if she could not go properly she would not go at all; but when the day of the meet arrived and she saw the little party complacently preparing to start, pride gave way before the thought of a long, dull day alone; she rushed to get ready, and pedalled down the drive looking her old complacent self.

Rowena led the cavalcade on Mr Seton's brown hunter, with her fair locks coiled tightly at the back and her hat pressed down on her forehead. She was not quite so pretty, perhaps, as in ordinary attire, but she looked delightfully trim and business-like, and her young brothers and sisters were proud of her and made favourable comparisons between her and the other lady riders assembled in the square. It was a picturesque sight to see the motley collection of vehicles drawn up by the kerbstones, the riders pacing to and fro, greeting fresh arrivals, who kept trotting in from every direction, the pink coats of the men making welcome touches of colour, and finally the appearance of the hounds themselves, preceded by the huntsmen in their velvet caps and smart white breeches.

A long table was laid out in front of the village inn, on which were set refreshments for those who had driven from a distance. The Saxon quartette strolled up and down, wheeling their bicycles as they went, exchanging greetings with acquaintances, and quizzing the peculiarities of strangers, after the merciless fashion of youth. It was just as they reached the farthest corner of the square, and were about to turn back, that Dreda's glance came into contact with a pair of eyes fixed upon her with a coldly antagonistic gaze with which she was painfully familiar.

Norah! By all that was inexplicable, Norah West herself, standing calmly in the midst of Newstead Market Square, more than a hundred miles distant from her home, to which she had travelled a short week before!

Dreda gazed back in stupefied amazement, and even as she looked a second figure detached itself from the crowd and advanced towards her.

"Dreda! I didn't expect to meet you here. I was going to write!"

"Susan! What is Norah doing with you? Don't tell me you have asked her to stay!"

"I didn't -- but she is here, all the same. Her brother came home ill from school, and the others had all to be sent off at once in case it was something infectious. She telegraphed to know if she might come to us."

"Like her cheek!"

"Oh, Dreda, it was horrid for her, too. Just think if you missed your holidays at home! And she had often invited me there."

"Oh, of course, she adores you, so you enjoy having her company. Don't let me interfere! It's delightful that you are so well entertained. I congratulate you, I'm sure."

Susan's lips quivered. Her face was pinched by the chill wind, which gave increased pathos to her look.

"Dreda, I always tell you the truth; it's horrid of me -- but I'm not glad! I didn't want her one bit. I thought you and I would be often together, and now that she is here that can't be, I'm afraid. But -- poor Norah! None of the girls like her very much; there were so few places she could go to, and just because she isn't -- isn't quite what one would wish, there is all the more reason why one should be nice to her. You remember what you said yourself."

"What did I say?"

"It wasn't about Norah exactly, but one day we were talking about people we didn't like, and you said the best way was to be perfectly sweet oneself, and to behave always as if we loved them, and expected only good things from them, and so elevate them in spite of themselves. I thought it was such a beautiful idea. I've never forgotten it, and now I'm trying to put it into practice."

"Oh-h!" exclaimed Dreda blankly. She herself had forgotten her fine sentiments almost as soon as they were uttered, and was not pleased to be reminded of them at the moment. "Oh-h! Well, if you want to experiment, you must; but I do think it's a little inconsiderate to choose Norah as your subject, and in the Christmas holidays, too! Where do I come in, please? Really, Susan, you are too appallingly inconsiderate!"

Susan smiled her sweet, illuminating little smile.

"I know I am; dear; but be patient with me, please, because I'm disappointed, too, and you'd have done the same yourself if you'd been in my place. You may rage and storm, but you never refuse to do a good turn! I'll keep Norah out of your way!"

For this morning at least the promise could not be kept; for, once having joined forces, it was difficult to separate again, and throughout the exciting chase which followed Norah made herself so agreeable that Harold and Gurth pronounced her "a ripping girl, worth a dozen of that mumpy little Susan Webster."

"Now they'll want her asked over on every occasion. We shall be saturated with Norah! Miserable wretch that I am! Misfortunes dog my footsteps!" sighed Dreda to herself.



Chapter Twenty Three.

The first three hours of the hunt passed somewhat slowly as the hounds sought in vain for a scent, or "found," only to be rewarded by a short, illusive chase. The waits were so frequent that the riders had little chance of growing fatigued, and the Saxon contingent, being refreshed with pocketed stores of biscuits and chocolate, boldly announced its intention of following to the bitter end.

At last the longed-for baying of excitement sounded from within a spinney which was being drawn, while the field waited in scattered groups to right and left. The next moment the long-looked-for fox dashed swiftly across the meadow, making for the nearest woodland, and, presto! all was excitement and bustle. Led by the huntsmen and hounds, the horsemen went streaming across country in a long, irregular line, leaping lightly across intervening barriers, while the less fortunate riders on wheels were obliged to follow the detours of the road.

Dreda felt an almost unbearable impatience as she watched Rowena's graceful figure swaying lightly in her saddle beside Guy Seton in his picturesque pink coat. Hateful to come to a meet if you couldn't come properly! Hateful of Guy Seton to have forgotten his promise! Hateful to follow a mile behind and be out of all the fun. She set her teeth, and decided that she would not condescend to follow meekly in the wake of her companions, but, by taking a short cut in the shape of a ploughed road which led across three meadows, would cut off a corner a good half - mile in length. The path was rough, exceedingly rough -- but, granted that it was a trifle dangerous, what else could you expect at a hunt? No sooner thought than done. Dreda deliberately slackened pace until Hereward and Gurth had passed on ahead, then turned in at the opened gate, and after a few minutes' painful wobbling to and fro found a deep rut along which her wheels could make a fairly easy progress. The sound of agitated puffings and pantings from behind made her aware that another rider had been rash enough to follow her lead; but she dared not turn her head to see who it might be. The road grew worse instead of better, and the different ruts seemed to merge together in the most annoying fashion. The bicycle bumped and strained, and only by the most careful steering could be kept upright at all. She was a good and fearless rider, but, to judge from the gasps and groans which sounded from behind, her follower was not equally skilful, and Dreda began to realise a fresh danger in her nearness. She determined to cross to the far side of the road, chose what seemed to be the smoothest passage, and swerved violently to the right. What exactly happened it would be difficult to say, as it is always difficult to account for any accident after the event. It was impossible to decide whether the second rider was too close on Dreda's heels, and so volleyed into her at the first sideways movement or whether Dreda's front wheel struck against a rut, and in so doing blocked the way. The only thing that was certain was that the two machines came violently into contact, and that their respective riders were thrown headlong to the ground.

A moment of stunned surprise, and then Dreda sat up slowly; very red, very angry, conscious of a sore elbow, a dusty skirt, and a hat screwed rakishly to one side. She was convinced that she had not been to blame, and that her downfall was absolutely and entirely the fault of that stupid other person who had followed too quickly behind; but on the point of declaiming reproaches, she was suddenly silenced by two startling discoveries: first, that the other person was none other than Norah West, and secondly, that she was lying very still, with her head falling limply to one side.

Dreda felt a sudden chilling of the blood. Her heart pounded against her side, and an inner voice cried in her ear: "Norah is dead! You were saying horrid things about her an hour ago, and now she is dead. You led the way along this dangerous path, and she followed and got killed, and it is your fault! Norah is dead, and it is you who have killed her!"

She crawled forward on hands and knees, and peered fearfully at the still face. The spectacles had fallen off Norah's nose. The freckles looked browner than ever against the pallor of the skin. Her face looked pinched and wan, but she was not dead: the breath came faintly from between the parted lips, the cheeks were warm to the touch. Dreda gave a great sigh of relief, and seating herself in the middle of the road, lifted Norah's head with her strong young arms until it lay pillowed on her knee. She searched for her handkerchief, wiped the dust from the unconscious face, and stroked back the heavy hair, crooning over her the while in tones of fondest affection.

"Norah! Norah dear! Norah, wake up! I'm here. Dreda's with you, dear!"

Hitherto Dreda had felt no affection for Norah West; there had been little sympathy between them, and the rivalry for Susan's favour had been a constant cause of friction; but at this moment it seemed the most important thing in life that Norah should open her eyes and speak once more.

In the silent tension of those waiting moments Dreda had a flash of rare insight into the feelings of another. Poor old Norah! She had been snappy at times, but what wonder! It must have been hateful to have a new girl come to school and become the chosen chum of the girl you wanted for yourself; to see her take the lead, while you remained in your insignificant corner. Norah was neither pretty, clever, nor amusing; she was not popular in the school; but, indeed, she had never striven after popularity. The one thing she had desired above all others was Susan's friendship, and that she had failed to gain. Dreda had been accustomed to jeer at the limitations of others; but now, for the first time in her life, she felt a pang of whole-hearted sympathy towards the girl who was so much less fortunate than herself. "It's no credit to me that I'm pretty, but I should have hated to be plain. It would have warped my disposition to look in the glass every day and see nothing but freckles and glittering gold specs. Perhaps it warped Norah's. I ought to have been sorry, instead of proud and superior. And I'm not clever, either -- I thought I was -- and it was dreadful finding out. I expect she hated it, too. Norah! Oh, Norah, I have behaved like a blind, self-satisfied bat. If you go and die now I shall be miserable all my life -- bowed down with remorse! Oh, Norah, do, do open your eyes!"

But Norah lay quiet and unresponsive. Where and how had she been injured? There was no sign of blood, no cut or bruise on the still white face. Dreda gently moved each arm, but still without awakening any sign of consciousness. Then, leaning forward, she tried to straighten out the twisted legs. Instantly there came a flinch and a groan, the heavy lids rolled upward, and two startled eyes searched her face.

"What is it? Where am I? What has happened? Oh -- the pain! the pain!"

"You are quite safe, dear. You fell from your bicycle. I am afraid you have hurt your leg; but I'm here. I'll take care of you. You know me, don't you? You know Dreda Saxon?"

Norah gave a moan of acquiescence. The consciousness of Dreda's near neighbourhood did not appear to be especially soothing, for she turned her head restlessly from side to side, and tried to lift herself on her elbow. The effort failed, and she was obliged to lie back in the same position, pillowed against Dreda's knee, shivering with mingled cold and pain.

"My leg! I can't move it. Don't move! Don't shake me! The least movement is torture. Oh! how shall I ever get home?"

The same thought was beginning to agitate Dreda's mind. Far off, over the distant fences, the heads of a few riders could be seen bobbing away out of sight, as the field swept across the sloping meadows. As well call to the trees themselves as seek to attract their attention! The cross road was too rough and muddy to be much used in winter; it was quite possible that not a soul might pass by for the rest of the day. Dreda shivered at the thought of the long hours of the afternoon during which Norah might be obliged to lie -- cold, cramped, suffering, waiting for the help which never came; of the horror of darkness falling over the land.

"I must go for help. There are some farmhouses about half a mile away. I could get men to carry you back. Could you let me lift you -- very, very gently -- and lay you down on the bank?"

But Norah was terrified to face the slightest movement. So long as she lay perfectly still, hardly daring to breathe, the pain was bearable; but the moment that she attempted to stir such a darting torture seized her in its grip that she was ready to face any waiting, any darkness, rather than allow herself to be moved. She gripped Dreda's hand and the tears welled up in her eyes.

"No, no! You mustn't! You mustn't! I should go mad. Let me lie still. Some one will come. If they don't, let me just die quietly here. Don't move! Don't shake me! I can't bear it. I shall die straight off."

There seemed nothing to be done but to soothe and sympathise, sitting as still as possible, stroking Norah's hair, and striving to shield her from the biting wind. The short-sighted eyes looked quite different bereft of their glittering glasses. The aggressive expression had given place to one of pitiful appeal. Norah had never before experienced severe physical pain; it seemed to her like some savage monster lying in wait to grip her with its claws. She lay with her eyes strained on Dreda's face, feeling herself in Dreda's power, terrified lest Dreda should fail her in her need.

"Dreda, am I heavy? Does it tire you to hold me? I've read that people get cramped sitting in one position -- that it hurts like a real pain. Oh, Dreda, but it can't be like my pain! Something terrible has happened to my leg. It is broken -- or fractured. You can't imagine how it feels. The least movement seems to stab through my whole body. Even if you do get cramped, Dreda, will you promise me to sit still -- not to move or shake me until some one comes?"

Dreda hesitated miserably.

"I'll try, Norah. I will try! I can't bear to say no when you ask me, but I feel as if it were wrong to promise. It can't be good for you to lie here in the cold and the damp. And you ought to see a doctor at once. You will have to be moved some time, and it is bound to hurt. Couldn't you make up your mind and be very, very brave, and let me put you down and run for help now? Indeed, indeed it would be best!"

But poor Norah did not feel at all brave. She shuddered and cried, and clutched Dreda tight with her trembling hands, so that it seemed impossible to deny her request.

The time seemed terribly slow, the wind grew colder and colder, and a thin grey mist began to spread over the meadows. Dreda turned up the collar of her coat, but even that slight movement brought a groan of pain from Norah's lips and a piteous plea to keep still. She set her teeth hard in the effort to refrain from trembling. Her feet were alternately numb and tingling with "pins and needles," but still no sign of a living creature could be seen. After an hour had passed by Dreda was almost more miserable than Norah, who had passed into a dull stupor from which she was aroused only by occasional darting pains. She lay with closed eyes, refusing to speak, but clutching with both hands at Dreda's dress as if even in her semi-unconsciousness the terror of movement still remained, and the cold mist crept nearer and nearer, shutting out the landscape like a heavy screen. Dreda looked at the little watch strapped round her wrist, and saw that the hands pointed to three o'clock. In these short winter days it was often necessary to ring for lamps before four o'clock -- only another hour of daylight, and then! What would happen if no help came within the next hour? Would they have to spend the night together -- Norah and she? Out in that lonely path? Would they be found lying cold and stark when at last the searchers came with the morning light?

Dreda was beginning to feel a little dazed herself. Even before the accident had happened she had been feeling somewhat tired and chilled, and the mental and physical sufferings of the past two hours had been severe. Perhaps she had been weak in submitting to Norah's entreaties; perhaps it would have been truer kindness to have inflicted the momentary torture, so as to have gone in search of aid; but be that as it might, the opportunity was past, and whether she wished it or not she was now too cramped to move. Her limbs felt so paralysed that she believed that she would never walk again. But the thought brought with it no regret; she did not care. Nothing mattered any more, except that there was no support against which to lean her weary back. She was so tired, so sleepy; Norah's head was so heavy on her lap. Dreda's eyelids drooped and opened; drooped again and remained closed; her head fell forward on her chest. The grey mist crept nearer and covered her from sight!



Chapter Twenty Four.

Rowena and Guy Seton gave themselves up to the pleasures of the hunt, blissfully forgetful of the young brothers and sisters who were following on wheels; and, indeed, of everything and everyone but just their own two selves. There seemed always to be some incontrovertible reason why they should keep by themselves, a little apart from the rest of the field. Rowena's hunting experiences had been few, and her escort was too anxious about her safety to allow her to try any but the very simplest and smallest of jumps. This excess of precaution necessitated many a detour, but neither of the two seemed anxious to make up for lost time by putting on extra speed to catch up with their friends; and the interest in the pursuit of the fox was of so perfunctory a nature that it often seemed more by chance than by design that they took the right turnings at all!

It was after two o'clock when Rowena was refreshing herself with sandwiches produced from Guy Seton's case during an interval of rest, when the hounds were drawing a spinney, that she cast her eyes to right and left over the scattered field, and remarked carelessly:

"I don't see Dreda! The boys are there, and the Websters and Maud; but I don't see Dreda anywhere -- do you?"

Guy Seton cast a cursory glance in the direction indicated.

"She is probably behind a tree or a hedge, hiding from the wind. Miss Dreda strikes me as a young woman who can take remarkably good care of herself. Do take another sandwich! To please me! I'm so afraid you will feel faint."

Evidently Rowena was considered less able to look after herself than her younger sister; for on this, as at every moment of the afternoon, she was guarded, directed, and cared for as though she had been the most helpless and timid of children; and the extraordinary thing about it was that Rowena, who was in reality a most capable and self-confident young woman, made not the slightest objection, but seemed thoroughly to enjoy the experience.

Half an hour later on Gurth took the opportunity of another halt to ride up to Rowena's side with a repetition of her own question.

"I say, Ro -- have you seen anything of Dreda? She and Norah West seem to have disappeared altogether. I can't think what's happened to them."

"Perhaps they felt tired, and have gone home. Dreda's all right if she has someone with her," returned Rowena easily, and Gurth accepted the explanation and immediately dismissed the subject from his mind.

Guy Seton was troubled with no fears about the missing girls; but hearing Rowena mention the word "tired," became straightway devoured with anxiety lest the epithet should in any way apply to herself. In vain did she protest with the most radiant and dimpling of smiles. She could no more deny that four hours in the saddle was an unusual exertion than that the weather had taken a change for the worse, and that home lay a good eight miles away. The exhilaration of the moment was such that she felt as if it were impossible ever to be tired again; nevertheless, it was sweet to be cared for, sweet to subject her own will to that of Guy Seton. So the end of the discussion was that the hunt was abandoned, and while the field went gaily chasing after a fresh scent, these two riders turned their horses' heads and jogged slowly in the direction of home.

Suddenly an overpowering feeling of shyness seized upon Rowena. Every moment took her farther away from her companions; the country ahead looked misty and solitary; Guy Seton's eyes were fixed upon her face with an expression at once so wistful and so ardent that it seemed impossible to meet it with her own. In her heart of hearts Rowena knew perfectly well what that look meant; but with the curious inconsistency of her sex the impulse was strong upon her to fly from what she had most longed for and desired. Conversation was the best refuge for the moment, and she plunged hastily into the first subject which presented itself.

"I wonder if we shall find Dreda waiting at home! Poor Dreda, she was so disgusted at having to follow on wheels. She refused point blank to come, as she had not a mount; but at the last moment it seemed too dull to stay at home all by herself. She is such a good horsewoman -- far better than I am. Perhaps next meet you will be very, very kind and take her with you?"

Guy Seton's face suddenly assumed an expression of acute anxiety and discomfort.

"Why should I take her? You are not -- surely you are not going away?"

"Oh, no -- oh, no; but it is Dreda's holiday. She would love it so! It would be such a treat."

"And you? Does that mean that you don't enjoy it? That you would rather stay at home and let her come in your place?"

Rowena blushed.

"Of course it doesn't. I love it, too; but I wasn't thinking of myself. Dreda thinks -- she believes that you made some sort of promise that you would give her a mount, and she is counting upon you to keep it. She would be so disappointed -- "

But Guy Seton had forgotten all about his lightly spoken words, and was in no mood to be reminded.

"I think she must be mistaken, don't you know!" he protested easily. "It's always the same thing with youngsters of that age. If one is foolish enough to say a word, they leap to the conclusion that it is a definite arrangement. I've learnt that with my own nephews and nieces. I saw so very little of Miss Dreda before she went off to school that I could hardly have had time to promise."

"I don't think it took very much time. So far as I understand, it was on the afternoon when you first met -- "

"The afternoon when I came over to call? I remember nothing whatever about that afternoon except that I saw you, for the first time, and that you were unkind to me, and wouldn't speak."

The blush on Rowena's cheeks flamed up again more rosily than before.

"Don't speak of it, please! It makes me hot and so furious with Maud even now. You are not a girl, so you can't understand; but I was so wretchedly embarrassed, and angry, and ashamed."

"But why? That's what I could not understand! You had been sweet enough, and unselfish enough, and hospitable enough to go to the trouble of putting on a pretty frock -- I adore that blue frock -- for the benefit of a casual stranger whom you had never even seen. Why should you be ashamed of that? I think it was jolly unselfish. It's such a fag changing one's kit. You ought to have been very complacent and pleased. You would have been if you could have changed places with me for a minute, and seen yourself walking into the room. If you knew what I thought -- "

He paused, and Rowena, scenting danger, resolved that nothing on earth would make her put the obvious question. The resolution lasted for a whole half-minute, at the end of which time a feeble little voice demanded softly:

"Wh-at did you think?"

"I thought -- oh, Rowena! so many, many things! I thought that I had dreamt of you all my life, and had found you at last. I thought you were the loveliest thing in the whole wide world. I wished I had been a better man for your sake! I was so happy to have met you, and so miserable because you were cross. It was such a bad beginning that I was afraid you would always be prejudiced -- always dislike me."

Again he paused, and Rowena bent over her horse's head, stroking its mane, keeping her eyes persistently downcast. They traversed another hundred yards before the low, insistent tones again struck on her ear.

"Do you, Rowena?"

"Do I -- what?"

"Dislike me still?"

"I? Oh, what a question! I never disliked you. I was angry with Maud, and with myself -- not with you at all."

"But I want so much more. Don't you know that, Rowena? I tumbled headlong in love with you that very afternoon, and I've gone on tumbling deeper and deeper ever since. Do you care for me a little bit, Rowena? Could you care? I'm such a stupid, ordinary sort of fellow. I don't know how I dare ask such a thing of a girl like you -- the loveliest, sweetest girl that ever lived -- but I just have to, and that's the truth! I can't stand the suspense another hour. -- If I waited long enough would there be a chance for me in the end? If I were very, very patient!"

A dimple dipped in the lovely curve of Rowena's cheek. She was sure now -- quite, quite sure! It was not merely a foolish, girlish imagination. Guy loved her. Guy wanted her for his wife. She had entered into her woman's kingdom, and, womanlike, began instantly to adopt provocative little airs and graces.

"But I -- I don't want you to be -- to be -- "

"To be what? What don't you want me to be, Rowena?"

"P-atient!" sighed Rowena, and turned her head with a smile and a glance and a blush which transformed the grey winter landscape into a very Garden of Eden for the man by her side.

Ah, well! it was a blissful half-hour which followed, filled with the inevitable questionings and recollections which every fresh Adam and Eve believe to be their own exclusive property. "What did you think?"

"What did you mean?"

"Why did you say?"

"What was the first -- the very first moment when you began to care?" Hand in hand they passed along the country lanes, the reins lying slack on the necks of their tired steeds; hand in hand they turned in at the farther gate of the ploughed roads which lay across the fields, and halfway along its length came suddenly upon the two still, half - conscious figures of Dreda and Norah West.



Chapter Twenty Five.

The alarm was given at the nearest farm, and the two girls conveyed with all speed to The Meads, where a doctor was at once summoned to their aid.

Norah's right knee was found to be badly fractured, from the effects of which she had to face intense pain and discomfort for some days, and a long, dragging convalescence. Given rest and care, however, recovery was only a matter of time, and the onlookers were less anxious about her than the other patient, who was raving with delirium in an adjoining room. Dreda, like many robust people, had been more affected by the deadly chill of those long waiting hours than was her more fragile companion. Perhaps in nursing Norah upon her knee she had screened her friend from the biting wind, which had seemed to cut like knives through her own back. She had been like a figure of ice when she was carried into the house; but before she had been an hour in bed the reaction had set in and she was burning with a fever heat.

The old nursery expression, "hotty-cold," was a true description of that miserable night, when she alternately shuddered and burnt, and when morning came the dread word "pneumonia" was whispered from lip to lip. A hospital nurse was called in to aid Mrs Saxon in the care of the two patients. Rowena took over the housekeeping duties, and went about her work with a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. Poor, poor darling Dreda! It was pitiful to hear her loud, painful breathing. Rowena's heart stood still at the thought that Dreda's life was in danger -- but Guy was coming. Guy would take her in his arms; she would lay her tired head on Guy's broad shoulder, and be comforted. Was it wrong to feel that nothing, nothing in the world could be unbearable while Guy's arms held her close?

Susan hurried over to The Meads whitefaced and trembling, longing to help, to be of use; but Rowena waved aside her offers half-heard. She could do nothing. The house was already too full; another inmate would only be an additional burden. But Susan gently intimated that she was not dreaming of offering her own presence. "I thought perhaps you would let me have Maud. It must be lonely for Maud, and she may be a little in your way. If you would let Maud stay with us for a time I would try to make her happy."

"Oh, you nice Susan! Oh, Susan, how dear of you!" cried Rowena, fervently. "No words can express the relief which it would be to get rid of Maud just now. She doesn't know what to do with herself, and she follows us about all over the house, asking questions from morning till night -- millions of questions -- and she makes mother cry, and upsets the maids, and drops things with a bang outside Dreda's door when they are trying to make her sleep, and -- and," -- the colour rose in Rowena's smooth cheeks -- "you can't get away from her. She's always there! It would be sweet of you to take her, but I'm afraid you'd be very bored."

"No," said Susan simply, "I couldn't be bored. It's the only way in which I can help Dreda. The more difficult it is the better I shall be pleased."

Rowena looked at her in silence. Little, plain, insignificant Susan Webster, whom an hour ago she had pitied with all her heart. She had no Guy to love her. Considering her unattractive exterior, and the inherent love of men for beauty and charm, it was exceedingly doubtful whether she ever would have a Guy. But she understood. She had risen already to a higher conception of love than the bride whose predominating joy was still in being loved -- in receiving rather than giving! At that moment Rowena had a flash-like glimpse into the nobility of Susan Webster's nature, and her former disdain turned into admiration and love.

When the first painful days had passed, it cannot be denied that Dreda thoroughly enjoyed her position of invalid, with all the petting and consideration which it involved. She was inclined to pose as a heroine, moreover; for had not her own sufferings been the result of standing by a companion in distress! "I could not leave her," she announced to the doctor when he cross-questioned her concerning the events of the fateful afternoon. "She shrieked every time I made the least movement. It was the knee that was broken, but the pain seemed to stretch all the way up. It would have been cruel to move her."

"One has sometimes to be cruel to be kind, Miss Dreda. It would have been better for her, as well as for yourself, if you had insisted upon going for help at once," said the doctor in reply; but even as he spoke he laid his hand on her shoulder with a friendly pat, and Dreda felt complacently convinced that he considered her a marvel of bravery and self-sacrifice.

Mrs Saxon was the most devoted of nurses, and shed tears of thankfulness over each step of the invalid's progress towards convalescence; but Dreda was by no means satisfied with the attitude of her elder sister. Rowena floated in and out of the sick-room with a smile and a kiss; but instead of begging to be allowed to stay, she seemed always in a hurry to be gone, and on one or two occasions when Dreda made feeble efforts at conversation, her attention wandered so hopelessly that she said "Yes" and "No" in the wrong places, or blushingly requested to have the question repeated.

"How odd Rowena is! So absent-minded and stupid. She doesn't listen to half one is saying, and smiles to herself in the silliest way. -- I think the housekeeping must be too much for her brain!" Dreda declared to her mother, and Mrs Saxon smiled in response and skilfully turned the conversation to a safer topic. Dreda was not strong enough to bear any excitement yet awhile.

It was nearly a week later, when one morning, as Rowena stood by the bedside, the invalid's quick eyes caught the flash of diamonds on the third finger of her sister's left hand. She pounced upon it, and holding it fast, despite the other's struggles, demanded tersely:

"What's that?"

"Oh, Dreda, I -- I have been waiting to tell you! The doctor said you were to be kept so quiet. It's a -- a --  Guy gave it to me."

"Guy?" The face on the pillow was all blank surprise and bewilderment. "What Guy?"

"Guy Seton -- my Guy! It's an engagement ring. Oh, Dreda, I have been longing to tell you. I'm so -- happy!"

"You -- are -- engaged -- to Guy Seton?" repeated Dreda blankly. Instead of the radiant smile which Rowena expected, her face hardened with displeasure, and she drew her brows together in a frown. "When? How? Why? I never dreamt of such a thing. It seems too extraordinary to be true."

"Oh, Dreda, why? We think it so natural. We were made for each other. It seems as if we must always have been engaged. I thought you would be so pleased."

"Well, I'm not," declared Dreda decidedly. "Not at all. I don't like it one bit. It upsets all my plans. I used to imagine that father would get all his money back and I should come home from school and go about with you -- two fair young debutantes -- always together, having such fun, sitting up afterwards in our bedrooms brushing our hair and talking over what had happened as they do in books. It will be so dull being alone with no one but Maud. Oh, Rowena, you are selfish!"

But Rowena only laughed, and dimpled complacently.

"Oh, Dreda, you are funny! You didn't expect me always to stay at home, did you? I am the eldest; it is only natural that I should be married first, and if I am to be married, surely you would rather have Guy than anyone else! There is no one like him. All the men we have known are like puppets compared with him. He is so true, so strong, so noble. You ought to be proud, Dreda, that you are going to have him for a brother."

"Well, I'm not," declared Dreda once more. "It's not a bit what I expected. I thought that first day he seemed so taken with me! I thought -- at least, I didn't think, but I should have thought if I had thought, do you understand? -- that he would have wanted to be engaged to me! Not yet, of course, but he could have waited till I was grown up. And you were so huffy and stiff, and I raced across the fields to find mother, and took such trouble. It doesn't seem fair!"

But Rowena only laughed again, without a trace of offence.

"Poor old Dreda, it is hard lines. Never mind, dear; think of the wedding, and how you will enjoy being chief bridesmaid, and how lovely it will be when you come to stay with me in my own little house. Won't it be fun doing just as we like, and ordering the dinners, and having parties whenever we like, and being absolutely and entirely our own mistresses, with no one to say: 'Don't!' or 'You must not,' or 'I'll leave it to you, dear -- but you know my wishes!' That's the worst of all, for it seems to put you on your honour, and then you're powerless. You must often come to stay with us, Dreda dear."

Dreda lay silently, considering the situation. The prospect painted by Rowena was sufficiently enticing to mitigate her first displeasure. Pictures of bridal processions passed before her eyes; pictures of a charmingly artistic little house, which would be as a second home, an ideal home free from discipline and authority. The frown faded, her lips relaxed, a dimple dipped in her cheek.

"You must let me choose the bridesmaids' dresses, and help to arrange the drawing-room. I should have it green, with white paint; but you must be awfully particular about the shade. I've got a wonderful eye for colour -- Fraulein says so. So that was why you never listened when people spoke to you, and kept on smiling in that silly way! I asked mother, but she put me off. Rowena, tell me. What did he say?"

"Dreda!"

Rowena, drawing herself up with a most grown-up access of hauteur, gave it to be understood that such questions were an outrage on good taste, and her younger sister was obliged to turn to subjects less embarrassing and intimate.

"Well, how did you feel then, when it was all settled and you had time to think?"

"Very happy -- utterly happy and contented. There seemed nothing I could wish altered; except, oh, Dreda, I was sorry about the past. I wanted to tell you about that, so that you might be warned in time. Father and mother were so sweet to Guy and me; they never seemed to think of themselves, but only of our happiness; but when I said good-night I saw the tears in mother's eyes, and I said to myself, 'You had the chance of helping her when she was in trouble and of showing her what a comfort a daughter could be; but you were cross and selfish, and threw it aside, and now it is too late. It can never, never come back. You have missed your chance.' That thought was like a cloud over my happiness. I had felt so disappointed to miss my season in London, so angry at having to teach Maud, so ill-used at being shut up in the country, that I had no time to be sorry for anyone but myself. I made things worse for mother by moping and looking cross and dull, and I was a Tartar to Maud. Poor old Maud! She was far more patient with me than I was with her; and after all, Dreda, it was here, in the place I hated, living the life I dreaded, that I met Guy, the big, big prize of my life! I feel so much older since I was engaged. One seems to understand everything so differently. And I have thought of you so often, dear, and hoped that you may never lose your chance as I have done mine. Your home chance, I mean -- the chance of being a real good daughter to father and mother. Then you can never reproach yourself as I do now."

Dreda stared with big, surprised eyes. Well might Rowena say that she was changed! It might have been mother herself who was speaking. Such gravity, such penitence, such humility, were new indeed from the lips of the erstwhile proud and complacent young beauty! Dreda lay awake that night pondering over the great news of the day, with all its consequences to Rowena and herself.

Meanwhile Norah lay helpless in her bedroom at the other side of the house, and though the agonising pain of the first few days was mercifully a thing of the past, the doctor did not disguise the fact that a long and weary convalescence lay ahead before anything like walking could be possible. In a week or two she might be able to be lifted from bed, with the splints still firmly in position; in a week or two more she might get about on crutches, but for how long the crutches would be necessary it was impossible to say. Only one thing was certain: there was no chance of returning to school!

Norah took the verdict very quietly. Once relieved from pain, she was a patient, uncomplaining invalid, and gave little trouble to her nurses. That she was depressed in spirits seemed only natural under the circumstances. Her brother's illness made it impossible for her own mother to be near her; her constrained position made it difficult to read; and her own thoughts were not too cheerful companions for the long, dragging hours. Everyone rejoiced when at last Dreda was well enough to be wrapped in a dressing-gown and escorted across the landing to have tea in Norah's room. A bright fire burned on the hearth; a little table, spread with tempting fare, stood by the bed; and Dreda, propped up in a big armchair, was left to play the part of mistress of the ceremonies.

"They will be happier without us. We will leave them to have their talk alone," whispered the elders to each other, as they left the room; but the two girls were mutually suffering from a sense of embarrassment which made conversation difficult to begin.

"How thin she is! Her nose is sharper than ever. Poor dear, she is plain!" reflected Dreda, candid and clear-sighted.

"How thin she is! All her colour has gone, but she looks pretty still. She always does look pretty," reflected Norah in her turn. She lifted her cup in a trembling hand, looking wistfully at her companion with gaunt, spectacled eyes.

"I am so sorry you were ill... It was all my fault. I kept you there in the cold... Doctor Reed says I should have been plucky and made up my mind to bear the pain ... It's easy to talk when your bones are whole. When they are broken and sticking into your flesh you feel quite different. It seemed easier to die than to move, but it was hard lines on you... I'm sorry you were ill."

Dreda beamed reassurement, thoroughly enjoying the position of receiving apologies.

"My dear, don't mention it. I have suffered too, and I quite understand. Pneumonia's hateful! I never could have imagined that it was possible to feel so ill. I couldn't have thought of anyone in the world, but just how to draw the next breath. -- It is so nice to feel well again; but I'm dreadfully sympathetic about your knee. When you were lying with your head on my knee that afternoon, I was sorry I'd been so disagreeable at school. You feel such remorse when you've snapped at people, and then see them all white and still, with their eyes turned up. -- I thought such lots of thoughts that afternoon, and I'm going to be quite different at school. Much nicer -- you see if I'm not!"

Nora shook her head, and her eyes sank in painful discomfiture.

"No! I shan't see. I shan't be there. The doctor says I shall not be fit for school. I shall never go back to West End. Perhaps it's just as well. The girls never liked me very much, and now it would be worse than ever -- and Miss Drake -- Miss Drake would be furious! ... I never meant to tell, but I've been miserable ever since, and now I've broken my knee -- and, when I lay awake crying with pain those first awful nights I made up my mind to tell, whether it was found out or not. It's awful to have a pain in your body and in your mind as well. Did you guess it was me, Dreda?"

"You -- what?" queried Dreda vacantly. Then the colour rushed into her face, and half a dozen questions tripped together on her tongue. "Oh-h, was it you who hid my things? All the things I lost? My pencils, my books, my gloves, the clock that I heard ticking in my hat-box, my slippers that were on the top of the wardrobe? Oh, Norah, why? What made you do it? Was it for fun?"

Norah shook her head.

"Oh, no. The most deadly earnest. You were Susan's chum, and you patronised me, and gave yourself airs, and I was angry and jealous, and wanted to vex you. It was the only thing I could think of, and it amused me to see you fume and rage. I hid them all -- every single thing. So now you know!"

Dreda sat open-mouthed and aghast. What she felt was not so much horror at thought of the deliberate unkindness, as sheer bewilderment at the discovery that a human being existed who cherished a positive dislike to her irresistible self. She had disliked Norah -- that had seemed natural enough -- but that Norah should return that dislike was a thought which had not even vaguely suggested itself to her mind. It was as if an earthquake had shaken the foundations of her complacent self-esteem. She had a second vision of herself as a novice coming among old pupils and companions, laying down the law, starting new enterprises, claiming the first place, and with it came also a new insight into Norah's suffering, seeing all that had been denied to herself bequeathed so lavishly to a stranger. Instead of the expected outburst of anger, Norah saw with amazement the big tears rise in Dreda's eyes.

"I'm sorry, Norah! I was very horrid. You took an awful lot of trouble. I lost nothing, after all, so you needn't worry, and they were all quite little things."

"Not all! They weren't all little. The synopsis, for instance; you didn't think that little."

"Oh, Norah, did you hide it? That was cruel! I had worked so hard -- had taken such pains. The Duck was so cross! You took it out of my desk, and put it back when I was in the study, just to make me look careless and stupid. Is it really true? I never for one moment believed that anyone had done it on purpose. I can't believe it now."

"It's true, all the same. I did it. I made up my mind to tell you, and I will... I did worse than that... Can you guess what I did?"

They stared at one another across the neglected tea table; stared in silence while one might have counted ten; then Dreda drew a quick, fearful breath.

"No -- no, not that! Not the essay -- the numbers -- the changed numbers! You could not have done that! ... Norah, I couldn't believe it!"

"But I did, I did! It was all my doing. I didn't mean to, but Miss Drake sent me to her room, and on the desk was the parcel of papers all ready except for the string, and the girls all said yours was the best, and I didn't want you to win. I thought it would make you more conceited and bossy than ever. I wanted Susan to get the prize, so that everyone should see she was cleverer than you; but I was afraid she wouldn't, for all the girls said yours was the best. The numbers were just fastened on with clips. It jumped into my head that it would only take a moment to put your number on Susan's paper, and Susan's on yours. Miss Drake said we were all to keep our own written copies, for Mr Rawdon, like most authors, was very unmethodical and careless, and would probably mislay the papers and never send them back. She wanted to make it as easy for him as possible, because it was doing her a big favour to read them at all; so she was going to tell him just to send the winning number and not to bother about the papers. I changed the numbers, and ran downstairs, and the parcel went off by the next post. I was glad I had done it. You were so certain you were going to win, and so condescending to Susan. I was glad I had done it!"

"I see -- I understand. And -- and when my name was read out, when I did get the prize -- how did you feel then, Norah? Were you still glad?"

"Yes," said Norah slowly; "I was still glad. I knew it was Susan's essay, and I knew that you knew. I saw you look at the paper and turn white. I thought you were not going to tell. Then I should have got hold of the essay, and told Miss Drake, and you would have been disgraced before all the school."

Norah spoke with dogged resolution; but, for all her show of bravado, her face flushed to a deep brick red, and her eyes sank uneasily to the floor. Dreda, on the contrary, was very white. Any sort of emotion always drove the blood from her face, and the pupils of her eyes had expanded until the whole iris appeared black.

"You were quite right! At first, for the first few moments I thought I could not tell. It seemed too dreadful, after all the applause and clapping. I had to struggle hard to be honest, and all the time you were watching me -- and waiting! I didn't know that, but it shows how stupid it is to think that one can do wrong and not be found out. Well!" -- she drew a long, fluttering breath -- "you succeeded, Norah. It was a great success. Susan got the prize, and I was humiliated before everybody, and heartbroken with disappointment. I thought I should really have to commit suicide that night, I felt so bad. It's the biggest trial I have ever known, so you may be quite satisfied. It was a great success."

Norah looked up sharply; but no, there was no sneer on Dreda's lips. The big, sad eyes stared into hers with childlike candour and simplicity. Norah bit her lip, and swallowed nervously.

"I -- I'm not satisfied!"

"Oh, but why? You have gained all you wanted. It seems a pity that no one should be pleased. Susan wasn't a bit; she was miserable because I was miserable, and all the girls were sorry for me, and were nicer than ever before. There's only you to be glad, Norah. It was your plan, and you succeeded. You needn't mind me. I've tasted the dregs. Nothing can ever be so bitter to me again."

Norah made no reply. Her lips were pursed so tightly together that there was nothing to be seen but a thin red line. She glanced furtively from one corner of the room to another; to the floor, to the ceiling, to anywhere but just the spot where Dreda sat, looking at her with those big, mournful eyes. In her many imaginings of the scene she had never pictured such a denouement as this. She had schooled herself to hear furious denunciations, but the pitiful calm of Dreda's grief was ten times more difficult to bear.

Both girls were still weak and unfitted to bear long mental strain. The shaking of the bed testified to the nervous tremblings of Norah's body. Dreda lay back against her cushions, and the weak tears rolled down her cheeks. The scones and cakes lay neglected upon the table, and the tea grew cold in the cups. Each minute seemed like an hour, crowded as it was with thoughts of such intensity as come rarely to careless, happy youth. Norah looked back on her finished schooldays, and acknowledged to her own heart that her want of popularity was the result, not of the prejudice of others but of her own jealous, ungenerous nature. Dreda, looking forward to the future, resolved to be less egotistical, less confident, to consider more tenderly the feelings of her companions. She had made many resolutions before now -- too many! And they had known but a short lifetime. But never before had they been born of suffering, and never before had they been strengthened by prayer. This last resolution was made in a very humble and anxious spirit, strangely different from Dreda's former airy complacence.

"Norah," she said slowly at last, "Norah, you have told me the truth, and it must have been awfully difficult. It's your affair and mine, Norah; let's keep it to ourselves. If you were going back to school, it might be your duty to tell; but you are not, and you want all the girls to remember you kindly. I don't see that it would make anyone happier to know. They believe that it was a mistake for which no one was to blame. Let them go on believing it! It will be better for you, and for everyone else. I promise you, Norah, I will never tell."

"Not -- not Susan?"

"Oh, never Susan Susan last of all."

"Why last?"

"Because you, like her best, and because she would be so sorry. Susan is so good that it hurts her when people do wrong. I couldn't bear Susan to think badly of me, and neither would you Susan shall never know."

Then for the first time the tears started to Norah's eyes.

"Oh, Dreda, you are generous," she sighed; "you know how to forgive." Then, with a sudden flash of intuition, "Susan will write books. She will be great; but you, Dreda, you will live! You will be better than famous -- you will be loved!"

When Mrs Saxon entered the room a few minutes later her quick eyes realised at once the mental exhaustion of her two patients, and she escorted her daughter back to her room and tucked her up in bed.

Dreda's fair head rested on the pillow; but her eyes followed her mother's movements about the room with a wistful expression whose appeal could not be denied. Mrs Saxon asked no questions, but with true mother insight she divined the need at the girl's heart, and hastened to fill it.

"Try to sleep, my little girl," she said fondly. "Try to rest. Take care of yourself for my sake. You are more precious to me than ever, since Rowena became engaged. You don't know how many hundreds of times in the last few weeks I have comforted myself by thinking, 'I have Dreda! Thank God for Dreda! When Rowena goes I shall not be lonely. I shall have my other dear big girl.'"

Dreda's face glowed. The dull eyes shone with happiness and expectation.

"Mother," she cried ardently, "I'll never leave you! I'll spend my whole life helping you and father. I'll never, never leave you for the sake of a horrid, strange man."

Mrs Saxon laughed softly.

"Beware of rash promises, dear. I don't ask that. I don't even wish it. When your time comes I hope you may be as fortunate as Rowena. I am a rich woman. I have three daughters. I shall still have Maud at home."

But with all her new-found humility Etheldreda the Ready could not submit to such a comparison.

"Maud!" she cried scornfully. "Maud could never make up for me!"

<eob>

Uncle Wiggily's Fortune

By

Howard R. Garis



Story I

Uncle Wiggily And The Fox


Once upon a time, not so very many years ago, there lived an old gentleman rabbit named Uncle Wiggily Longears. He was a nice, quiet sort of a bunny, and he had lots of friends among other rabbits, and squirrels, and ducks, and doggies, and pussy cats, and mice and lambs, and all sorts of animals.

Most especially there was a muskrat lady, named Miss Jane Fuzzy-Wuzzy, who liked Uncle Wiggily very much. She made a crutch for him, when he had the rheumatism. She gnawed it out of a cornstalk for him, and painted it red, white and blue with raspberry jam.

Well, Uncle Wiggily was a funny old rabbit gentleman. He was always having adventures -- which means things happening to you, such as stubbing your toe, or getting lost or things like that.

I have told you some of his adventures in a book before this one, and also about how he traveled all around looking for his fortune, so he would be rich. But he didn't find it for some time, though many things happened to him.

The last thing that happened, in the book before this one, was that he tore his nice coat, and a good tailor bird kindly mended it for him. And he stayed at her house for some time, bringing up coal, and sweeping the sidewalk, and things like that to be useful; for Uncle Wiggily was very kind.

He used to sleep in a hollow stump, near the nest of the tailor bird, and one night it rained so hard that he had to go to bed and pull the dried leaves up over him to keep warm. All night it rained, and in the morning Uncle Wiggily got up, and he was hoping it had cleared off, so he could travel on and seek his fortune, and get rich.

Out of bed hopped Uncle Wiggily. In one corner of the stump was his valise in which he carried his lunch and clean clothes and the like of that.

The day before, a bad wolf had chased Uncle Wiggily, catching him and tearing his coat, so that now the rabbit gentleman was quite stiff and sore. Still he managed to move about.

"Oh, dear me!" he exclaimed as he looked out of a hole in the stump, and saw the big rain drops still pattering down, "this is a very poor day for me to find my fortune. Still, I can't stay in on account of the weather, so I will get my breakfast and travel on."

He had some carrot and lettuce sandwiches in his valise and he ate these and then looked out to see if the rain had stopped, but it had not, I am sorry to say.

"Well," Uncle Wiggily said. "I don't like to get wet, but there is no help for it. I'll start out." Then he happened to think of something. "I know what I'll do!" he exclaimed. "I'll get the largest toadstool I can find, and use it for an umbrella."

Out he ran and soon he had picked a big toadstool that made as fine an umbrella as one could wish. Then, strapping his satchel to his back, where it would be out of the way, the old gentleman rabbit hopped off, holding the toadstool umbrella over his head, and limping along on his barber-pole crutch. And as he went over the meadows and through the woods he sang this little song, and sometimes when one sings it just at the right time, why it stops raining almost at once. But it has to be sung at the proper time. Anyhow this is the song:

"Splish-splash! Drip-dash! How the raindrops fall! When the weather gets too wet, It isn't nice at all.

"Mr. Rain, oh, please go 'way! For my feet are wet. And you're splashing on my nose. What? You can't stop yet?

"Won't you please be nice to me --  Make your raindrops dry. I am sure you could do this If you'd only try.

"Dry raindrops are very nice, And if they would fall, We could walk in showers, and Not get wet at all."

Well, as soon as Uncle Wiggily had sung this song, he looked up quickly from under his toadstool umbrella to see if it had stopped raining, but it hadn't, and he got a drop right in his left eye, which made him sneeze so hard that his spectacles fell off. And they dropped right into a mud puddle.

"Ha, hum!" exclaimed the old gentleman rabbit, "this is a pretty kettle of fish!" Of course, he didn't mean that there was a kettle of fish in the mud puddle, but that was his manner of talking, because he was so surprised. "A very pretty kettle of fish, indeed!" cried the old gentleman rabbit, "and speaking of fish, I guess I'll have to fish for my spectacles."

So what did he do but use his red-white-and-blue-striped-barber-pole crutch for a fishing pole, and he dipped it down in the mud puddle and in a little while up came his glasses wiggling on the end of the crutch just like an eel.

"That is good luck!" said the rabbit, as he wiped off the mud and water and put on his spectacles, and he was just going to put his toadstool umbrella over his head again when he found out that the rain had stopped and he didn't need it.

Then he left the toadstool hanging on a berry bush by the mud puddle to dry, so that whoever came along next time would have an umbrella all ready for the rain.

"Well, now that the sun is coming out I must be on the watch for my fortune," said the old gentleman rabbit to himself. And he peered first on one side of the road and then on the other, but not a sign of his fortune could he see.

Then, all of a sudden he saw something shining golden yellow in a field close by.

"Ah, that must be a pile of yellow gold!" exclaimed Uncle Wiggily. "Now my fortune is made!" and he hopped over to the field. But alas! and alack-a-day! Instead of being gold the pile of yellow things were carrots.

"Well, it might be worse!" said the rabbit. "At least I can eat carrots. I wonder if whoever they belong to would mind if I took some?"

"I wouldn't mind a bit!" exclaimed a voice. "Take as many as you like, Uncle Wiggily," and up jumped Mr. Groundhog, who owned the carrots. "Take all you can eat and fill your valise," said Mr. Groundhog.

"Thank you very kindly," replied the rabbit, so he ate several carrots and filled his satchel with more, and then he and Mr. Groundhog talked about the weather, and things like that, until it was time for Uncle Wiggily to hop on again after his fortune.

But he didn't find it, and pretty soon it came on toward night, and the old gentleman rabbit looked for a place to stay while it was dark.

"I think this will do," he said, when he came to a small stone cave. "I'll just crawl in here with my carrots and my crutch," and in he crawled as nicely as a basket of shavings.

Pretty soon Uncle Wiggily was fast, fast asleep, and he never thought the least mite about any danger. But danger was close at hand just the same.

Hark! What's that creeping, creeping along under the bushes? Eh? What's that? Why, my goodness me sakes alive and a piece of pie! It's the fuzzy old fox! Yes, as true as I'm telling you, the old red fox had seen Uncle Wiggily go into the cave, and now he was snooping and snipping up to catch him if he could.

"Oh, I'll soon have a fine time!" said the fox in a whisper, smacking his lips. Into the cave he crawled, and in the darkness he happened to knock over Uncle Wiggily's crutch, which was standing in a corner. Quickly the old gentleman rabbit awakened when he heard the noise. Up he jumped and he cried out:

"Who's there?"

"I'm the fox," was the answer, "and I came to catch you."

But do you s'pose Uncle Wiggily was afraid? Not a bit of it. He ran to his valise and he took out a pawful of carrots with their sharp points, and before that fox could even sneeze the rabbit threw one carrot at him and hit him on the nose, for Uncle Wiggily could see in the dark.

Then he threw another carrot and hit the fox on the ear, and then he threw still another one and he hit him on the two eyes, and that fox was so frightened and surprised that he jumped out of the second-story window of the cave house and sprained his toenail. Then he ran back to his den and didn't bother Uncle Wiggily any more that night, and the rabbit slept in peace and quietness, and dreamed about Santa Claus and ice-cream popcorn balls.

But Uncle Wiggily had another adventure next day. I'll tell you about it in a little while, when, in case some one sends me a mud pie with a cherry on the top, the story will be about Uncle Wiggily and the bird's nest.



Story II

Uncle Wiggily And The Bird's Nest


"Now, I must be very careful to-day," said Uncle Wiggily to himself as he got up after sleeping in the stone cave, as I told you he did in the story before this one. "I must be very careful so that fox won't catch me."

So, very carefully and cautiously, he crept to the window of the stone cave house, and looked down, but the red fox was not there. The sun was brightly shining and the old gentleman rabbit could see the big dent made in the soft ground, where the fox had landed when he jumped out of the window and sprained his toenail.

"My! that certainly was a narrow escape for me," thought Uncle Wiggily. Then he fried some of Mr. Groundhog's carrots for his breakfast and, putting some of them in his valise for his lunch, off he started once more to seek his fortune.

He hadn't gone very far before he came to a place where he heard a funny buzzing sound. It was just like a small saw-mill away off in the woods, where the men saw logs into boards in order that houses may be built.

"Oh, my suz dud and a piece of red paper!" exclaimed Uncle Wiggily. "I must be careful or I might get my nose cut off in that saw-mill." So he was very careful, and, after he had listened a while longer, he wasn't quite so sure that it was a saw-mill that he heard, for he could hear a little voice crying:

"Oh, dear. I'll never get loose! I'm caught fast! Oh, if some one would only help me!"

"Ha! That is some one in trouble!" said the rabbit. "I'm going to see if I can't help them." So he bravely kept on through the woods, and the buzzing sound became louder, until, all at once, the old gentleman rabbit saw a nice, good bumble bee caught in the web of a big, black spider.

The bee was all tangled up in the web, and it was his wings fluttering to and fro and up and down that made the buzzing sound.

"Ha! Can't you get loose?" asked the rabbit.

"Indeed he can't!" cried the big, black spider lady, as she sat all hunched up in a corner of her web, waiting for the bee to get more tangled up and all tired out, so she could bite him. "He'll never get away from me," said the spider lady, sassy-like.

"Oh, ho! We will have to see about that!" exclaimed the rabbit. "I am afraid you are mistaken, Mrs. Spider. I am very sorry to have to spoil your cobweb, but I must help my friend, the bumble bee." And with that Uncle Wiggily took his crutch, and broke the web away from the bee's legs and wings so that he was loose and could fly away.

"I never can thank you enough, Uncle Wiggily," said the bee to the rabbit, "and if ever I can do you, or any of your friends, a favor I will. Don't forget to call on me."

"And if ever I can bite you, I will, Mr. Rabbit," said the spider in her crossest voice, as she set to work to mend her cobweb net so that she might catch some one else. Oh! but she was angry, though perhaps we can't blame her.

Well, Uncle Wiggily didn't worry much about what the spider said, as he knew he was going to travel on for a long distance after his fortune, and he didn't think she would come after him, and she didn't.

On and on hopped the old gentleman rabbit, sometimes going slowly and sometimes fast, and once in a while he would go up a hill, and then, again, he would go down. And so it went on. When it wasn't one thing it was another. But he didn't find his fortune anywhere.

Pretty soon, when it was nearly noon, Uncle Wiggily began to feel hungry, so he looked for a nice place where he might sit down and eat his lunch. He saw a shady tree, and he walked toward that, and, just as he did so, he happened to look up, and there, hanging from a branch, was a sort of brown-colored round object, that looked like a small bag.

"Ha! I think I know what that is!" exclaimed Uncle Wiggily. "That is the nest of a stingery hornet, and if I go too close I'll get stung. I'll just keep away, and go somewhere else to eat my lunch."

Uncle Wiggily started off, but at that moment he heard some voices calling. And this is what they said:

"Oh, dear! How hungry we are! Oh, when will mamma come back! Oh, if we only had something to eat!"

"Hum! I hope those hornets don't see me, and come out to bite me," said the rabbit.

And, would you ever believe it? the next moment those who had been calling must have seen Uncle Wiggily, for a voice exclaimed:

"Oh, good Mr. Rabbit won't you please come here? We can't get out, and our mamma has gone to the store for something to eat, and she hasn't come back; and we're so hungry. Please help us!"

"No indeed, I will not!" said Uncle Wiggily firmly. "I don't want to be unkind," he said, "but I am afraid you will sting me, you little hornets!"

"Why, the idea!" cried all the voices at once. "We are not hornets, we are only little birdies, and this is a bird's nest."

"Why, bless my whiskers!" exclaimed Uncle Wiggily. "I believe I have made a mistake." Then he put on his glasses, and surely enough he saw that the brown object like a bag was a nest, and it was full of little birds who could not yet fly very much, for their wings were not strong enough.

"Now, will you help us?" the birdies asked the rabbit. "Help us, please do; for we won't hurt you!"

"Bless my whiskers! Of course I will!" Uncle Wiggily cried, and he at once opened his valise and gave them all they could eat.

"Now I will go look for your mamma," he said. Off he started, but he had not gone very far before he heard the birdies in the nest crying:

"Help! Help! Help!" Uncle Wiggily looked back, and there was a great, big, ugly snake crawling up the tree to get the little birds.

"Oh, I must stop that!" exclaimed the rabbit, and back he started to hop to the nest. But he was quite a distance off, and he saw that he could not get back in time to drive off the snake. "Oh, what shall I do?" he cried. "If only the bumble bee would come along now and sting that snake the crawly creature would run away!"

And, would you ever believe it if I didn't tell you? At that moment along buzzed the bee and he saw the snake and stung him so that the snake was glad to jump away, and not hurt the little birdies. Then Uncle Wiggily and the little birds thanked the bee, who buzzed off to find some apple blossom honey. And pretty soon the mamma bird came home from the store, and she was very grateful to the rabbit for taking care of her little ones.

The reason she was away so long was because a boy threw a stone at her and made her spill the bread she had for her birdies. So she had to go back to the store for more.

"If you stay with us for a few days we will help you look for your fortune," said the mamma bird, and Uncle Wiggily did stay, and he had an adventure.

I'll tell you about it on the next page, when, in case the popcorn ball doesn't roll off the table and bump the kittie's nose, the story will be about Uncle Wiggily and a big rat.



Story III

Uncle Wiggily And A Big Rat


When Uncle Wiggily had fed the little birds in the nest, after he and the bumble bee had saved them from the snake, as I told you in another story, the mamma bird said she could not do enough for the old gentleman rabbit.

"I will have my little ones sing a song for you," she went on. "Come now, birdies, sing for Uncle Wiggily."

So this is the song the little birds in the nest sang:

"Uncle Wiggily is good, Uncle Wiggily is kind, And we hope with all our hearts, That his fortune he may find.

"Gold and silver, diamonds, too, Ice-cream cones and candy sticks, And we hope that he can buy, Two red monkeys who do tricks."

"Oh! that is a very nice song, birdies," said the rabbit, as he took off his hat and made a low bow. "But," he went on, "I don't know as I care for red monkeys who do tricks. What in the world would I do with them?"

"Why, you could give them to us and they would amuse us when our mamma was away," said a little bird who had some feathers sticking crossways in her tail.

"Yes, I suppose I could give you the monkeys," went on the old gentleman rabbit, "but I hardly expect to find any in my travels -- especially red ones."

"Won't you stay to supper with us?" asked the mamma bird, "and we would also be pleased to have you stay all night. Oh, no!" she suddenly exclaimed. "I don't see how you can stay all night."

"I can if you want me to," said Uncle Wiggily, for he thought perhaps the bird was afraid the snake might come back in the darkness, and the old gentleman rabbit made up his mind that if the crawly creature did sneak up, he would hit it with his crutch.

"Well, of course we'd like to have you stay," said the mamma bird, slowly, "but the truth of the matter is that I have no place for you to sleep. You see, our nest is so small; and besides, I never knew of a rabbit in a nest, except at Easter time."

"Of course," agreed Uncle Wiggily, "I never thought of that. However, it is very kind of you, and I'll travel on until I find a hollow stump, or some place like that where I can sleep."

"Oh, mamma!" exclaimed a little boy birdie, "why can't Uncle Wiggily make a tent, and sleep in it right near our nest? He can pretend that he is camping out."

"The very thing!" cried the rabbit. "I'll do it. But of what can I make a tent?"

"We can give you the sticks and the cloth," said the mamma bird, so she showed Uncle Wiggily where there were some nice long sticks, like fishing poles, and some old sheets from a bed that no one wanted.

"That will make a fine tent!" said Uncle Wiggily, "and I'm sure I will sleep in it very nicely."

So he set to work to make the tent. First he stuck one stick in the ground, and then he stuck another stick in, and then still another, until he had about seven sticks sticking around in a circle. Next the mamma bird pulled them together at the top, just like the Indians' tents in the Wild West show, and then she and all the other little birdies tied them with blades of grass for strings, and helped put the cloth around to cover up the sticks.

Then, if you'll believe me, and I hope you do, there was the tent, pointed on top and round at the bottom, just like those chocolate drops with white cream inside that are so nice and soft.

"Ha! this is a very fine tent indeed!" exclaimed Uncle Wiggily. "Now I'll move my valise and crutch inside, and I'll feel right at home."

"And we'll help you make your bed," said the little birds, and away some of the strongest of them flew around, gathering up in their bills dozens of soft leaves, and soon they had made as fine a bed, almost, as baby's crib.

Then supper was ready. And now, let me see, what did they have for supper? Oh, I know! There was some rose leaf pie, and some violets with sugar on, and some bird seed boiled in molasses, and for Uncle Wiggily there was the loveliest turnip cake, with carrot frosting on top, that you have ever seen. Oh! it was most delicious, and it makes me hungry even to typewrite about it, and I'm sure you would like it if you had some.

"Now it's bedtime for you birdies," said the mamma, and she sang them a little lullaby and soon their eyes were tightly shut.

"Yes, and I guess I had better get in my tent," said the rabbit, so in he crawled beneath the cloth that was stretched over the poles, down upon the bed of leaves he lay, and soon he too was fast, fast asleep.

Well, along about in the middle of the night Uncle Wiggily was awakened by hearing something scratching on the side of the tent.

"Ha, hum! I wonder what that can be?" he asked. "Perhaps it is the bad snake coming back. If it is I must get ready with my crutch."

So he reached out in the darkness to get hold of the crutch and just then he saw a light flickering. And a moment later something big and black, with long whiskers, and long sharp teeth, came right inside the tent. And Uncle Wiggily saw that it was a big rat, and that rat had a bottle, and in it were a lot of flickering lightning bugs, and that was the lantern the rat carried, so that he could see in the dark.

"Oh, hello! So you're in here, eh?" asked the rat as he waved his whiskers to and fro at Uncle Wiggily. "Well, I'm disappointed."

"Why so?" asked the rabbit, as he got his crutch and stood ready to hit the rat in case he sprang forward to use his sharp teeth. "Why are you disappointed?"

"Because I thought the birds were in here," said the rat. "I mean to take them all off to my den and make them sing me to sleep. But since you are here, I'll begin on you first, and then I'll go out and pull down the birds' nest."

"Oh, no, you can't do that," said Uncle Wiggily firmly.

"Why not?" asked the rat, surprised-like. "Who will stop me?"

"I will!" bravely cried Uncle Wiggily, and with that he raised his crutch, and he tickled that rat right on the end of his long tail. And the rat was so surprised that he thought he had been struck by a policeman's club. So he jumped around, and, as he did so, Uncle Wiggily threw a piece of cherry pie at him, and it was all soft and squashy like, and the juice ran down in the rat's eyes, and so blinded him that he couldn't see to bite the rabbit, or even a piece of cheese.

"Now, you get right out of this tent, and don't you dare to harm the birds!" cried the old gentleman rabbit, and that rat went right out, taking his long thin tail with him, but forgetting his lightning bug lantern, which he left on the ground.

So Uncle Wiggily looked out to make sure that the rat didn't go near the birds' nest and the bad creature didn't, but he scurried back to his hole in the rocks, feeling quite savage-like and more disappointed than ever.

Next the rabbit took the cork out of the rat's bottle-lantern and he let the poor lightning bugs go, and they were very thankful. And then the rabbit stretched out on the leaves again, and went to sleep until morning and nothing more disturbed him.

Now if the knives and forks don't jump up and down on the table, and upset the sugar bowl, so that it scares the vinegar bottle, I'll tell you next about Uncle Wiggily on a raft.

Illustration: Uncle Wiggily and the Big River Rat



Story IV

Uncle Wiggily On A Raft


"Well, I think I will be traveling along now," said Uncle Wiggily to the bird family the next morning after he had had the adventure with the rat. "I must have another try at finding my fortune. And, perhaps, since you sang such a nice song for me yesterday, you little birds will sing another as I am leaving."

"Of course they will," said their mamma, so she gave a few trills and chords to start them off, and the birdies sang this:

"Dear old Uncle Wiggily, We wish that you could stay And live near our nest always, To drive the rats away.

"But if you now must leave us, Then we will wish for you, That you may have much happiness Whatever you may do."

"I'm sure that's very nice," said the rabbit, "and now I'll bid you good-bye and travel on."

"But you must take some lunch with you," said the mamma bird, and she gave him some more cherry pie to make up for the piece he had thrown at the rat.

Uncle Wiggily went on and on, and pretty soon he came to a place in the woods where there was a tall tree. And some distance up from the ground there was a hole in this tree trunk.

"Ha, hum!" exclaimed Uncle Wiggily, "perhaps there may be gold in that tree hole. Now if I could only climb up to see, I might find my fortune."

Well, you know how it is with rabbits. They can't climb a tree even as well as a girl can, and, of course, Uncle Wiggily had to remain on the ground.

"If only Johnnie or Billie Bushytail were here now," thought the rabbit, "those squirrel boys could climb the tree for me. But I know what I'll do, I'll tie a stone to a string, and I'll put some molasses on the stone and throw it up into the hole in the tree. Then, if there is any gold there, it may stick to the molasses on the stone, and I can pull some down."

So he did this, and he made the string fast to the stone, and was all ready to throw it up when he happened to remember that he had no molasses.

"How careless of me! What shall I do?" he exclaimed. And a voice answered:

"I will give you some molasses, Uncle Wiggily."

The old gentleman rabbit looked around, and there was a nice, green grasshopper, and, as she had some molasses with her, she put quite a lot on the stone. Then the rabbit threw it up at the hole in the tree, but a most surprising thing happened.

For, instead of being gold in the hole there were two unpleasant old owls there, and when the molasses-covered stone popped in on them it awakened them from their sleep, for owls sleep in the day time, and fly about at night, you know.

"Who threw that stone?" cried one owl.

"I don't know," answered the other owl, and she gnashed her sharp beak, "but whoever it was I'm going to bite him!"

"Oh, run! Run for your life, Uncle Wiggily!" cried the grasshopper, as the two owls stuck their heads out of the hole in the tree. "Hop away!"

So Uncle Wiggily hopped off, and the grasshopper hopped also, and the two owls flopped down after them. But the savage birds could not see very well in the day time, and one went ker-bunk into a tree, and the other went ker-thump into a briar bush, and they were all tangled up, and so Uncle Wiggily and the grasshopper got safely away.

"Well, I didn't get any fortune that time," said the rabbit sorrowfully as he hopped down a hill. "But perhaps I may find it soon."

The next place he came to was a big river, and, as he stood on the bank and looked across, it seemed to Uncle Wiggily that he could see a big field of gold on the other side.

"I must get over there," he said to himself, "and I am sure I will find my fortune. But how am I going to do it? That river is too wide for me to jump across, and it is too wide for me to swim. If I only had a boat I would be all right."

The old gentleman rabbit looked around for a boat, but none was at hand. Then he happened to think of something that Sammie and Susie Littletail once did.

"That's what I'll do!" exclaimed Uncle Wiggily, "I'll make a raft." So he got some planks and boards and sticks, and he laid them crossways one upon the other, and tied them together with strong pieces of wild grape vine. Then he had a raft on which he could sit and push himself across the river, almost as well as if he had a rowboat.

"Now, I'll put my valise on board, and hop on myself, and away we'll go!" he cried, and he was very much pleased with the raft that he had made. Into the water he shoved it, and in the middle of the raft he placed his valise. Then he got on, and shoved off, using his crutch for a pushing pole.

Out into the middle of the river went Uncle Wiggily on the raft, and he was having a fine sail. Then all at once he felt hungry, so he stopped pushing the raft, opened his valise and took out a piece of cherry pie.

Well, as true as I'm telling you, just as he was eating it he heard a swirling noise in the water behind him and a savage voice cried out:

"Ha! Now I have you! Give me that piece of cherry pie or I'll upset the raft and you'll get all wet!"

Uncle Wiggily looked around, and there, swimming right up to him was a big, snicky-snooky water rat -- a second cousin to the rat that got into Uncle Wiggily's tent the night before.

"Give me that pie!" cried the rat, as she put her claws on the raft. "Give it to me."

"No, indeed, I will not," replied Uncle Wiggily, as politely as one can speak to a rat.

Then the bad creature tried to climb up on the raft, but the rabbit took his crutch and put it down in the water and pushed along on the bottom of the river, sending the raft along very swiftly.

"Oh, I'll get you yet!" cried the rat, as she swam on after the raft. Faster and faster she swam, and faster and faster did Uncle Wiggily push, until he was all tired out, and he felt sure he would be caught and carried away by the bad rat. And then a voice in the air overhead suddenly cried out:

"Take your handkerchief, Uncle Wiggily, and make a sail out of it. Then the wind will blow you along so fast that the rat can't catch you. Make a sail!"

And Uncle Wiggily did so. He stuck the crutch up for a mast on the raft, and then he fastened his largest red handkerchief to the crutch. And the wind caught it, and blew upon that red handkerchief sail and the raft skimmered over the river so fast that the bad rat was left far, far behind, and so couldn't catch the rabbit.

It was the kind mamma bird who had called to the rabbit gentleman to tell him what to do.

And in a little while Uncle Wiggily was safe on the other shore and he hopped off the raft and ran toward the field that looked as if it was filled with gold.

Whether he found any or not, and what happened to him, I'll tell you on the next page, when the story will be about Uncle Wiggily in a boat -- that is if our puppy dog doesn't sit down in the fly-paper and get so stuck up so he can't gnaw a bone when he goes to the kitten's party.



Story V

Uncle Wiggily In A Boat


When Uncle Wiggily got to the edge of the yellow golden-colored field after jumping off the raft, as I told you in the story before this one, the old gentleman rabbit rubbed his eyes, and then rubbed them again, for he wasn't quite sure of what he saw.

"Why!" he exclaimed, as he put on his spectacles in order to see better. "I have made quite a mistake. This isn't a field of gold at all, it is only a field of golden rod, which is a flower."

"Ah, if it is golden rod, perhaps if you wait long enough it will turn into chunks of gold," said a little voice down on the ground, and, glancing there, Uncle Wiggily saw a little ant with a tiny loaf of bread on her back. "Why don't you wait for that to happen, Mr. Rabbit?" she asked.

"Oh, it would never happen," said Uncle Wiggily. "This golden rod is a flower, and it will always remain a flower. I am disappointed once more about finding my fortune. I thought when I saw this shining yellow color from my raft, after I got away from the rat, that I had found the gold for which I am looking. But, never mind, this flower is very pretty," and he picked a bunch of it and smelled of it.

And some of the yellow dust of the posy-blossom got up the rabbit's twinkling nose, and he sneezed so hard that his glasses fell off. But the ant kindly picked them up for the old gentleman though he had to reach over to take them from her, as she was so small that she hardly came up to the rabbit's knee.

"Well, I must get home to my little ones," said the ant with a loaf of bread. "I hope you have good luck, Uncle Wiggily."

"Thank you very kindly," spoke the rabbit, and then he put a golden rod flower in his button-hole and hopped on to look for his fortune.

Pretty soon, not so very long, in a little while, the rabbit came to a nice smooth rock which was long and slanting, just like a hill down which you slide on your sleds in the winter time. Only, of course, there was no snow or ice now, as it was summer.

"Ha! Now if I was a little younger, and didn't have the rheumatism, I'd slide down that rock!" exclaimed the rabbit. "I wish Sammie and Susie Littletail were here, for they would enjoy this very much. And so would Johnnie and Billie Bushytail, the squirrel brothers, not to mention the puppy dogs."

Then the rabbit looked at the nice, smooth rocky slide, and all of a sudden he heard a voice singing:

"Lumps of pudding and pieces of pie My mamma gave me when I was a boy, And for those things I used to cry --  For lumps of pudding and pieces of pie!"

"Hum! I wonder who that can be?" asked Uncle Wiggily, and then he heard some one laugh and shout, and a great big boy, about as big as two barrels of molasses, burst out of the bushes.

"Why, it's the giant's little boy!" exclaimed Uncle Wiggily in great surprise.

"Yes, that's who I am!" cried the boy who was as large as two barrels of molasses, and a can of condensed milk besides. "How are you, Uncle Wiggily? Have you found your fortune yet?"

"No," said the rabbit a bit sadly, "I have not."

"Never mind," spoke the giant's little boy, "come on and have a slide, it's lots of fun," and with that the big boy threw himself down on the smooth rock, just as if he were on a sled, and away he whizzed down the hill as nicely as a cake of soft soap slips into the bathtub.

"I believe I will try it!" exclaimed the old rabbit gentleman, so, taking a firm hold of his crutch and valise he sat down on the smooth rock, and away he whizzed down after the boy who was as big as two barrels of sweet molasses and an ice-cream cone also.

Faster and faster went the rabbit, and faster and faster went the giant's little boy, until, all of a sudden, the boy slipped off the stone and landed in a big pile of hay, and wasn't hurt at all.

"I wonder if that's what will happen to me?" thought Uncle Wiggily, and he was just looking to see where he would land, and he was hoping it would be in a feather bed, when, as quickly as you can catch an alligator, if ever there's one to catch, the old gentleman rabbit slid off the rock, and down he came, plump on top of a big toadstool, and he wasn't hurt a bit; only sort of jounced up and down like.

"My! That was a fine slide," he said. Then he looked up and he saw that he was right on the shore of a little lake, and close at hand was a rowboat with oars in, and on the boat was a sign which read:


"Please Take A Ride In Me On The Lake."


"Ha! That is very polite of some one," said the rabbit. "I believe I will take a ride in the boat. And perhaps I may find my fortune in it."

Then he looked more carefully, and he saw that there was a box in the boat, and on the box was a sign which read:


"Please Do Not Open This Box."


"Hum! Perhaps there is gold in there. But I won't open it to see until some one tells me I may," thought the rabbit.

So he got into the boat, and he stuck the oars through the oarlocks, which are places made for them, then he dipped the wide part of the oar into the water and pulled on the handle part and, my land sakes, flopsy-dub! Uncle Wiggily was rowing as nicely as you please.

Well, he rowed on and on, until he was out in the middle of the lake, and then, all of a sudden, he heard a funny noise inside the box. It was a sort of scratching, growling noise, and before the rabbit could do anything, the top of the box flew open and out stepped a little black bear. Oh, but Uncle Wiggily was frightened!

"Ah, ha! Now I have you, just where I want you, Mr. Rabbit," said the bear. "This is the last of you. Burr-r-r-r!"

Well, Uncle Wiggily was so frightened that he didn't know what to do, for he surely thought his end had come. Then he happened to remember that he had some cherry pie in his valise, and he knew that bears are very fond of sweet stuff.

"I know what I'll do," thought the rabbit. "I'll give the bear some pie, and when he isn't looking I'll row toward shore, and perhaps I can get away from him." So he quickly opened his satchel, took out the pie and gave it to the bear most politely.

"Ha! this is very good," said the bear in a grillery, growlery voice, as he took the pie. "I will eat this first and afterward I'll attend to your case!"

And when the bear was eating the pie, and licking the sweet, red juice off his clawy paws, Uncle Wiggily rowed toward shore. But he wasn't yet quite near enough to jump out of the boat, so he gave the bear another piece of pie and rowed a little closer to shore.

The bear was so interested in eating the cherries from the pie, and sucking the juice off his paws, that he never noticed what was going on. But finally he glanced up, and when he saw how near the shore the rabbit had rowed the boat the bear cried:

"Ah! ha! So that's your trick, eh? Well, I'll scratch you, anyhow."

And with that he made a spring for the rabbit, but Uncle Wiggily was too quick for him. Grabbing up his crutch and valise, the rabbit jumped out of the boat and landed on shore, and then the wind suddenly sprang up and blew the boat and bear in it out into the middle of the lake, and Uncle Wiggily was safe, I'm glad to say, for the bear couldn't swim to shore that day on account of having no bathing suit.

Then, hopping on, Uncle Wiggily looked all over for his fortune. But he did not find it right away. And he had another adventure soon. What it was I'll tell you almost immediately, which is very soon, when in case the pink cow doesn't eat the chocolate pudding from off the back stoop where the cook sets it to cool, the next story will be about Uncle Wiggily at the seashore.



Story VI

Uncle Wiggily At The Seashore


One morning Uncle Wiggily was hopping along a dusty road. It was the day after he had gotten away from the bad black bear in the boat, and the old gentleman rabbit was thinking of what great danger he had been in.

"I must certainly be more careful," he thought, "and not get in every boat I see. Why, just think of it! If that bear had eaten me up I couldn't search for my fortune any more," and this so frightened Uncle Wiggily that he looked all around and behind the bushes, fearing the bear might, after all, have come ashore and be chasing after him.

But no bear was there, for he had fallen out of the boat and caught cold and had gone to bed, after drinking some hot honey lemonade. The old gentleman rabbit felt better, when he saw there was no bear, but it was so hot that he was thirsty, so he looked for a place to get a drink. Pretty soon he saw a nice, cold spring, and he took three drinks of water and part of another one.

And just as the rabbit was drinking the last drop of water he heard a funny noise out in the road, and, looking up, he saw a whole lot of children going past. Some of them were barefooted, and some had little tin pails and shovels in their hands, and some had red balloons and some blue or green ones. Some of the children had on bathing suits and a few had their little dresses tucked up as far as they could go, and they were dancing along on their slim white legs, as happy as happy could be.

"Why, this certainly is very strange," thought the rabbit. "I wonder where they can all be going? Perhaps it is to a circus parade. I must go see, for I might meet my friend the elephant there. Oh, this will be some fun! Is it a circus parade?" he called aloud.

"No, it isn't a circus parade," said a voice at Uncle Wiggily's side, and, looking down, the old gentleman rabbit saw the kind grasshopper who had once given him some molasses.

"If it isn't a circus parade, what is it?" asked the rabbit.

"These children are going to the seashore to bathe and paddle in the salty ocean waves," went on the grasshopper, "and some of them will build sand houses, or dig wells for the water to fill up. Why don't you go, Uncle Wiggily? Perhaps you may find your fortune there."

"I believe I will," said the rabbit. "Won't you come along?" Well, the grasshopper said he would, so off they hopped together, the hoppergrass -- I beg your pardon, -- I mean the grasshopper -- and the rabbit.

Pretty soon they heard the noise of the waves pounding on the sandy shores, and they could smell the salt breeze and it made them hungry for clam chowder and lobsters and crabs and things like that. Then they saw ever so many more children running along and in a little while they were at the seashore.

"Well, now to look for my fortune," said the rabbit, as he watched the waves rush up on the sand with a big noise and lots of foam, and then they would tumble out to the sea again. "How do you think I had better go about it, Mr. Grasshopper?"

"If I were you I would dig in the sand," said the grasshopper. "Sometimes men, who were called pirates, used to bury gold in the sand, and perhaps there is some of their money left. You dig and I will watch you."

"But I have nothing with which to dig," said the rabbit.

"Oh, you may take my shovel," said a little girl with her dress tucked up high so that it would not get wet. "I am going in wading, so I won't need it."

"Thank you kindly," said the rabbit gentleman to the little girl, and then she went in wading, and a wave splashed up all over her, no matter if her dress was above her knees, and her mamma called to her to be more careful, and not to get so wet.

So Uncle Wiggily began to dig. Deeper and deeper he dug in the sand, while the grasshopper watched him. And every few minutes Uncle Wiggily would look down the hole to see if there was any gold among the grains of sand, but there wasn't any.

All around were children having lots of fun. One boy made a tunnel, and then he played that some sticks of wood were steam cars and he pushed them through the tunnel and puffed out his cheeks to pretend it was the engine choo-chooing.

And a little girl made a garden in the sand, with seaweed for flowers and clam-shells for a house, and she and another little girl had a play-party. Oh, it was great fun!

Then a big boy stretched out on the sand, and another boy covered him all up, from the tips of his toes to the tips of his nose, and he left his nose out so the boy could breathe. Well, the grasshopper and Uncle Wiggily looked at all this fun going on and they were happy as they could be. And the rabbit kept on digging the hole down in the sand, hoping he would soon come to the gold.

And then all of a sudden, before you could count up to forty-'leven, the hole which Uncle Wiggily was digging filled up with water, just like a well.

"Oh, my!" exclaimed the rabbit. "This is certainly bad luck. Now I can't find any gold. What am I to do?"

"I guess you'll have to dig another hole," said the grasshopper. "But perhaps there is gold at the bottom of this one, after all. Let's get a pail and dip out the water, then we may see the gold."

So the little girl who had loaned the rabbit her shovel let Uncle Wiggily take her pail to dip out the water. But the funny part of it was that the faster he dipped out the water the more came in, until there was enough for two wells. Then even the grasshopper helped dip out the water with another little pail, but it did no good.

The rabbit and the grasshopper were both so interested in what they were doing that they didn't notice a big crab crawling up behind them, and the first thing they knew Uncle Wiggily felt some one pinch him on his little short tail.

"Ha! What is that?" he cried, turning around quickly, and then he saw the crab, with its big blue claws pinching him.

"Ouch! Oh, my!" cried the rabbit. "Whatever shall I do?"

"I'll help pull him off!" shouted the grasshopper, but he was not strong enough, and the crawly crab still clung to the rabbit's tail.

"Why are you pinching me?" asked the rabbit, as he tried to reach around and pull off the crab, only he found he could not do it.

"I am pinching you because you dug a hole down in my sandy beach," said the crab, "and I'm going to hold on to you until you give me a thousand pieces of cheese for my supper."

"Oh, I can never get that many!" cried the rabbit. "Will no one help me get away from this crab?" But all the children had run home to dinner and there was no one to help the rabbit, until all of a sudden, a big wave washed up, and almost covered Uncle Wiggily.

He could just manage to breathe, and he sprang up on the beach to get beyond the water, and the grasshopper hopped out of the way also. But the wave was a good one after all, for as soon as the crab felt the water sloshing up around him he let go of the rabbit's tail to swim away, and that's how Uncle Wiggily was saved from the crab, even if he didn't find any gold, and he was very glad his tail wasn't pinched off.

The old gentleman rabbit remained at the seashore for several days, and he had many adventures. And, in case I find a peanut shell with a red popcorn ball inside of it, the next bedtime story will be about Uncle Wiggily and the big lobster.



Story VII

Uncle Wiggily And The Lobster


"Where are you going to stay to-night, Uncle Wiggily?" asked the grasshopper of the old gentleman rabbit, after the wave had rolled up and washed away the crab that had hold of the bunny's tail, I told you about last, you remember. "Are you going to stay at the seashore?" asked the grasshopper, as he looked at his left hind leg and blinked his two eyes, sort of thoughtful-like.

"Oh, yes, I like it here very much," said Uncle Wiggily, "and I'm going to stay, but as true as I live I don't know where I can sleep to-night."

"Couldn't you build a sand house, such as we see the children making?" asked the grasshopper.

"Oh, no, for in the night it might fall down on me, and the sand would get in my ears. Or a big wave might roll up on the shore and wash me out to sea. Oh, dear, isn't it a puzzle what to do when you are seeking your fortune?"

"Oh, don't feel so badly over it," begged the grasshopper. "We will look around and see what we can find."

"Where are you going to stay, Mr. Grasshopper?" asked the rabbit.

"Who, me? Oh, I am going to crawl under a leaf and sing myself to sleep as I always do; but for you, a leaf is hardly large enough."

"Not unless it was a palm-leaf fan," spoke the old gentleman rabbit. "But come on, we will look around."

So they hopped up and down the beach where the ocean waves were rolling along with a booming noise. All the children had gone in by this time, as it was getting dark and rather lonesome. Uncle Wiggily and the grasshopper looked, and they looked, and they looked still more, but they could find no place for the rabbit to stay. At last the old gentleman rabbit said:

"Well, Mr. Grasshopper, you had better get along and look for the leaf under which you are going to sleep, or else it will get so dark that you can't find your way."

"But what will you do, Uncle Wiggily? I don't like to leave you all alone."

"Oh, if it comes to the worst I can sleep out here on the sands, but I don't like to do it, as the dampness will make my rheumatism worse. But it can't be helped."

Well, the grasshopper didn't want to go away and leave his friend, the rabbit, all alone, but Uncle Wiggily finally persuaded him that it would be best, so the little creature hopped off and found a nice leaf. Then he curled up on the underside of it, where, in case it rained, he would not get wet, and he sang himself to sleep.

Well, now, I must tell you what happened to Uncle Wiggily.

At first he was quite lonesome, as he walked along the beach looking for a place to sleep, but then he looked up at the stars shining in the sky above him, and he saw the moon just coming up from behind the clouds, and it was shining on the ocean waves, making them look like silver, and it wasn't quite so dark then.

"I guess I will be all right," said Uncle Wiggily, bravely. "I'm not going to be afraid, for I don't believe the alligator, or fox, or bear, will come here. But I do wish I had some place where I could go in out of the dampness."

Then he suddenly thought of something.

"I know what I'll do!" he exclaimed, as he came to a pile of driftwood on the beach. "I'll make me a house of this wood, and put some seaweed on top for the roof, and in that I'll sleep as nicely as if I were at home."

Well, it didn't take Uncle Wiggily long to do this, and soon he had built as fine a little wood-and-seaweed house as heart could wish. Then he crawled inside with his crutch and his valise, and ate a small piece of cherry pie, and stretched out on some soft seaweed for his bed. In a little while he was fast, fast asleep.

Ha! But what is this funny animal crawling up along the sand with his big claws like a pair of shears which the tinsmith or the plumber uses? Eh? What's that? Why, as true as I live it's a big lobster that crawled up out of the ocean to see what he could find to eat.

Oh, Uncle Wiggily had better look out now, I tell you; hadn't he? But the poor old gentleman rabbit is still fast asleep.

The big lobster stuck out his bulgy eyes, and he moved them this way and that way, and he even looked over his shoulder with them, and then he saw the little house which the rabbit had made.

"Ha! I must see what is in that!" the lobster exclaimed and he crawled toward it. "Perhaps it is something good to eat, and I am very hungry," he said.

So the lobster looked in through the little window which Uncle Wiggily had made, and he saw the rabbit fast asleep.

"Oh, ho! Now for a good meal!" cried the lobster. Then he took one big claw and he softly pulled away some of the boards which Uncle Wiggily had used to make his house. That left a hole, and through this hole the lobster stuck his other claw, and he caught hold of the rabbit by his two ears.

"Oh! who has me? Who is it? What are you doing? Oh, my poor ears! Let go! Please let go!"

That is how Uncle Wiggily cried as he suddenly awakened.

"No, I will not!" exclaimed the lobster in a sort of a boiled-egg voice. "I'm going to crawl off with you to the bottom of the ocean!"

"Then this is the last of me and my fortune," thought the rabbit. "I might as well say good-by."

So the lobster pulled the rabbit right out of the wood-and-seaweed house, holding him by the two long ears, and he started down the sandy beach with him toward the rolling, tumbling ocean. Uncle Wiggily tried to get away, but he couldn't.

Well, if you'll believe me, the big lobster nearly had the rabbit in the rolling, tumbling waves of the surf, when suddenly a flashing lantern showed glimmeringly over the sand, and a voice exclaimed:

"Shiver my timbers! If the big lobster hasn't caught a rabbit. Oh, ho! And he's trying to drown him. That will never do. I will save him. Yo ho! Heave ho!"

Uncle Wiggily looked up and he saw a big, brown, life-saving man, who was out taking a walk along the beach with a lantern to see if anybody needed to be saved. And before that lobster could drag the rabbit into the water that life guard just reached over and took the lobster up by his back, where the crawly creature couldn't pinch, and the lobster was so frightened that he let go of Uncle Wiggily's ears at once.

"Now, hop away, Mr. Rabbit," said the life guard, kindly, and you may be sure that Uncle Wiggily didn't waste any time hopping. "I'll attend to this lobster," went on the big, brown man, and then the rabbit hopped back to his wood-and-seaweed house, where he slept in peace and quietness the rest of the night. And, as for the lobster, the man put him in a pot and boiled him until he was as red as your coral necklace, or your pink necktie, and that was the end of the lobster.

So that's all to this story, if you please, but in case the clothes-wringer doesn't squeeze all the rice out of the ice-cream pudding, I'll tell you next about Uncle Wiggily and the little clam.



Story VIII

Uncle Wiggily And The Clam


Uncle Wiggily awakened in his wood-and-seaweed house in the morning, and he rubbed his sleepy eyes with his paws. Then he got up off his seaweed bed and as he heard a noise he exclaimed:

"Ha! That sounds like thunder. I wonder if we are going to have a storm?" And, truly, there was quite a booming and rumbling racket outside. Then the rabbit laughed at himself.

"Why, how silly of me!" he exclaimed. "That is the waves pounding on the beach. I forgot that I was at the seashore. Now I must look out and see if there are any more lobsters waiting to catch me."

Well, he was just peering out of the window, when there came a knock on the door, and Uncle Wiggily jumped back.

"My sakes alive and some baked beans!" he cried. "What's that?"

"It is only I," said a small voice. "I'm your friend, the grasshopper. How are you?"

"Oh, I'm very well, thank you," replied the rabbit. "I'm coming right out. I must tell you about the terrible time I had with the big lobster last night."

So Uncle Wiggily hopped out of the little house and told the grasshopper all about it, and the grasshopper was so frightened that he kept looking behind him all the while, for fear the lobster might be coming after him. But we all know what happened to that lobster; don't we?

"What are you going to do now?" asked the grasshopper after a while, when Uncle Wiggily was washing his face and paws, and combing out his whiskers, which had some seaweed in them.

"Oh, I am going to look for my fortune to-day," answered the rabbit. "I may find it, for I have heard that often very valuable things are cast up on the seashore by the waves. Yes, I think I shall find my fortune to-day. But won't you have some breakfast, Mr. Grasshopper? I have some cherry pie left, and a few lettuce and carrot sandwiches with parsley trimmings."

"Oh, I might have a bit of parsley," spoke the jumping insect, and he ate quite a bit of it, while the rabbit ate the other things. Then they both hopped along the beach, looking for a fortune of gold or diamonds for the old gentleman rabbit.

And, just as on the other day, there were children playing in the sand, making little wells of water, and tunnels, and sandhouses, and gardens, and castles and all things like that. But there was no chest of gold, nor bag of diamonds, to be seen, though the two friends looked in every place they could think of, and in some other places, too.

"I don't believe the seashore is a very good place to find your fortune," said the rabbit, sadly, as he hopped along. And then he had to stop to take some sand out of his left ear.

"Perhaps if we ask some of the children they may be able to help us," suggested the grasshopper. Well, they did this, but, though the children were very kind, they hadn't seen any gold or diamonds, either.

"Then we'll ask some of the clams or starfish on the beach," said the grasshopper, but the clams or starfish hadn't seen anything of the rabbit's fortune, though they were very polite about it.

"Oh, I know what let's do," exclaimed the grasshopper.

"What?" asked Uncle Wiggily.

"We'll go in bathing," went on the jumping insect, "and that will cool us off, and perhaps down under the water we may find your fortune."

"The very thing," cried Uncle Wiggily; "in bathing we shall go."

Well, the old gentleman rabbit could swim a little bit, you know, and the grasshopper could float on his back as nicely as a fat man can, and together they had a very good time. It was so warm that the water didn't make Uncle Wiggily's rheumatism any worse, I'm glad to say.

Then, after a bit, the grasshopper said he thought he'd take a little hop on the sand to dry off, and that left Uncle Wiggily alone in the water. And now comes the second part of the story.

The old gentleman rabbit was swimming slowly along, looking down under the waves every once in a while to see if there was any gold on the sand beneath, when, all of a sudden, he felt something grab hold of his left hind leg.

"Oh, my! I wonder if that's the bad lobster again?" cried the rabbit, and then he saw a most curious fish, called the toggle-taggle, and this fish had hold of him.

"Oh, please let go of me!" cried the rabbit.

"No, indeed, I will not," said the toggle-taggle, speaking under water, and making a lot of bubbles come up from his breath. "I am going to drag you off to my den beneath the rocks."

"Oh, don't be so cruel!" begged the rabbit. "If you do that I can never find my fortune, and I never can go back and see Sammie and Susie Littletail again."

"That makes no difference to me at all," said the toggle-taggle, speaking in a thin, watery sort of voice, "no matter of difference at all. Here we go!" and he started to drag poor Uncle Wiggily to the bottom of the ocean, under the rocks.

"Ha! I guess I'm not going as easily as that!" cried the rabbit, and at once he began to swim as hard as he could toward land, and Uncle Wiggily could swim pretty well when he tried, let me tell you. This time he swam so hard that he pulled the toggle-taggle fish along with him, and in a second or two Uncle Wiggily was out on the sand, but the toggle-taggle still had hold of him.

"Dry land or water is all the same to me!" cried the odd fish, and then the rabbit saw that the toggle-taggle had legs, as well as fins and a tail, and so he could walk on dry land. "Now you come with me!" cried the bad fish, and he braced with his legs in the sand and was pulling the rabbit back into the water again.

"Oh, will no one help me?" cried Uncle Wiggily, for he was getting weak. And just then a little voice whispered:

"Turn him around, Uncle Wiggily, so I can get hold of his tail. Then I'll pinch him and make him let go of you."

"Uncle Wiggily looked, and there was a nice little clam on the sand behind the toggle-taggle, and the clam had his two shells wide open, ready to pinch the bad fish. Well, the rabbit at once began to push the toggle-taggle toward the clam, and the fish didn't know what this meant. But before he could say anything, his tail came right close to the clam's open shells, and in an instant that brave clam shut his sharp shells down very hard on the tail of the bad toggle-taggle and held on tight.

"Oh, who has me?" cried the fish, and he turned around to see what it was, and with that of course he let go of the rabbit. And then Uncle Wiggily gave a big hop and got safely away. And when the toggle-taggle saw the clam he was so frightened (for he knew that he couldn't bite through the hard shells) that the bad fish at once jumped back into the ocean, taking the brave little clam with him. But the clam didn't mind that -- in fact, it was just where he wanted to go -- so everything was all right.

"My! That clam saved my life, and I didn't get a chance to thank him!" said Uncle Wiggily, somewhat sadly, as he sat away up on the beach. "But I will the next time I see him." Then the grasshopper came back, and had to hear all about what had happened.

Then he and Uncle Wiggily went on looking for the fortune, and they had some more adventures before they found it.

So in the next story, if the doorknob doesn't drop off and fall into the boiled eggs, making a big white and yellow splash, I'll tell you about Uncle Wiggily and the starfish.



Story IX

Uncle Wiggily And The Starfish


Let me see, where did we leave off? Oh, I remember, it was where the red monkey jumped up on the elephant's back and tickled him with an ice-cream cone, wasn't it? No, I beg your pardon, I'm wrong. I promised to tell you about the old gentleman rabbit and the starfish. So if you're all ready, and are sitting comfortably, I'll begin.

It was the day after Uncle Wiggily had gotten away from the toggle-taggle fish that walked, and the little clam had pinched the bad creature on his tail. Uncle Wiggily was hopping along the sand at the seashore beach, and he was looking all around for his fortune of gold or diamonds, he didn't care much which it was, so long as he got rich and could go back home.

"I wonder what has happened to the grasshopper?" said the rabbit, for he hadn't seen the jumping insect that morning.

"Here I am," exclaimed the little chap, and with a hop he landed down beside Uncle Wiggily on the sand.

"Where have you been?" asked the rabbit. "I was beginning to think that you had left me."

"Not yet, but I am going to soon," replied the grasshopper. "You see, there is going to be a big jumping race back where I live and the hopper who jumps the farthest will get a bag of popcorn. And, as I think I will go back home to jump, I came to say good-by. Afterward, I will come here again and help you to look for your fortune."

Well, Uncle Wiggily felt a little sad to have his friend, the hoppergrass, go away, but there was no help for it. So they shook legs with each other, the grasshopper gave a big spring and a jump and away over the sea he sailed to take part in the hopping races at his home.

"Well, now, I wonder what will happen to me to-day?" thought Uncle Wiggily as he walked along the beach, looked down at the sand and listened to the waves washing up on the shore. "Perhaps I may find a bag of diamonds," he said.

And just then, if you'll believe me, he looked ahead and there, on the sand, was something that looked like a black bag, with a long, thin handle on it with which to carry it.

"Oh, ho!" exclaimed the rabbit, "I believe that is my fortune." He hopped forward, intending to pick it up, when, all of a sudden, the thing like a bag moved slowly along.

"Hum! That's queer," said the rabbit, "I never heard of a bag that could move. I must see what this is." So he went up a little closer and he saw that it wasn't a bag at all. It was a queer creature with a long sharp tail like an ice pick, or a black lead pencil, and it was crawling along, but the funny part of it was that Uncle Wiggily couldn't see any legs on which the animal walked.

"Stranger and still more strange!" exclaimed Uncle Wiggily; "what can that be?"

"If you please, I am a horseshoe crab," said a voice from under the black shell, "and if you lift me up you can see my legs."

"How shall I lift you up, Mr. Horseshoe Crab?"

"By my long tail, like an ice pick," was the answer, and when the rabbit did this, underneath a shell that was shaped somewhat like the hoof of a horse, he saw the legs of the crab. They were all covered up when the crab walked, so no one could step on his toes.

"That is very fine," said the rabbit. "Perhaps you can tell me where to find my fortune."

"I'm sorry, but I can't," said the horseshoe crab, and then he crawled on again, very slowly, and Uncle Wiggily hopped forward looking for the bag of diamonds, or gold.

Well, in a little while it got quite warm on the sandy beach, and the old gentleman rabbit felt sleepy. He yawned and he twinkled his nose like two stars on a frosty night, and then he said:

"Oh, me! Oh, my! I think I'll lie down and take a little nap on the sands." So he took some sticks and stuck them up in the beach, and over them he put some seaweed to make a shady shelter, and down under this he stretched himself out, very nice and comfortable.

Well, the first thing you know Uncle Wiggily was fast asleep. And now listen and see what happened to him. All of a sudden, up from the ocean, on her thin, kinky legs came a big sea spider, a creature something like a crab. She shot forward her big, bulgy eyes, and she saw the rabbit under the seaweed shelter.

"Ah, ha!" cried the sea spider to herself, "here is where I have a good rabbit dinner."

Slowly and softly she went on until she was quite close to the old gentleman rabbit, and Uncle Wiggily never awakened. Then the sea spider began to weave a web around the rabbit, just as a land spider weaves a web around a fly that gets into her trap. Strand after strand of the cobwebs did the sea spider throw around the sleeping rabbit, until Uncle Wiggily was as tightly fast as if he had been tied with ropes.

"Now, I'll bite him and that will be the end of him," said the sea spider, and she was just going to do this when, all of a sudden, some of the cobweb blew down and tickled Uncle Wiggily on the end of his twinkling nose, and he woke up.

"Ha! What's this?" he exclaimed, and then he found that he could not move, for he was fast in the web. "What does this mean?" he asked.

"It means that I have you!" cried the sea spider, wiggling her legs like a trolley car.

"Oh, please let me go," begged the rabbit.

"Never! Never! Never!" exclaimed the spider. Then Uncle Wiggily tried, and he tried, and he tried again, but he couldn't get loose from the web.

"Oh, will no one help me?" cried the rabbit. And just then, if you'll believe me, the waves washed something up on the sand, close to where the sea spider had Uncle Wiggily fast. And that something was a curious little fish, shaped like a star. In fact, it was a starfish with five sharp points to it. And that starfish heard Uncle Wiggily calling.

"I'll help you, Mr. Rabbit!" kindly exclaimed the fish.

"Now, you get right away from here," cried the sea spider, for well she knew that the sharp-pointed starfish could cut her cobweb in a second. "Keep away or I'll bite you!" the spider said.

"Oh, you can't scare me!" shouted the starfish. "I'm not afraid of you, and I'm going to help Uncle Wiggily." So the starfish began to roll over and over on the sand like a pinwheel, a hoop, or a wheel that has no rim, and only spokes to it. Bumpity-bump on its five points went the starfish, until it was close to Uncle Wiggily.

Then right into the sea spider's cobweb rolled the sharp-pointed starfish until, with his points, he had cut the web all to pieces and set Uncle Wiggily free, as easily as you can eat bread and jam on Saturday afternoon.

"Now you get away from here!" cried the starfish to the spider, and he threw sand at her until the crawly creature was glad enough to go back into the ocean where she belonged. And the old gentleman rabbit thanked the fish very much, and gave him a piece of lemon pie, because he was all out of the cherry kind.

"Now, I must hurry on to seek my fortune," said Uncle Wiggily, for the day was cooler now. So on he hopped, and he had another adventure.

In case the dishpan doesn't fall down off the nail, and smash the watermelon all to pieces, so there's no supper for the little mouse who lives under the ice-box, I'll tell you next about Uncle Wiggily and the slippery eel.



Story X

Uncle Wiggily And The Eel


My, how it did rain! The water just dripped down from the clouds as if it came from a fountain turned wrong side up, and as Uncle Wiggily walked along the seashore beach, with a toadstool held over him for an umbrella he thought he had never seen such a storm.

"But, I can't stay indoors, because it rains," he said to himself as he started out that morning to look for his fortune. "That would never do. A little water can't hurt me, and besides, with this toadstool umbrella, it isn't as bad as it might be."

So he hopped along, leaning on his red-white-and-blue-striped-barber-pole crutch, and with his valise strapped to his back, and holding the toadstool umbrella over his head. And he felt so happy in spite of the rain that he sang a little song.

Illustration: Uncle Wiggily and the Eel

It went something like this, to the tune of "Hum tum-tum ti tiddle-i-um:"

"I feel so very happy, No matter if it rains, For I don't ride on trolley cars, Nor yet on railroad trains.

"Whenever I feel thirsty, I take a drink of tea, Or, if I can't find any, Why, milk will do for me.

"I haven't found my fortune, Perhaps I never can, But I can hop upon the beach, And beat an old tin pan."

And just then the gentleman rabbit saw an old tin pan lying on the sand, and he went up to it and pounded on it with his crutch. Not hard you understand -- not so hard as to hurt it, but enough to make a noise like a drum.

"There, perhaps that will wake the people up," thought the rabbit for the beach was very lonesome in the rainstorm, with no children building sand houses, and no one in bathing. So Uncle Wiggily beat the tin pan again, and made a great racket, and, all of a sudden something glided out from under the pan. It was something long and thin, and it had a long, thin tail.

"Oh, my! It's the bad snake!" cried the rabbit, and he jumped back so quickly that he dropped his toadstool umbrella and the rain came down on the end of his twinkling nose. He was just about to hop away as fast as he could when the long, thin creature, who had been under the tin pan, exclaimed:

"I'm not a snake."

"No? Then pray tell what you are?" asked Uncle Wiggily quickly.

"I am a slippery eel," was the answer. "Just see if you can hold me, and that will show you how slippery I am."

So Uncle Wiggily very politely took hold of the eel by the tail. But, my goodness me, sakes alive and a piece of ice! In an instant that slippery eel had slipped away.

"What did I tell you?" the eel called to the rabbit, as he crawled back toward the tin.

"Well, you are certainly very slippery," said Uncle Wiggily. "I hope I didn't squeeze you too hard."

"Oh, pray do not mention it," said the eel, politely. "I am used to being squeezed, and that's why I'm so slippery; in order that I may get away easily."

"I hope I didn't wake you up from your sleep under the tin pan," went on the rabbit, who was very kind-hearted.

"Pray do not mention that, either," said the slippery eel, who was very polite. "It was time I awakened, anyhow. But, since you have been so nice about it, if ever I can do you a favor please let me know." Then he stood up on the end of his thin tail and made a low bow, and slipped into the ocean.

"Ha! That is a curious sort of chap," said Uncle Wiggily as he hopped on. "I should like to meet him again, when I have more time to talk to him. But now I must look for my fortune." So he went on looking along the beach in the rain, but never a bit of his fortune could he find.

Now, in a little while, something is going to happen. In fact it's time for it now, so I'll tell you all about it. As Uncle Wiggily was hopping along the beach, where some bushes grew close down to the water, he thought he saw something shining in the sand.

"Perhaps that may be a diamond," he said. "I'll dig it up." So he got a nice pink shell with which to dig, and he set to work, laying aside his toadstool umbrella, and not minding the rain in the least.

Then, all of a sudden, up behind the bushes came sneaking the old fuzzy fox. He had been looking all over for something to eat, but all he could find were hard shell clams, and they were too rough on his teeth, so he couldn't eat them.

"Oh, but there is a soft, delicious morsel!" exclaimed the fox, as he saw Uncle Wiggily digging in the sand, and the fox smacked his lips, and sharpened his teeth on a stone. "Now I will have a good dinner," he added.

So he crept closer and closer to Uncle Wiggily, and the old gentleman rabbit never heard him, for he was busy digging for his fortune.

"Now the thing for me to do," thought the fox, "is to spring out on him before he has a chance to move. And I think I can do it, because his back is toward me, and he can't see."

So the fox got ready to spring right on Uncle Wiggily and maybe carry him off to his den in the woods, and the old gentleman rabbit didn't know a thing about it, but kept on digging for his fortune.

"Here I go!" said the fox to himself, and he crouched down for a spring, just as your kittie does when she plays she is after a mouse. Up into the air leaped the fox, right toward the rabbit. And then, suddenly a voice cried:

"Look out, Uncle Wiggily! Look out!"

The rabbit glanced up, but he was down in the sand hole and he couldn't get out quickly on account of his rheumatism. Right toward him the fox was springing, and then, all at once, the slippery eel -- for it was he who had called to the rabbit -- the kind eel wiggled up out of the ocean. Up along the beach he crawled quickly, until he was right in front of the rabbit in the hole. Then the eel stretched out like a piece of rope and waited.

And then the fox came down on his four feet, but, instead of landing on Uncle Wiggily he landed right on the slippery eel, and that eel was truly as slippery as a piece of ice. Right out from under him slipped the feet of the old fuzzy fox, and down he fell. Slippery, sloppery, slappery he went, sliding along on the eel until he slid all the way off and plumped into the ocean, where he was nearly drowned, for the water got in his nose and mouth and eyes.

"Now, you can get away, Uncle Wiggily," said the eel, and the rabbit kindly thanked the slippery creature, and grabbed up the shining thing he had dug out of the sand, for he thought it was a diamond. Then the fox slunk away, taking his wet and bushy tail with him, and Uncle Wiggily was safe for that time, anyhow, and the eel wiggled along after the old gentleman rabbit, who thought he had better look for a good place to sleep.

But he soon had another adventure, and I'll tell you what it was on the next page, when, in case the parlor lamp doesn't go out to a moving picture show and melt all the ice in the gas stove, the bedtime story will be about Uncle Wiggily and the horseshoe crab.



Story XI

Uncle Wiggily And The Crab


"My, that was a narrow escape!" said the rabbit to the slippery eel, after the fuzzy fox had gone away, as I told you in the last story. "I never can thank you enough."

"Oh, that is a mere nothing!" said the slippery eel, as he dug his tail down in the sand, modest-like. "I am always happy to do a kindness for my friends."

"You are certainly slippery," said the rabbit, "as slippery as a rubber doormat on a wet day. But look at this thing which I dug up just before the fox jumped for me. I think it is a diamond, and if it is, I will get rich, and I can go home and see my little rabbit grandchildren, Sammie and Susie Littletail." Then he held out to the slippery eel the shining object he had found in the sand.

"Alas! Alas!" sorrowfully exclaimed the eel, as he looked at the shining thing.

"What's the matter; isn't it a diamond?" asked the rabbit.

Then the slippery eel said this in a sing-song voice:

"Alas, alas, 'Tis only glass. It is no good To eat for food. It will not do For me or you. Throw it away; Some other day Your fortune may Come past your way."

"Ha, I did not know you could make up verses," said the rabbit in surprise.

"I didn't know it, either," answered the eel. "That is the first time I have ever done such a thing," and once more he dug his tail down into the sand, real modest-like and shy.

"Well, if that is only glass, instead of a diamond, I may as well throw it away," said the rabbit.

"Yes," agreed the eel, and with a flip of his tail he sent the glass spinning out into the heaving ocean.

"More bad luck for me," thought the rabbit, but he did not give up, and, bidding good-by to the slippery eel the rabbit set off down the beach to look for his fortune once more.

By this time it had stopped raining and he didn't need the toadstool umbrella, so he stuck it up in the sand in order that the next person who came along might sit under it and get out of the sun.

Well, Uncle Wiggily went on and on. He saw the children in bathing, and building sand houses, and he saw the fishermen going out to sea to catch fishes and lobsters, but still he couldn't see anything of his fortune.

Then, pretty soon, in a little while, not so very long, the old gentleman rabbit came to a place on the sand where there was a little white card. And on the card was some writing, which read:

"Dig Here And See What You Can Find."

"Ha, hum! I wonder what that means," thought Uncle Wiggily, as he sat down on the sand to rest himself. "I wonder if that can be a trick?" He had been fooled so many times that he made up his mind to be careful now. So he looked all around, but he couldn't see anything that looked like danger.

To be sure, there were some bushes up on the beach, a little way off, but there seemed to be no one in them. And there was no one on the beach near where the rabbit was.

"I guess I'll take a chance and dig," thought Uncle Wiggily. So he laid aside his valise and crutch and began to dig in the sand with a clam-shell. Deeper and deeper he went down until he began to feel something hard.

"Oh, ho!" he exclaimed. "I guess I'm getting close to it. This must be a chest of gold or diamonds that the pirates or robbers buried in the sand years ago. Now, I'll dig it up and I'll be rich. This is a lucky day for me!"

So he dug deeper and still deeper until he had partly uncovered something black and round. He thought sure it was a chest of gold, and he dug faster and faster, until all of a sudden something slipped in the sand and rolled out into the hole Uncle Wiggily had dug, and, before he knew it, he found himself slipping down and there he was, held fast by one paw, under a big black stone. It was a stone he had found under the sand and not a chest of gold at all.

At first he was too surprised to say or do anything, and then, as his foot began to pain him, he cried out:

"Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I'm caught in a trap, and I can't get out!"

"No, indeed, you can't get out!" exclaimed a voice at the edge of the hole, and, looking up, the rabbit saw a big wolf.

"Oh, did you put that card there on the sand, telling me to dig?" asked Uncle Wiggily reproachful-like.

"I did," answered the wolf, showing his teeth in a most impolite grin. "I wanted to catch you under the stone and I did. The stone rolled out of the sand when you had dug down deep enough to loosen it, and now you are fast. I'm going to jump down on you presently, and tickle you until your ribs ache."

Well, Uncle Wiggily felt pretty bad on hearing this, and he didn't know what to do. The wolf was getting ready to spring down on him, when, all at once the rabbit heard a voice whispering down to him:

"Say, Uncle Wiggily, you just ask that wolf if he is a good jumper. He'll say he is, and then you ask him if he can jump on top of the round stone he sees on the sand near the hole. He'll say he can, for he is very proud, but, instead of jumping on a stone, he'll jump on me, and then I'll stick him with my sharp tail, and he'll run away. Then I'll help you get loose."

"But who are you?" asked the rabbit, somewhat puzzled.

"I am the horseshoe crab," was the answer. "I'm up here on the sand, and I look just like a stone, and I'll pretend I really am one. The wolf can't understand my talk, so it's safe. You just ask him to jump on me."

So Uncle Wiggily looked up at the wolf, and said:

"Mr. Wolf, since you are going to tickle me anyhow, would you mind showing me what a good jumper you are before you do it?"

"Of course not!" said the wolf, who was very proud of his jumping. "I'll jump anywhere you say, and then I'll jump down and get you."

"Very well," said Uncle Wiggily, slow and sad-like, "just jump on that round stone up there on the beach, will you?"

"I will," said the wolf, and he didn't know that what he thought was a stone was only the horseshoe crab waiting to stick him with his sharp tail.

So the bad wolf gave one big jump up into the air, and down on top of the horseshoe crab he came, and the crab just stuck up his sharp pointed tail, and it tickled that wolf in the ribs so very much that the wolf had to laugh whether he wanted to or not, and he laughed so hard that he had a conniption fit, and so he couldn't get the rabbit.

Then the horseshoe crab dug away the sand around the stone, and helped Uncle Wiggily get his leg out, and the rabbit was safe, and he thanked the crab, and hopped away and the wolf didn't get him after all.

So that's all to-night, if you please, but the next Bedtime Story will be about Uncle Wiggily and the pink shell -- that is if the red lobster doesn't pinch the stove's legs and make it dance a hornpipe on top of the washtubs.



Story XII

Uncle Wiggily And The Shell


Uncle Wiggily was lame the next day after he had been caught under the stone when the wolf nearly got him, and the horseshoe crab had dug him out. You see the stone pressed on his leg that had rheumatism in it, and it hurt the old gentleman rabbit very much.

But he was quite brave, and when he got up in the morning, even though he could hardly limp along, he decided that he would hop down the sandy beach at the seashore and see if he couldn't find his fortune there.

"It is certainly taking me quite a long time to get rich," he said to himself as he slowly moved along over the soft sand, "and perhaps I may never find any diamonds or gold. But no matter, I am enjoying myself, and that is something. Still, I would like to see Sammie and Susie Littletail again."

And when he thought of the two little rabbit children he was a bit sad. Then he decided that would never do, so he cheered himself up by singing a little song that went something like this:

"Don't be sad, Just be glad, For the sun is shining. Don't be blue, For it's true Clouds have silver lining.

"Sing and dance, Hop and prance, Make some one feel jolly, Go 'way, care, Don't you dare Make me melancholy."

"Ha, hum! I feel much better after that," said Uncle Wiggily, and he moved his whiskers sideways and up and down, and twinkled his nose, and then he went on looking for his fortune.

Pretty soon he came to a big snail that was crawling slowly along the beach.

"Have you seen any gold?" asked the rabbit.

"No, I am sorry to say I have not," said the snail, slowly and carefully. "But I have not gone very far this morning. I have only traveled about as far as from one orange seed to another, and that is not very far, you know. Perhaps later I may find some gold."

"Then have you seen any diamonds?" asked Uncle Wiggily.

"No, but I saw a dewdrop inside a flower sparkling in the sunshine," said the snail, "and it was brighter than a diamond."

"That is very pretty, but it is not my fortune," said the rabbit. "I must keep on." So on he went, singing his jolly song, and he kept humming it, even when the sun went behind a cloud, and it looked as if it were going to storm. The waves of the ocean grew into big billows, and they dashed up on the beach with a booming, thundering sound.

"I think we are going to have a shower," said the old gentleman rabbit. "I must look about for another toadstool umbrella." So he found one growing in the grass a little distance from the water, and he picked it. Then, strapping his valise over his shoulder, he hopped ahead, leaning on his crutch.

Pretty soon, not so very long, it began to rain. My! how the drops did come pelting down, harder and harder, but Uncle Wiggily didn't get wet because of his toadstool umbrella. And then, before you could eat a stick of peppermint candy, something hard hit the old gentleman rabbit on the nose.

"Ha! My umbrella must be leaking!" he cried. Then there came a flash of lightning, and a loud clap of thunder, and something else hit Uncle Wiggily on the end of his nose.

"Oh, I hope I'm not struck by lightning!" he cried. So he looked up, and he saw that his toadstool umbrella was full of holes, and the reason of this was that it was hailing instead of raining. The rain drops had turned into little round chunks of ice, just like white pebbles, and they were pelting down, and had torn the rabbit's umbrella all to pieces.

"Whatever shall I do?" cried Uncle Wiggily, as he tossed aside the toadstool. "That is of no use to me now, and there is no place where I can go to get in out of the rain. Oh, my! How those hailstones hurt!" And indeed they did, for they were as large as bird's eggs now, and they were bouncing down all over, and hitting Uncle Wiggily on his ears and nose and all over.

He tried to hold his crutch over his head, but that did no good, and then he tried to hold up his valise with the cherry pie in it to shelter himself, but that did no good, either.

"Oh, I'll be knocked to pieces by the hailstones!" the rabbit cried. "Where can I go? Oh, if I only had a shell house such as the snail carries on her back, I would be all right."

"Here is a house for you!" cried a little voice, and looking to one side Uncle Wiggily saw his old friend the grasshopper, and that grasshopper was beneath a big pink shell that was on the beach, with one edge raised up like a shed. "Crawl under the shell, and the hailstone can't hurt you!" went on the hoppergrass. "This pink shell is the best kind of a house."

"Well, I do declare -- so it is!" agreed Uncle Wiggily, and he lost no time in crawling under the pink shell which was just the color of baby's cheeks. Then how the hailstones did rattle down on that shell! It was just like peas or dried corn falling into a tin pan. Rattle-te-bang! Rattle-te-bang! went the hailstones, but they couldn't hurt the grasshopper or Uncle Wiggily now, for the chunks of ice hit on the hard shell and burst to pieces.

Then, all of a sudden Uncle Wiggily heard some one crying. Oh, it was such a sad, pitiful voice.

"Oh, what shall I do? Where can I go?" wailed the voice.

"Some one needs help," said the rabbit quickly.

"Maybe it's a bear," suggested the hoppergrass.

"Nonsensicalness!" exclaimed the rabbit. "I'm going to look out." So he peered out from under the edge of the big pink shell, and he saw a little baby crab crawling along with a basket of seapeanuts in little bags on one claw.

"Oh, I'm so miserable!" cried the little crab. "I started out to sell peanuts, but the hailstones burst the bags open, and the peanuts came out and they're all wet, and no one will buy wet peanuts. What shall I do?"

"Come right in here," said Uncle Wiggily kindly. "We'll help you." So the little crab crawled beneath the pink shell, where the hailstones couldn't hit him, and when the storm was over the old gentleman rabbit and the grasshopper built a fire, and they dried out the peanuts. Then the grasshopper took some of his molasses and he glued the torn bags together, and Uncle Wiggily put back the dry peanuts in them, and then the little crab went off very happy, indeed, and sold them for a penny a bag.

"Ha! The pink shell did us a great kindness," said the old gentleman rabbit, as he hopped out. "Now I will look once more for my fortune." Then the grasshopper flew away over the sea again and the rabbit went on alone, eating a few peanuts the baby crab had given him.

And he soon had another adventure. What it was I'll tell you soon, for the story will be about Uncle Wiggily and the fiddler -- that is, if the piano stool doesn't turn into a merry-go-'round and whirl about so fast that it makes the milk bottle dizzy.



Story XIII

Uncle Wiggily And The Fiddler


It was the day after Uncle Wiggily had taken shelter under the pink shell when the hailstones came down, and the old gentleman rabbit was walking along the sandy beach, looking to see what he could see.

"You never can tell when you are going to find your fortune in this world," he said, "and I may come upon mine any moment. So I must be ready for it." Then he went on a little farther, and he felt hungry. "Perhaps there is a bit of cherry pie still in my valise," he said. So he looked, and, sure enough, there was some pie, and he ate it.

It was nearly all gone, and there were only a few crumbs of the pie left, when the old gentleman rabbit heard some one say:

"Oh, how hungry I am! Oh, if I only had something to eat. I wonder where I can find anything?"

Then the rabbit looked down, and there was the slow-crawling snail, looking very hungry indeed.

"Oh, ho! So it's you, is it?" asked the rabbit. "Why, it seems to me you are not very far from the place where I last saw you."

"That is so, I am not," answered the snail. "You see I go very slowly and in a whole day I only moved about as far as an ice-cream cone. I have been looking for something to eat, but I can't find it."

"Oh, I'll gladly give you what I have left," spoke Uncle Wiggily, as he scattered the crumbs of the cherry pie about, and the snail ate them all up.

"I don't s'pose you have seen anything of my fortune, have you?" asked the rabbit, as he wiped his whiskers on a red napkin, and closed up his valise.

"No, I haven't," said the snail. "But I will tell you something I overheard to-day and perhaps that will help you. As I was crawling slowly along I heard two sand fleas talking together. One said to the other that there was going to be a grand dance of all the sand fleas on the beach to-night and that there would be plenty of gold and diamonds at the party. Perhaps if you went to it you might find your fortune -- that is, if some one had any gold or diamonds they didn't want."

"That's a good idea," said the rabbit. "I'll be there, and I'm much obliged to you for telling me. Where do the sand fleas hold their dance?"

"Down on the beach by the wreck of the old sailing ship," answered the snail. "Be there at the hour of midnight, and I hope you will find your fortune."

"I'll be there," said the rabbit. "Oh, I'll be there."

Then the snail crawled away, and Uncle Wiggily hopped along on the sand, but he didn't look for his fortune as he thought he would find it at the fleas' party.

"Since I am going to be up quite late to-night," he said, "I had better take a little sleep now." So he stretched out under some seaweed that he laid over some driftwood for a shady shelter and soon he was fast asleep. Then, after a while, he awakened and ate his supper and soon it was midnight, and he set off toward the place where the wreck of the old ship was on the beach, for there the sand fleas were to have their hop and dance.

As he came near the place, the old gentleman rabbit heard laughter and talking, and he saw tiny lights flitting about. Then he came still nearer, and he saw a most curious sight. All around in the sand were little pieces of wood, set in a circle, and on each piece of wood was a lightning bug. They lighted up the place like small electric lanterns.

There was a large circle of sand, and inside of that was the ballroom where the dance was to take place. It was all decorated with seaweed and moss, and it looked very pretty with lightning bugs scattered here and there in the green drapery like fairy lights.

And then the sand fleas! Oh, there were hundreds of them, and they were hopping all about, sometimes over each other's backs and around corners and through the middle, while some even turned somersaults, and they were having a glorious time.

"I wonder when the dance is going to begin?" thought Uncle Wiggily. "I wish it would soon start, for I see that these fleas have on many diamonds, and they also have lots of gold in their pockets. Perhaps, when they dance they will drop some of the gold and diamonds, and, in case they don't want them, I can pick them up and have them for my fortune."

Then, all of a sudden, some of the fleas began to cry out:

"Where is the music? Why doesn't the music start, so that we can dance?"

And surely enough, there was no music for the party. Then a big gray flea called out:

"Alas, and lack-a-day! We will have no music! I had hired a dozen Katy-Dids and a dozen Katy-Didn'ts to come and play for us, but they have just telephoned that they can't come, as their legs are stiff. So we can have no dance, as we have no music."

"Oh, how perfectly dreadful!" cried a blue lady flea.

And just then some of the other fleas saw Uncle Wiggily looking in at them from behind the old wrecked ship.

"Perhaps the rabbit can play for us," said some of the fleas. "Can you, Mr. Rabbit?"

"No, I can't," he said, and he felt very sorry for them. "But I will see if I can find some one who can," for Uncle Wiggily was very kind-hearted, and always did what he could to help.

So he strolled down the beach looking for some one to play for the sand fleas. And as he walked along he met a fiddler crab, which is a crab with very long legs. And as soon as he saw that fiddler crab Uncle Wiggily knew that the long-legged creature could make music.

"Will you come and play for the fleas' party?" asked the rabbit. "I will make a fiddle out of my crutch and some seaweed for strings, and you can play it."

"I will," said the fiddler crab, kindly, "but who will play the drum? We need a drum. Who will play it?"

"I would if I had a drum," said the rabbit, bravely.

"I'll be the drum," suddenly cried a voice, and up from the ocean popped a fish called the puff fish or sea robin, and he can make himself look like a blown-up paper bag full of wind. "I'll be the drum and you can make me go 'Boom! Boom!'" said the blow-fish.

"Fine!" cried Uncle Wiggily. "Come on back to the sand fleas' party with me." So the fiddler crab and the drum fish went along. Then the rabbit soon made a fiddle, with seaweed for strings, and the fiddler crab played it with his long legs, making tunes like "Please Buy Me an Ice-Cream Cone and Take Me on the Merry-go-'Round."

And the drum fish puffed himself up like a balloon, and Uncle Wiggily beat him with a soft stick, and there was fine music. Then the sand fleas hopped and danced about until they could hop and dance no more.

But they didn't drop any gold or diamonds, and, when the party was over, the rabbit was as poor as when it started. But still he didn't mind. Then he went to sleep under a pile of seaweed, while the sea robin and the fiddler crab went home in the ocean.

And on the next page, in case the egg beater doesn't get stuck on the rolling-pin and make the pie crust fall through the nutmeg grater, I'll tell you about Uncle Wiggily and the watermelon.



Story XIV

Uncle Wiggily And The Watermelon


"Well," asked the slow snail of Uncle Wiggily, as he met the old gentleman rabbit on the beach next day, "did you get any of your fortune at the fleas' party?"

"None at all," answered the old gentleman rabbit. "There was plenty of gold and diamonds to be seen, but the fleas didn't give me any."

"Perhaps they forgot it?" suggested the snail. "Some of the fleas are very forgetful. I once knew one whose mother sent him to the store for a pound of sugar and a quart of milk, and what do you s'pose he bought?"

"I don't know," answered the rabbit, curious-like.

"He got a pound of milk and a quart of sugar, and the milk all ran out of the paper bag in which the groceryman put it, and the sugar stuck fast to the milk pail, and they had a dreadful time getting it out. That shows you what a flea will do sometimes. Perhaps if you ask them for your fortune they will give it to you."

"I'll do it the next time I meet one," decided Uncle Wiggily. "But now I must go on and look for myself."

Illustration: Uncle Wiggily and the Watermelon

"Wait until I sing a little song for you," said the slow snail, and he hummed this song very, very slowly:

"When I am in a hurry I slowly crawl along, And when I finish crawling I sing a little song.

"For if I hurried too much I'd get there all too soon, Though some day I am going To climb up to the moon.

"And then when I get up there I'll sleep the whole long day, Or crawl upon the moonbeams, Or jump into the hay."

"Ha! hum!" exclaimed Uncle Wiggily. "That's a very good song, and I'm sure it will help me find my fortune. Now I must say good-by and travel along."

"If you will wait I'll come with you," spoke the snail. "But then I s'pose you are in a hurry, Uncle Wiggily, and I go too slow for you."

"That's it," said the rabbit kindly, and he gave one big hop that carried him twice as far as the snail could travel in a week of Sundays without counting Christmas.

Well, it wasn't very long after this before Uncle Wiggily got to the top of a hill. When he started to climb up from the bottom he thought perhaps there might be gold at the top, but when he did get to the summit all he found there was a big green thing, with stripes on.

"I wonder what this can be?" thought the rabbit. "It looks like a baseball, and yet it's too large for that, and besides it isn't quite round. And, once more, it's green instead of white, for all baseballs are white. Ha! I know what it is. That must be a football which the boys kick about. I guess I'll kick it. Perhaps there may be gold inside."

So he got ready to kick it, but you know how it is with old gentlemen rabbits who have the rheumatism and have to go about on a crutch. As soon as Uncle Wiggily lifted up one foot -- the one that had no rheumatism in it -- and when he leaned on his crutch, the crutch suddenly slipped, and down he went ker-flumux ker-flimix all in a heap.

"Well, here's a pretty kettle of fish!" he cried. "I ought never to have tried to kick that green football. I should have waited until it was ripe."

So he sat down on top of the hill, and looked at the ocean tumbling and foaming on the beach below him, and he waited for the green football to get ripe. And, every once in a while he would poke it with his crutch to see if it was getting soft, but it wasn't.

And once, right after he did this, the old gentleman rabbit heard some one cry out:

"My goodness, Uncle Wiggily! What are you doing?"

"Waiting for this green football to get ripe so that I can kick it," was the rabbit's reply.

"Oh, ho! Oh, ha!" laughed the grasshopper for it was that leaping insect who had spoken, "that is not a football, it is a watermelon, and inside it is all red and sweet and juicy. Come, if you can, cut it open, we will have a fine feast. I haven't had any watermelon in some time. Can you cut it?"

"Oh, I can cut it fast enough," declared the rabbit. "Here goes, and I hope it is better looking on the inside than it is on the outside."

So the rabbit took out his knife, with which he usually spread his bread and butter, and he cut a hole in the watermelon. Then Uncle Wiggily and the grasshopper scooped out all the nice, red, juicy part and ate it.

And, would you ever believe it? Something happened right after that. They had no sooner wiped the red watermelon juice off their faces than there was a terrible roaring sound in the bushes, and out jumped a big black bear. Oh, he was going on something frightful, yes, really he was, but don't be frightened, for I won't let him hurt anybody. I'll let him chew on my typewriter first and that will dull his teeth. On the bear came, straight for the watermelon.

"Oh, what can I do?" cried Uncle Wiggily. "That bear will get me, but he won't hurt you, Mr. Grasshopper, as you are so small."

"Don't worry," said the hoppergrass, kindly. "I'll find a way to save you. Quick! Before the bear sees you, hop inside the watermelon," for you see they had eaten up all the inside, and left the melon rind hollow, just like a yellow pumpkin Jack-o'-lantern, at Hallowe'en.

Uncle Wiggily saw that this was the best thing to do, so inside the melon he hopped, and then the grasshopper put back in place the piece they had cut out, and you never would have known but that the melon was a whole, new one, never having been cut and the inside eaten out.

On came the bear, sniffing with his black nose. Then he saw the grasshopper and asked, suspicious-like:

"Is there a rabbit around here?"

"I don't see any," spoke the grasshopper, and he really couldn't see any one but the bear because Uncle Wiggily was inside the melon, you know.

"Well, if there is no rabbit I'll have to eat this watermelon, then," said the bear, "for I am very hungry."

Now the grasshopper knew that if the bear once bit into the melon and opened it, he'd see the rabbit hiding inside. So what did the hoppergrass do but give the melon a shove with his strong hind legs, and down the hill the melon rolled, with the rabbit in it, just as Buddy Pigg, the guinea pig boy, once rolled down hill inside a cabbage.

Faster and faster down the hill rolled the melon, with Uncle Wiggily in it, and then the bear saw one of the rabbit's paws sticking out of a crack.

"Oh, ho! You have fooled me!" cried the bear to the grasshopper. "Now, I'll chase after that melon and get the rabbit, too!"

So the bear started down the hill after the melon, but his foot slipped and he slid down, oh, so fast, that he got to the bottom of the hill first. There he stood waiting for Uncle Wiggily. But a queer thing happened. The melon hit a stone, burst open and out flew the rabbit on a pile of soft sand. But the pieces of the melon hit the bear on his soft and tender nose, and he thought he was surely killed, and off he ran to the woods howling and growling. So that's how Uncle Wiggily escaped from the bear, for the old gentleman rabbit wasn't hurt a bit for all his tumble.

Then he washed the pieces of melon off his clothes, and traveled on again, with the grasshopper, to seek his fortune. And he had another advantage soon. I'll tell you about it very shortly, when, in case the ice man doesn't go skating and forget to leave us a loaf of bread, the next Bedtime story will be about Uncle Wiggily and the Katy-Did.



Story XV

Uncle Wiggily And Kate-Did


"Well, what are we going to do to-day?" asked the grasshopper of Uncle Wiggily, as they sat down to breakfast one sunny morning, after a rain the night before.

"Oh, I suppose I must keep on searching for some gold or diamonds for my fortune," answered the old gentleman rabbit. "But I am getting quite tired of going around so much and finding nothing. I'll keep it up a week or so longer, and then, if I don't find any money, I'm going back home, anyhow. I'm quite lonesome for Sammie and Susie Littletail and all of my friends."

"When you go home I hope that I can go with you," said the grasshopper sort of sad-like. "I'll be sorry when you leave me."

"Of course you can come along," answered Uncle Wiggily, kindly, as he flopped his long ears back and forth.

Then he and the grasshopper finished their breakfast, washed the acorn cups and saucers, and shook the crumbs off the green leaf which they had used for a table cloth. And pretty soon a whole lot of little black ants crawled along and ate up all the crumbs, so that nothing was wasted.

"Well, here we go!" cried the old gentleman rabbit cheerfully as he picked up his barber-pole crutch and slung his valise over his shoulder. Then he hopped off and so did the grasshopper, singing a funny little song on the way, and also playing the fiddle with his left hind leg. The song went something like this:

"Here we go, Fast and slow, Hopping on our way. In heat and cold We look for gold, Which we may find some day.

"Sing a song Not too long, Cheerful, gay and bright. When wide awake We eat sweet cake, And then we sleep all night.

"Hipping, hopping, Without stopping We sing and do not cry. Skip and jump Around the pump; Now we'll say good-by."

"Why, what in the world did you say that for?" asked Uncle Wiggily of the grasshopper as the insect finished his song. "There is no one here to whom we can say good-by, and not a sign of a pump."

"I know it, but you see I'm just making believe," replied the cheerful little fellow, turning one somersault and part of another one.

"Oh, then that's different," agreed the old gentleman rabbit, as he stooped over to take a stone out of his shoe. And, just as he did so there came bouncing down out of a tall tree a big green hickory nut, and it almost hit Uncle Wiggily on the end of his twinkling nose.

"Hum!" exclaimed the grasshopper, as he crawled under a big leaf in order to be out of danger, "some one is throwing things at us. I wonder who it can be?"

"I don't know," answered the rabbit, and then he and the grasshopper looked up in a tree, but they could see no one. So they went on a little farther, and pretty soon Uncle Wiggily got another stone in his shoe. He stooped over to take it out when slam-bang! down came a green butternut this time, and it struck him on the end of his left ear.

"This must stop!" cried the old gentleman rabbit. "If it doesn't, the first thing we know there will be cocoanuts falling down on us and then we will be hurt."

"Oh, I think there are no monkeys around here to throw cocoanuts at us," said the grasshopper, "but this is certainly very strange. Perhaps it is the alligator or the fuzzy fox up in a tree trying to hurt us by throwing the little nuts."

"Perhaps," agreed Uncle Wiggily. "Well, we will hurry on, and get out of these woods." So they hurried all they could, but as it happened the grasshopper got a big wooden splinter in his left front leg and it took him and Uncle Wiggily quite a while to get it out, and when at last they did so, it was almost night.

They were hopping along, looking for a place to sleep in the woods, when all of a sudden down came a big black walnut, and it hit Uncle Wiggily's crutch, bouncing off with a bang.

"Who did that?" cried the rabbit looking up as well as he could in the darkness. "Who threw that nut?"

"Katy did!" cried a shrill voice up in a tree. "Katy did!"

"Oh, she did; eh?" exclaimed the old gentleman rabbit. "Well I always thought Katy was a nice little girl. I can't believe she'd throw anything at me. It's not possible!"

"Katy did -- she did!" cried the voice in the tree again.

"Oh, would you ever think such a thing of her?" asked the grasshopper, who was quite excited.

"No, I wouldn't," declared Uncle Wiggily sad-like. "Where does Katy live?" he went on. "Perhaps if I speak to her, and tell her how unpleasant it is to have nuts thrown at one she won't do it again. Where does she live?"

"Katy did! Katy did! Katy did!" was all the voice said.

"Of course! I know that by this time," said Uncle Wiggily. "But where does she live? Whereabouts in these woods?"

"Katy did! Katy did!" cried the voice again.

"Ah, I see!" exclaimed the grasshopper, "That means she once did live here, but that she has moved away. That must be it."

"Then I'm glad of it," spoke the rabbit. "I hope she doesn't come back to throw any more things at us. Do you think she will?" and he looked up in the tree to see who had been talking so about Katy.

"Katy did! Katy did!" was all the answer there was.

But all of a sudden there was a rustling in the bushes, and out into the moonlight, which was then shining in the forest, there came a little white pussy cat, with four legs and a long tail.

"Oh, dear!" she cried. "I'm Katy, and I heard what you all said about me. But I didn't do it at all. I didn't throw a thing at you, Uncle Wiggily, or at the grasshopper either. I wouldn't do such a thing. Oh, how can you believe it? I didn't do it at all."

"Katy did! Katy did!" cried the shrill voice up in the tree-top. "Katy did -- she did!"

"Ha, hum!" cried the old gentleman rabbit. "This must be looked into. If Katy didn't do it, we mustn't have her talked about that way. Come, Mr. Grasshopper, we'll see who's calling out about Katy so much."

But just as the rabbit was helping the grasshopper to climb up the tree, to see who it was that had been calling, all of a sudden out from behind a stump there sprang a savage fox, who wanted to eat up Uncle Wiggily and the pussy and the grasshopper also. But the rabbit happened to see a hole in the ground.

"Quick! Jump down here all of you!" he cried and he helped the pussy and the grasshopper to get into the hole where they would be safe from the fox. And, as they disappeared under ground the voice up in the tree-top cried once more:

"Katy did! Katy did!"

"Oh, ho! I'll put a stop to that to-morrow!" declared Uncle Wiggily. "Don't cry, Katy, dear. I'll see that whoever is bothering you will stop." Then the little white pussy dried her tears, and the three friends slept safely in the hole all night, and the fox did not bother them a bit.

And the next day Uncle Wiggily found out who was calling to Katy, and who threw the nuts at him, and I'll tell you about it on the next page, when the story will be about Uncle Wiggily and Katy-Didn't -- that is, if the trolley car doesn't run up on the front stoop and break the rocking chair's arms so I can't sing the rag doll to sleep.



Story XVI

Uncle Wiggily And Katy-Didn't


Katy, the nice little white pussy, was the first one to awaken the next morning in the hole where she and Uncle Wiggily and the grasshopper had crawled to get away from the bad fox. Katy arose, washed her face and her paws with her red tongue, and then she softly tickled the grasshopper on his nose with the end of her fuzzy-wuzzy tail.

"Ha, ho! What's the matter?" cried the grasshopper, as he hopped out of the bed made of dried leaves. "Is the house on fire?"

"No, we're not in a house, but in a hole under ground so I don't very well see how it could catch on fire," spoke Katy. "I wanted you to get up and help me with the breakfast. I thought we would let Uncle Wiggily sleep late this morning, as he is tired."

"That's a good idea," declared the little jumping chap. "I'll just take a hop outside and see what I can find to eat."

Well, the grasshopper started to go out of the hole, leaving Uncle Wiggily fast asleep, but, all of a sudden the tiny jumping fellow came back, and, instead of being green, as he usually was, he had turned quite pale.

"What's the matter?" asked Katy.

"The hole is stopped up!" cried the grasshopper. "Some one has filled up the front door with dirt and we can't get out."

"Oh, that's too bad!" said the pussy, and she and the grasshopper looked at the lightning bug, who was shining brightly like a Christmas tree-candle down in the dark hole so they could see. He had shone all night for them. "How will we ever get out?" went on the pussy. "It is terrible to be shut up here."

"What's that? Is there more trouble?" suddenly asked Uncle Wiggily, as he got out of bed feet first.

"Yes," said the grasshopper, "the front door of the hole is stopped up, and we can't get out. I think the bad fox did it."

"Very likely," agreed Uncle Wiggily. "But don't worry, for I can easily dig out the dirt, and then we can go up and find out who it was that said Katy threw nuts at us when she didn't."

So Uncle Wiggily went to the front door of the hole-house and began to dig with his strong feet. And then he happened to think of something.

"If I dig a new front door near the place where the fox stopped up the old one," said the old gentleman rabbit thoughtful-like, "that bad creature may be there waiting to grab us when we go out. So I'll play a trick on him. I'll dig a new door for this hole-house and we'll go out that way. I'll dig it at the back."

So Uncle Wiggily did this and soon there was a nice opening from the hole underground, and it was some distance away from the one by which the three friends had gone in. And, surely enough, they looked through the trees when they went out, and there was that bad fox near the stopped-up hole, waiting for them to come out so that he might grab them.

"I guess he'll wait there a long while for us," said Uncle Wiggily, blinking his nose, and laughing. "Come on now, very quietly and we'll go off in the woods where he can't find us." So away through the forest they went, and the fox never saw them. He stayed by the hole, which he had stopped up with dirt and stones, and he was there a week, waiting for the rabbit and his friends to come up. And the fox got so thin from having nothing to eat in all that time that when he finally did go away his tail nearly dropped off and blew away.

But Uncle Wiggily, and the grasshopper, and the pussy whose name was Katy traveled on and on. Over the hills they went, and through the fields, but they couldn't find out who it was that had said Katy had thrown the nuts when she didn't do it at all.

At last they came to another forest, and just as night was coming on, and Uncle Wiggily was passing under a tree, slam-bang! down came another butternut, and nearly hit him on the eye.

"There! You see, I didn't throw that," cried Katy, who was walking beside Uncle Wiggily.

"Yes, it couldn't have been you," agreed the old gentleman rabbit. "I wonder who did it?"

"Katy did! Katy did!" suddenly cried a voice.

"No, she didn't," said Uncle Wiggily, firmly. "Who are you to say such things?"

"Here he is -- I see him!" exclaimed the grasshopper. "It isn't any one at all -- it's a little green bug with wings, and he is something like me. He's been saying that 'Katy did' when she didn't do it at all."

And, sure enough, there on a tree was a little light-green bug, and, as Uncle Wiggily watched, he heard this insect call out as bold as bold could be:

"Katy did! Katy did!"

"Now look here!" said the old gentleman rabbit, and he pointed his long ears and his crutch at the green bug, "why do you say such things when you know they aren't so? Katy never threw any nuts at me -- they just dropped down off the tree themselves. I'm sure of it. Katy never did it, and she feels badly to have you say so."

"Katy did! Katy did!" cried the insect again, as if he hadn't heard the rabbit speak. "I have to say it, you know," he went on, as he scraped his two long hind legs together. "I have to call out that Katy did, Uncle Wiggily."

"You do? Even when she didn't do it?" asked the rabbit, surprised-like.

"Yes," said the insect. "Katy did! Katy did! I have to call -- Katy did."

"Oh, I think it's just too horrid for anything!" said poor Katy, almost ready to cry.

"I wish you wouldn't say such things about a nice pussy," spoke the grasshopper. "For Katy didn't do it. I know she didn't."

And just then, off in another tree, there came a second voice calling:

"Katy didn't! Katy didn't!"

"There, I knew some one would be kind to me!" exclaimed the pussy. "Some one knows I didn't do it. I didn't throw the nuts."

"Katy did! Katy did!" cried the first green insect.

"Katy didn't! Katy didn't!" answered the second little green chap.

"She did!" went on the first one.

"She didn't! Katy didn't!" answered his brother, positive-like.

"Katy did!" "Katy didn't!"

"Oh, my, this dispute is very unpleasant!" said Uncle Wiggily. "Please stop it." But the green insects wouldn't stop, and they kept on calling. First one would say that Katy did do it and then the other would say she didn't, and so they went on:

"Katy did!" "Katy didn't!"

"Well," said Uncle Wiggily at last, when he had tried to make them stop disputing, but couldn't do it, "at any rate, Katy, you have some friends who will stand up for you, and who will always say you didn't do it, and I know you didn't, no matter if the others say you did. Now let's find a place to sleep, and to-morrow I will once more look for my fortune."

So they found a nice hollow stump in which to sleep, and nothing happened to them all night, except that a big-eyed, feathery owl tried to bite the grasshopper. But Uncle Wiggily tickled the bad bird with his crutch and made him fly away, and then they all slept in peace and quietness until morning.

The next day the old gentleman rabbit had quite an adventure. I'll tell you what it was in the following Bedtime Story which will be about Uncle Wiggily and Peetie Bow Wow -- that is, if my piece of huckleberry pie doesn't fall into the milk pitcher and turn it sky-blue-pink like the elephant's lemonade at the circus.



Story XVII

Uncle Wiggily And Peetie


Katy, the little white pussy, felt quite happy the next day, after she and Uncle Wiggily and the grasshopper had slept in the hollow stump, as I told you last.

"No matter if some of the green insects do say I did throw those nuts," she said, "others of them will say I didn't do it, so it will be all right." And from then on, even up to the present time, you can hear the did and the didn't insects calling to each other in the cool night:

"Katy did!" "Katy didn't!" That's how they dispute, and they never seem to settle it.

"Where are you going?" asked the old gentleman rabbit as he saw the pussy starting off by herself in the woods, when breakfast was over.

"Oh, I am going back home," she said. "I have been away too long already, and my mamma will be worried about me. But I am very glad to have met you and the grasshopper, and I hope you will soon find your fortune, Uncle Wiggily."

"I hope so too," spoke the rabbit, and then he and the grasshopper started off together through the woods, looking on all sides for any signs of gold or diamonds.

They traveled on for many miles, but I'm sorry to say they didn't find any fortune at all -- not even so much as a five-cent piece with a hole in it. When noon came they sat down by a little spring of water and built a fire. Then the rabbit roasted some carrots and the grasshopper ate a small piece of cherry pie, and some bread and jam, for he was very fond of sweet things.

"Well, we'll travel on again," said the rabbit, as he scattered the crumbs for the ants to eat.

"Why don't you stay here and look for your fortune?" asked the grasshopper, wiggling his ears.

"Oh, it would be of no use," said Uncle Wiggily. "Haven't we looked all over in these woods? And we didn't even find a diamond ring. No, we must travel on."

"Why don't you dig a hole here by this old stump?" asked the grasshopper. "Perhaps there is a gold mine here. It is nice and shady, and you can dig deep and keep cool. I will sit on the stump and watch you, and also sing a song now and then."

"Perhaps that will be a good plan," agreed Uncle Wiggily, after thinking it over. "I believe I will dig here. It can do no harm and it may be of some use." So, laying aside his crutch and his valise, he began to dig in the earth with his sharp feet.

"My! I'm making a regular mine!" thought Uncle Wiggily, after a while. "But there doesn't seem to be any gold here. However, I'll go down a little deeper."

And then, all of a sudden he heard the grasshopper cry:

"Look out, Uncle Wiggily! Look out! The alligator is coming!"

"Oh, me! Oh, my!" shouted the rabbit, as he tried to jump up out of the hole he had dug. But it was too deep and he only fell back to the bottom. He heard the whirr of the grasshopper's wings as that hopping chap flew away, and as the grasshopper skipped over the daisies he cried out:

"I'll go get help, Uncle Wiggily!" for he knew he couldn't fight the alligator all alone.

"Oh, whatever shall I do?" thought the rabbit. "I must get out." So he gave another jump, but it was of no use, and then before Uncle Wiggily could twinkle his nose twice, over the edge of the hole leaned the skillery-scalery alligator.

"Ah, ho! So there you are!" cried the scaly creature, smiling such a big smile that it is a wonder the top of his head didn't fly off. "So you are in a hole? Well, that suits me, for you can't get away, and I can take you whenever I please. I guess I'll wait until I am a little more hungry. Meanwhile I'll sit here and look at you."

And the alligator did this, perched on the edge of the hole, with his mouth grinning from ear to ear and his tail slowly switching to and fro, to keep off the flies from his scaly hide.

"Are you really going to bite me?" asked the rabbit, sad-like.

"I am," replied the alligator, in a nutmeg-grater voice.

"Would you let me go if I gave you my barber-pole crutch and my valise filled with cherry pie?" asked Uncle Wiggily, sorrowful-like.

"Not for worlds!" cried the alligator, smacking his jaws. "I'm going to bite you now." And with that he started to crawl down into the hole to get the rabbit.

But don't worry. Some one is on the way to save Uncle Wiggily. All of a sudden, just as the alligator was almost down to Uncle Wiggily, and only the tip of his tail was sticking out over the edge, there was a movement on the other side of the hole, and, looking up, the rabbit saw a curious sight.

There was some sort of an animal peering down at him. But such an animal! His tail was all stuck up with stickery burrs, and it had a lump of mud on the end. On one ear was stuck a big green leaf, and on the other ear was a piece of red paper from a Chinese lantern. And on his back were chestnut burrs and bits of briar bushes; and this animal grinned and showed his teeth and shook himself so that mud was scattered all over. Then this animal cried:

"Here, you bad alligator! Get away and let that rabbit alone!"

"What for; do you want to bite him yourself?" asked the skillery-scalery alligator creature, grinning from ear to ear.

"No, I don't," answered the dreadful looking animal. "But you get away from here or I'll eat you!" And, my! you should have heard that muddy creature growl. No, perhaps it's just as well you didn't hear him, or you might have bad dreams. Anyhow, that new, queer animal growled so that even the alligator was frightened, and Uncle Wiggily said to himself:

"Oh, worse and worse! If the alligator doesn't get me this terrible creature will!"

Then the terrible creature growled some more and showed his teeth and the alligator crawled out of the hole and scurried away, taking his scaly tail with him.

"Ha! Ha! That's the time I fooled you!" cried the terrible looking animal, and then he burst out laughing and took the paper and leaf from his ears, shook out the burrs from his tail, and whom do you s'pose it was? Why none other than Peetie Bow Wow, the nice puppy dog.

"Oh, you saved my life!" cried Uncle Wiggily, thankfully.

"Yes, he certainly did," said the grasshopper, perching himself on the edge of the hole. "I met Peetie in the woods and told him about you, and he rolled in the mud and water and stuck himself all up with burrs, so as to make himself look as terrible as possible and scare the alligator. It was a good trick; wasn't it?"

"It was, indeed!" cried the rabbit, as the grasshopper and the puppy dog helped him out of the hole; "even if I didn't find my fortune."

So the alligator didn't get the rabbit, and Uncle Wiggily had another adventure next day. I'll tell you what it was very soon for the following story will be about Uncle Wiggily and Jackie Bow-Wow -- that is, if the picture on the wall doesn't turn upside down and scare the parlor lamp so that it goes out on the porch to sit on the door mat.



Story XVIII

Uncle Wiggily And Jackie


Uncle Wiggily, with the grasshopper, and Peetie Bow-Wow, the little puppy dog, were traveling along the road together, and the old gentleman rabbit was looking on both sides for his fortune. It was the day after Peetie had saved Uncle Wiggily from the bad alligator, and the three friends had spent the night in a hollow stump in the woods. Then they had breakfast, eating some cherry pie that the rabbit had left in his valise.

"Tell me, Peetie," said Uncle Wiggily, as they tramped along, "how does it happen that you are so far from home; and what were you doing in the woods just before you scared the alligator away?"

"Oh, my brother Jackie and I came to visit our grandpa, who lives somewhere around here," said the puppy dog. "Yesterday Jackie and I went for a walk in the woods, and I got lost. It was then that the grasshopper found me and asked me to come and help you."

"Which you kindly did," said the old gentleman rabbit, as he brushed a mosquito off his twinkling nose. "But I didn't know you were lost, Peetie. Why didn't you say something about it? And here you've been away from your grandpa's house all night and he and your brother Jackie may be very much worried. Why didn't you tell me about this yesterday?"

"Well, I thought you had troubles enough of your own," said Peetie politely, as he looked down in a puddle of water to see if his tail was fastened on straight. "But I would like very much, Uncle Wiggily, to find my way back to grandpa's house, and see Jackie," he went on. "And I know he'll be glad to see you."

"Then we must start off at once and look for your grandpa's house," decided the old gentleman rabbit. "I will let my fortune go for to-day, and we will take care of you."

So off they started, looking for the house of Peetie's grandpa. The puppy dog helped them look, of course, but he was too small to be of much use. Every once in a while he would find a nice juicy bone, and he would stop to gnaw that instead of looking for the path back home.

"Oh, you mustn't do that," said Uncle Wiggily, as he leaned on his crutch to rest himself. "There will be time enough to eat bones after you are home. Trot along now, Peetie."

"Well, I'll just bury this bone here, where Jackie and I can get it later," said Peetie. So he dug a hole for the bone and carefully covered it with earth, where it would keep just as good as if it was in a refrigerator or an ice-box.

Well, the rabbit and the grasshopper and the puppy dog looked in all the places they could think of, and around corners and up and down the middle and on both sides, for a sight of the house of Peetie's grandpa, but they couldn't seem to find it.

And then, all of a sudden, and so quickly that it happened before you could roll a popcorn ball on top of the piano, there was a growling in the bushes, and a shaking of the leaves, and out popped a big, black bear. My! Oh, my! But he was a big, savage bear, and as soon as he saw Uncle Wiggily he cried out:

"Now I have you, my fine rabbit friend! And a puppy dog also, to say nothing of a grasshopper, with which to finish off. Oh, this is a lucky day for me!"

"You -- you don't mean to say that you are going to eat us, do you?" asked Uncle Wiggily, turning pale around the ears.

"That's exactly what I do mean," said the bear in a grillery-growlery voice. "And how very lucky! It's just my dinner time," and he looked at his watch to make sure, and then shut the cover with a bang.

"Well, you can't eat me!" cried the grasshopper and with that he gave a spring and landed inside of a Jack-in-the-Pulpit growing on top of a high rock, and he pulled the cover of the plant over him so the bear couldn't see him.

"Well, the grasshopper got away," said the bear in a disappointed voice, "but I have you two yet, anyhow," and with that he made a jump, and grabbed Uncle Wiggily in one paw and Peetie Bow-Wow in the other paw. Then he hugged them tight, just like a little girl hugs, her two dollies, and the bear looked down at them, first at Uncle Wiggily and then at Peetie. And that bear showed his ugly teeth, and said in his grillery-growlery voice:

"Let me see; which one of you shall I eat first?"

Well, you can just imagine how frightened Uncle Wiggily and the puppy dog were. They didn't know what to do.

"I think I'll eat you first, Mr. Rabbit," said the bear at length, and he was just getting ready to eat Uncle Wiggily, as you would eat a strawberry, when there was a rushing sound in the bushes back of that bear, and a brave voice called out:

"No, Mr. Bear, you're not going to eat either one of them. Put Uncle Wiggily down at once and let go of Peetie Bow-Wow. At once, I say!"

"Ha! Who are you?" cried the bear, turning around quickly in order to see better. "Who are you, if I may ask?"

"I'm Jackie Bow-Wow," was the answer, "and if you don't at once do as I say I'll shoot you with my gun!"

Well, you can just imagine how surprised Uncle Wiggily and Peetie were to see Jackie standing there as brave as a lion, pointing a black gun at the black bear.

"I'm not going to let them go!" cried the bear, savagely, and he hugged the rabbit and the puppy dog tighter than ever.

"Then I'm going to shoot!" cried Jackie. "One -- two -- three!" he counted. "Here I go! Bang!"

"Oh, don't shoot! Don't shoot!" begged the bear, and he quickly dropped the rabbit and the doggie and then he ran away through the bushes, taking his little stubby tail with him. Then Jackie burst out laughing as hard as he could.

"What's the matter?" asked Uncle Wiggily, in surprise.

"Ha! Ha!" laughed Jackie. "What a joke on that bear! I didn't have a real gun at all. It's only a wooden one, with which I was playing hunt Indians. But he thought it was a real one, and he was so scared that he let you go. Ha! Ha! Ho! Ho!"

"It's a good thing you came along when you did," said his brother Peetie. "We were just looking for grandpa's house. I was lost, you know, and couldn't find my way back."

"I know you were and I was looking for you," spoke Jackie. Then Peetie told him about the alligator and where he had been with Uncle Wiggily, and Jackie was very glad to see his brother and the old gentleman rabbit again, and he was soon ready to show them the way to his grandpa's house.

But they had forgotten about the grasshopper in the Jack-in-the-Pulpit, and a very curious thing happened to that poor insect. I'll tell you about it on the next page, when the Bedtime Story will be named "Uncle Wiggily and the Red Monkey;" that is, if the rubber ball doesn't bounce into the rice pudding and scatter it all over the clean tablecloth.



Story XIX

Uncle Wiggily And The Monkey


Uncle Wiggily, with Peetie and Jackie Bow-Wow, was walking along the road toward the puppy dogs' grandpa's house, and they were talking how Jackie had made the black bear run away by pointing a make-believe wooden gun at the savage creature. All at once the old gentleman rabbit exclaimed:

"That grasshopper!"

"What about the grasshopper?" asked Jackie. "Did one bite you, Uncle Wiggily?"

"No, but my friend, the green grasshopper, jumped into a Jack-in-the-Pulpit when the bear came, and here we have come away and forgotten all about him. We must go right back."

So back they started, and on the way the rabbit told what a kind friend the grasshopper had been to him on his travels. Well, they got to the place where the bear had scared them, but when they looked up on the rock no Jack-in-the-Pulpit was to be seen, and there was no sign of the grasshopper.

Illustration: Uncle Wiggily and the Monkey

"I'm sure it was here that the grasshopper made his jump," said Uncle Wiggily, looking carefully about.

"Yes," said Jackie, "but there is no Jack-in-the-Pulpit on this rock at all."

"Here is a pile of dirt, though," spoke Peetie. "Perhaps there is a bone under it. Let's dig, Jackie."

So those two puppy dogs dug in the earth while Uncle Wiggily looked all around for the grasshopper. Then, all of a sudden, Peetie cried out:

"Oh! Look here! The Jack-in-the-Pulpit is under this pile of earth! The top is just sticking out. Now, we'll find the hoppergrass."

"I see how it is," said the rabbit. "When the bear ran away so fast from Jackie's wooden gun the toenails of the savage creature scattered up the earth, and it went in a shower all over the Jack where the grasshopper was hidden. No wonder we couldn't find him, for he was buried. But please dig very carefully, Peetie and Jackie, or you might scratch him with your paws."

"We will be careful," said Jackie. So he and his brother dug and dug, until the Jack-in-the-Pulpit was almost uncovered. Then they didn't dig any more, but, with their tails, which were like dusting brushes, they dashed off the earth very gently, until the plant was all clear, and out popped the grasshopper, not a bit harmed, though he was somewhat frightened.

"My! I thought I'd never get out!" exclaimed the jumping chap, taking a long breath, and blowing the dust off his legs.

Then he was introduced to Jackie Bow-Wow, whom he had not met before, and the four friends trudged along the road together. Pretty soon they came to the house of Grandpa Bark, and the old gentleman dog was very glad to see Peetie, who had been lost, and had stayed away all night.

"And I am very glad to see you also, Uncle Wiggily," said Grandpa Bark, "and likewise the grasshopper. Come in and have something to eat, and stay awhile to rest yourself."

So Uncle Wiggily did this, and after a bit he said:

"Well, now, I must be off once more to seek my fortune. When I find it I am going back home, and I hope that soon comes to pass, for I am tired of traveling about."

So he said good-by to Peetie and Jackie Bow-Wow, and he and the grasshopper hopped off together. On and on they went, over the hills and dales, through the woods and fields, and pretty soon they came to a place in the woods where there was a big box. It was almost as large as a small house, and it had a front door to it, but no windows. The front door was open and over it was a card reading:

"Come In, If You Want To."

"Ha, hum! I wonder if that means me?" said Uncle Wiggily. "Perhaps I may find my fortune in there. I'm going inside."

"I wouldn't if I were you," spoke the grasshopper. "It may be a trap."

"Nonsensicalness!" exclaimed the old gentleman rabbit, quick-like. "Come along. We'll go in."

So he and the grasshopper went inside, but no sooner had they entered, than slam-bang! down came the sliding door with a crash, catching them fast there just like mice in a trap.

"Oh, what did I tell you!" cried the grasshopper, sadly. "This is a trap! We're in it."

"Yes, I see we are," spoke Uncle Wiggily, much puzzled. "It was all my fault. I should have been more careful."

"Never mind," said the grasshopper, kindly, as he wiped away his tears on a piece of green leaf. "I see a crack between the boards that I can crawl through. It is too small for you, but I can get out, and I'll go for help."

So out he crawled, leaving Uncle Wiggily there. The old gentleman rabbit was thinking of the dreadful things that might happen to him, when, all of a sudden, he heard some one unlocking the front door that had fallen shut.

"I must see who that is!" whispered the rabbit to himself. So he peered out of a crack, and he saw something red and fuzzy-like at the door. "Oh, it's a red bear!" thought the rabbit, and he was looking for a place to hide, when all at once the door opened and there stood a nice, kind red monkey, with a red cap on.

"Oh, I've got company, I see!" cried the red monkey in delight. "I'm glad of that, Uncle Wiggily. I've been waiting some time to see you. How did you get here?"

"Isn't -- isn't this a trap?" asked the rabbit.

"Not a bit of it!" cried the red monkey with a jolly laugh. "This is my house. I went out this morning and left the door open. It must have blown shut by mistake. I'm sorry you were frightened. Wait, I'll do some tricks to make you laugh."

So the red monkey stood on his nose, and then on one ear, and then he made all the letters of the alphabet on his tail, all except the letter "X," which is very hard for a monkey to make. Then the monkey took two apple pies and made them into one, and he and Uncle Wiggily ate it, and my! how good it was. By this time the rabbit wasn't frightened any more, and he told the red monkey all about his travels to find a fortune. And then the grasshopper came hopping back with Old Dog Percival to help Uncle Wiggily get out of the trap, but there wasn't any need, for it was no trap at all, you see.

So the red monkey and the dog and the grasshopper and the old gentleman rabbit had a nice time at the house of the red monkey, who told them many stories, and one was how he came to be colored red.

I'll tell you about that as soon as I can, when, in case the fishpole doesn't go out in the rain and catch cold, the Bedtime Story will be about Uncle Wiggily and the butterfly.



Story XX

Uncle Wiggily And The Butterfly


"You have a very nice house here," said Uncle Wiggily to the red monkey after they had all sat down, and Old Dog Percival had been told that there was no need to rescue his rabbit friend from a trap.

"Yes, it is a fine little house," said the red monkey. "I built it away off in the woods so as to be nice and quiet. You see I used to live with the monkey who plays five hand organs at once, but finally it got so that I couldn't stand the music any longer, so I went off by myself and made this little house."

"But how did you happen to get splashed with that lovely red color?" asked the grasshopper, "that is if you will excuse me asking you such a personal question."

"Pray do not mention it, I beg of you," said the red monkey as he tossed up a lump of coal and caught it on his nose. "I will gladly tell you how I became colored red. It was this way: I was writing a letter to a friend of mine and I had no more black ink left. I didn't know what to do until I happened to think that out in the yard back of my house on a bush were some red raspberries. I gathered some of them and put them in a teacup.

"Then, with the potato-masher, I crushed them all up until the red juice ran out. Then I had the loveliest red ink you ever saw. But just then a fly lit on the end of my nose. I went to brush him off with the potato-masher when I happened to hit the cup full of red juice by mistake.

"Well, you can imagine what happened. The raspberry juice splashed all over me until I looked like a strawberry ice-cream cone, and I've been red ever since."

"It's a very fine color," said Uncle Wiggily.

"Yes," agreed the monkey with a sigh "but sometimes it's quite a trouble. All the turkey gobblers and the bulls in the fields chase me whenever they see me, for they don't like red. I'm thinking of taking some dandelions and coloring myself yellow next year. But, now tell me of your travels, Uncle Wiggily."

So the old gentleman rabbit did so, mentioning how he was searching for his fortune, but couldn't find it. Then Percival told about when he used to be in a circus and do tricks, and the grasshopper told how he made his music by playing the fiddle with his left hind leg, and then the red monkey gave them all some chocolate-cocoanut pudding and it was time to go to bed.

Now, I have something sad to tell you, but please don't get alarmed, for I'll make it come out right at the end. In the middle of the night poor Uncle Wiggily was taken ill. He had a dreadful pain, and he was as hot with a fever as a stove with a fire in it.

"I am afraid you have been traveling about too much," said the red monkey, as he lighted a lamp and gave the rabbit a drink of cool water. "We must have Dr. Possum see you in the morning."

"Perhaps I ate too much chocolate-cocoanut pudding," said Uncle Wiggily. "Oh, how I suffer, and how hot I am."

Well, they did all they could for him by putting his paws in mustard water and giving him sweet spirits of nitre, but it didn't seem to do any good.

"Yes, he is a very sick rabbit," said Dr. Possum, who came in the morning. "He ought to be home in bed, but we can't move him now. He'll have to stay here."

"Oh, the grasshopper and Old Dog Percival and I will take good care of him," said the red monkey, kindly.

"Yes, I guess you will," agreed Dr. Possum. So he left some bitter medicine for Uncle Wiggily and the old gentleman rabbit took it without even wrinkling up his nose -- and it was very, very bitter -- the medicine I mean, and not his nose.

"Oh, how hot I am!" cried Uncle Wiggily, as the sun got higher and higher in the sky and beat down on the house where the red monkey lived. "I wish I had some ice." Then he fell asleep.

"We will see if we can't find some," said the grasshopper, so he and the monkey and Old Dog Percival started off to look for an ice-house, leaving Uncle Wiggily asleep. Pretty soon he awakened.

"Oh, I wish I had an electric fan to cool me!" cried the poor sick old gentleman rabbit. "Oh, how hot I am! Oh, dear!"

Well, he kept getting hotter and hotter, and tossed to and fro on the bed, and he wished for ice, and ice-cream cones and all such cool things as those. Then, all of a sudden, when he was so warm he couldn't seem to stand it any longer he heard a little voice singing this song:

"Away up North in the ice and snow, That's the place for you to go. Where wintry winds do always blow, And the polar bear's on a big ice floe.

"Where seals dive down in the icy sea, Where it's far too cold for a bug like me, Where snowflakes fall so you cannot see, That is the place for you to be."

"Oh, I'm sure it is," cried poor Uncle Wiggily. "I wish I was up there in the Arctic regions. But I can't go. Oh, if I only had an electric fan to cool me off!"

"I'll be an electric fan for you," said the voice, and turning his head, Uncle Wiggily saw, perched on the window-sill, a beautiful big butterfly, with red and yellow wings. Then the splendid creature flew right up on the rabbit's pillow, and began to wave his wings. Faster and faster the butterfly's wings went until you couldn't see them move -- just like an electric fan. And a cool breeze swept over poor, hot Uncle Wiggily, and made him feel much better.

Then the butterfly fluttered harder than ever, and he sang another song about ice-cream freezers and blizzards and snow and hail and icebergs and polar bears and all cool things like that, and he kept on fanning the rabbit with his wings, and before he knew it Uncle Wiggily went fast asleep again.

Then, in a little while, the grasshopper and the red monkey and Old Dog Percival came back with some ice and they gave the rabbit a cool drink, and the butterfly kept on fanning him. And soon Dr. Possum came in, and he said:

"Well, I do declare! Uncle Wiggily is all well again. The butterfly with his cool wings and cold songs has cured him."

Then the rabbit thanked the beautiful winged creature very kindly and got ready to go on seeking his fortune again next day. He had quite an adventure, too, and I'll tell it to you on the next page, when, in case the little boy across the street doesn't lose his mittens inside a watermelon and freeze his rubber boots, the story will be about Uncle Wiggily and roast potatoes.



Story XXI

Uncle Wiggily And The Potatoes


"Well, how are you feeling this beautiful morning, Uncle Wiggily?" asked the red monkey, as he knocked on the door of a hollow stump where the rabbit had spent the night. "Are you all better?" the red monkey went on, as he took a cocoanut out of his pocket and looked inside the shell to see what time it was.

"Oh, yes, I am much better, thank you kindly for asking," said the rabbit. "But how comes it that you are here? I thought you were off in the woods."

"So I was," answered the monkey, as he nibbled a little bit of the cocoanut. "But I came here to keep you company and help you look for your fortune."

"Ha! But where is my friend the grasshopper?" asked Uncle Wiggily, sort of anxious-like.

"Oh, he had to hop away in the night to see a sick cousin of his," spoke the red monkey, "and on his way he jumped past my house and asked me if I wouldn't come and stay with you while he was gone. He said you might be lonesome. So I came."

"It is very kind of you, I'm sure," said the rabbit. "I like company. I think I am all well and strong again, for the butterfly, who pretended he was an electric fan, made me nice and cool and I am much better. I am ready to start off now and look once more for my fortune. Are you coming?"

"I am," said the red monkey, looking at his tail to see if a pink cow had stepped on it. But no pink cow was there, so after Uncle Wiggily had put some cherry pie in his valise he and the monkey started off together.

And, on the way, the red monkey -- who was red, you know, because some red ink which he made from raspberry juice splashed on him -- this red monkey, as he and Uncle Wiggily walked along, tossed the cocoanut up in the air and caught it as it came down. Sometimes the monkey would catch the cocoanut in his left paw and sometimes in his right, and again in his left foot, and still again in his right foot. So altogether he had quite an exciting time, you see.

Well, Uncle Wiggily looked on all sides for his fortune, but he couldn't seem to find it. The red monkey helped him, too, but it was of no use. On and on they went, over the hills and through the woods and across the fields, until finally they came to a place where there were a whole lot of stones made into a sort of a fireplace, as if some boys had built it to play camp, and hunt the Indians, only, of course, you know, there aren't really any Indians to hunt any more.

"Hum suz dud!" exclaimed Uncle Wiggily, as he sat down on a log, and looked at the stone fireplace, "I wonder what this is for?"

"I don't know," said the monkey, as he made the cocoanut whiz about like a merry-go-round, "I don't know what it is for, but I should say it was very lucky for us."

"Why so!" asked Uncle Wiggily, and he wiped the dust off his red-white-and-blue-barber-pole crutch on his fuzzy ears. "Why is this lucky for us?"

"Because," answered the monkey, "here are some potatoes growing in this field next door, and here is a place to make a fire. It is nearly dinner time, so there is nothing to stop us from having some roast potatoes for our lunch."

"Fine!" cried Uncle Wiggily. "I don't believe the man who owns the potatoes will mind if we take a few. I'll dig them with my paws, and we'll cook some."

"And I'll make the fire," said the red monkey as he looked about for a puddle of water. You know, he wanted the water puddle to use as a looking-glass, in order to see if any of the red had come off him yet. But there was no water, so he didn't bother, but instead he gathered the wood, and soon he had made a fine fire in the stone fireplace. Then along came Uncle Wiggily with some potatoes which he had dug, and they were put in to roast.

My! how the fire did blaze when the monkey kept putting sticks of wood on it. And how the potatoes roasted and crackled there in the heat! Oh, how nice they smelled, too! It makes me hungry for some, and as soon as I finish this story I'm going out and roast some just as Uncle Wiggily did.

But you children mustn't do it unless your papa, or mamma, or big brother or sister is near, in case any sparks got on you and burned you. But the red monkey and Uncle Wiggily were very careful. To be sure some smoke got in the monkey's eyes, and he looked as if he were crying, and some smoke got up Uncle Wiggily's twinkling nose and made him sneeze, but they didn't mind that.

"I guess the potatoes are cooked now," said the monkey after a while, and he took out on a sharp-pointed stick a big potato and broke it open. "Yes, it's done," he went on, as he saw how mealy and flaky-white the potato was, even if the outside was burned black. Then he and Uncle Wiggily took out some more of the potatoes, and when they were cool the two friends put salt on them, and ate them all up. Then the monkey played ball with his cocoanut again.

And, all of a sudden, as he threw the cocoanut quite high up in the air, it came down in the middle of a prickly briar bush. Then, all at once, there was a terrible roaring sound and a savage voice cried out from the middle of the bushes:

"Hi, there! Who is throwing stones at me?"

Then, before Uncle Wiggily or the red monkey could move, out sprang the skillery-scalery alligator with his double-jointed tail. Right at the red monkey and poor Uncle Wiggily he rushed, and he cried:

"Who threw that stone?"

"Please, Mr. Alligator," said the monkey, "it wasn't a stone. It was my cocoanut, and I didn't mean to hurt you."

"A cocoanut, eh?" roared the alligator. "So much the worse for you! I'm going to eat you both. Here I come! Get ready!"

And with that he opened his mouth as wide as a big paper bag, and fairly jumped for the red monkey.

"Oh, I'm gone, sure, this time!" cried the monkey, sadly-like.

"No, you're not!" shouted brave Uncle Wiggily. "I'll save you!" And what do you s'pose that rabbit gentleman did? Why, he just put on a pair of gloves, as quickly as a cat can wash her face on a rainy day, and he reached in the hot ashes, and he pulled out three hot, roast potatoes. Then, taking careful aim, he threw one hot potato right into the alligator's open mouth, which was as wide as two paper bags now, ready to eat the red monkey.

"Oh, wow!" cried the alligator, as he felt the hot potato slipping down his throat like a roast marshmallow candy.

"Wait, I'm not done yet," shouted the rabbit, and he threw hot potato number two down the alligator's throat.

"Wow! Wow!" cried the skillery-scalery creature as he felt the blistering heat on his forty-'leven sharp teeth.

"Wait! I have something more for you!" exclaimed Uncle Wiggily, and then with slow and careful aim, he threw hot roast potato number three down the alligator's throat.

"Wow! Wow! Wow!" yelled the skillery-scalery creature, and then, fairly boiling inside, he turned a big backward somersault, standing up on the end of his double-jointed tail, and he ran off to find some iced water with which to cool himself.

"Ha! That's the time you saved my life with the roast potatoes. They were just fine!" cried the red monkey. Then he and Uncle Wiggily traveled on, and the alligator didn't bother them any more that day, being so busy drinking iced water.

But they had another adventure soon, and I'll tell it to you a little later, when the story will be about Uncle Wiggily and Buddy Pigg -- that is if the goldfish doesn't get caught in the mosquito net and tear a hole in it for the June bugs to come in and read the fly-paper.

Illustration: Uncle Wiggily and the Potatoes



Story XXII

Uncle Wiggily And Buddy Pigg


Uncle Wiggily and the red monkey were going slowly along through the woods. It was the day after the alligator had started to eat up the little red monkey, but he had to stop when the old gentleman rabbit threw hot roast potatoes down his skillery-scalery throat.

"Do you think you will find your fortune to-day?" asked the monkey, as he tossed up a stone and caught it as it came down. You see he had lost the cocoanut he used to have that time when it hit the alligator.

"Well, I can't say for sure," replied Uncle Wiggily. "I hope I may find some gold or diamonds, so I can get rich and go back home. But you can never tell what is going to happen in this world, not even whether you are going to have an ice-cream cone or not; no, indeed, and a stick of peppermint candy besides."

"I tell you what it is," said the red monkey, slow and thoughtful-like, as he scratched his stubby black nose with a piece of straw. "I don't believe you have looked in the right places for your fortune, Uncle Wiggily."

"Why, nonsensicalness!" exclaimed the old gentleman rabbit. "I look in every place I can think of. I look on the ground, and under stones, and behind stumps, and down holes, and alongside of rail fences. But I haven't found any gold or diamonds yet."

"Exactly," spoke the red monkey. "But did you ever look up a tree for them?"

"Once I did," said the rabbit. "I threw up a stone with some molasses and a string to it to get some gold. But the stone went in an owl's hole, I think. That's all the luck I ever had."

"Then I'm going to look up some more trees for you," went on the monkey. "I am a good climber, and perhaps I may have better luck. Hop along lively now and maybe we will find your fortune before breakfast."

So the two friends went along together, and every once in a while the monkey would climb a tree. The first one he scrambled up was a maple tree, and he hoped he might find some maple sugar hanging on the branches, but it wasn't time for maple sugar. Anyhow, you remember that this kind of sugar comes from the inside of a tree and not the outside. They take the tree juice and boil it in the spring of the year, you know, and that makes maple sugar.

The next tree the monkey went up was a hickory nut tree, and there were some nuts on it, but they weren't ripe yet, and when he ate one it was so bitter that he had to make a funny face. And Uncle Wiggily, who was on the ground, happened to see the monkey's funny face, and the old gentleman rabbit laughed so hard that he dropped his valise.

The valise came open and out fell a piece of cherry pie, and when the monkey saw this he laughed. He laughed so hard that he shook the tree, and a whole lot of green hickory nuts fell down, and two of them struck Uncle Wiggily on the end of his twinkling nose, making him sneeze forty-'leven times.

Then the monkey was sorry, and he scrambled to the ground without having found any gold or diamond fortunes. He said he was sorry that Uncle Wiggily was hurt.

"Pray do not mention it," spoke the rabbit, politely. "It was partly my fault. Let us hurry on."

"No, let's eat breakfast first," suggested the monkey; so they sat down and ate the cherry pie, after brushing off the dirt, and really it wasn't damaged hardly any.

Well, then they traveled on again, and the next tree which the monkey climbed was a pine tree, and on it were long pine cones, something like brown bananas, but not very good to eat. The monkey began picking them, and Uncle Wiggily called out:

"Have you found any fortune for me?"

"No," said the red monkey, sadly, "I haven't, but we can have a game of baseball with these cones when I come down. Look out, I'm going to toss some to you."

Uncle Wiggily got safely out of the way behind a big stone, and the red monkey tossed down a number of the long, brown pine cones. And just as the first of them were nearing the ground a most surprising thing happened. Out from the woods came a big black bear, and he walked toward the tree in which the monkey was, just in time to be hit on the end of his soft and tender nose by the sharp pine cones which the monkey threw.

"Wow!" cried the bear. "Who did that?"

Well, of course, Uncle Wiggily wasn't going to say that he had done it, for he hadn't, so the rabbit just crouched down behind the rock, and waited to see what would happen.

And the monkey hadn't seen the bear, so he threw down some more pine cones, and land sakes flopsy dub and a potato pancake! one of the cones hit the bear on his soft nose again!

"Wow! Wow!" cried the bear once more. "Who did that?"

And this time he happened to look up, and there he saw the poor red monkey up in the pine tree.

"Ah, ha! It's you, is it?" growled the bear. "Now, just for that I'm going to climb up there and eat you."

"Oh, please don't!" begged the monkey. "It was all a mistake. I didn't mean to do it!"

"Well, there won't be any mistake about this!" growled the bear. "Here I come!" And up he climbed, for bears can climb a tree better than can a cat.

Well, you can just imagine how scared that monkey was. He was so frightened that he didn't think to run to the top of the pine tree, and jump into another, so he could get away. Instead he just sat there on a limb, shivering. And Uncle Wiggily was also frightened as he hid behind the stone.

"The poor monkey will be eaten up," thought the rabbit, "and it will be my fault, because he was looking for my fortune. Oh! what can I do?"

And just then Uncle Wiggily heard a rustling in the leaves at his feet. He jumped back, thinking it might be a little baby bear, but, instead out pounced a tiny brown and white chap without any tail.

"Why, Buddy Pigg!" exclaimed the rabbit. "How does it happen that you are here?"

"I'm just walking about for exercise," said the guinea-pig boy, for he it was. "But what is the trouble, Uncle Wiggily?"

"The bear is going to eat up the red monkey," said the old gentleman rabbit, sadly. "Look!"

Buddy Pigg looked, and by this time the bear had almost climbed up to where the monkey was sitting and shivering.

"Oh, I must stop that!" exclaimed Buddy. "Wait a minute and watch. You know how I can whistle, don't you? so listen."

Now, you know all guinea pigs can make a funny, squeaking noise just like some one whistling, and that's exactly what Buddy did. He whistled loudly and he whistled softly through his teeth. Then he whistled double and single and next he whistled like a man calling to his dog.

And that's exactly what the bear thought it was -- a man whistling for the dogs to come and bite the bear. Louder whistled Buddy through his teeth, hiding down behind the rock with Uncle Wiggily, and the bear was very much frightened.

"I guess the dogs are coming for me!" the bear exclaimed, and he stopped climbing up the tree. Then he called to the monkey: "I'll get you some other time." Then the bear slid down the tree and ran off in the woods, while Buddy whistled louder than ever. And then the monkey came safely down, and he wasn't eaten by the bear, after all, and that's all to this story, if you please.

The next one will be about Uncle Wiggily and Munchie Trot, the pony boy -- that is if the automobile horn doesn't stick in the lace curtains and scare the fish cakes so that they bite the mashed potatoes.



Story XXIII

Uncle Wiggily And Munchie Trot


"Weren't you frightened when you were up in the tree and the bear was coming after you?" asked Buddy Pigg of the red monkey, as he and Uncle Wiggily were walking along, after the adventure that I told you about last night.

"Frightened? I should say I was!" exclaimed the monkey. "I thought I'd never get down again to help look for Uncle Wiggily's fortune. I never can thank you enough for whistling and scaring that savage bear. How do you do it?"

"Oh, it is very simple," said the guinea pig boy, as he modestly looked down at the ground. "It's this way."

Then he whistled through his teeth again, slowly and faster, just to show how it was done.

"I wish I could learn how to do that," said the monkey. "If I ever get caught up a tree again by a bear I could whistle for myself, and make believe some hunter's dogs were coming to help me."

"I'll show you," said Buddy Pigg, and he told the monkey how to put his tongue against his teeth and how to blow through his lips. Well, the red monkey tried it, and he tried again, but he couldn't seem to whistle.

"Perhaps if I stand on my head I could do better," he said, and in a moment there he was standing on his head and trying to whistle upside down. But still he couldn't do it.

"Try hanging by your tail," suggested Buddy Pigg, and the little red chap did so, but still it was of no use. He hung there by his tail so long that Uncle Wiggily was afraid the monkey's head might fall off, so he made him get down.

Then the red chap tried again and again, but he couldn't whistle a bit, and at last the old gentleman rabbit said:

"I believe I know what the trouble is."

"What?" asked Buddy.

"Why, you see you have no tail, Buddy, and you are a good whistler," went on the rabbit, for you know it's really so -- guinea pigs have no tails -- though I'm not allowed to tell you the reason just yet.

"You have no tail, and you are a good whistler," said the rabbit again, "but the monkey has a long tail, and he can't seem to whistle a bit. The tail must make all the difference. Just cut off your tail, red monkey, and you'll whistle."

"Yes, I guess I would!" exclaimed the monkey, surprised-like. "I'd cry too, and feel very badly. No, if I have to lose my tail to whistle I'll never do it. I know what I can do instead."

"What?" asked Buddy Pigg.

"I can hire a green parrot to whistle for me," said the monkey. "Parrots can whistle for real or make-believe dogs as good as a man can. I'll take a parrot with me, and he'll scare the bears."

"Very good," said Uncle Wiggily, "for I would not like to see you lose your tail."

So, the three friends traveled on for some distance until it was time for Buddy Pigg to go home. And with him Uncle Wiggily sent his love to all his friends and to Sammie and Susie Littletail also.

"Well, we don't seem to be finding your fortune very fast," spoke the red monkey after they had climbed up one hill, and part of another one, and had looked under a lot of stones and behind several stumps.

"No, I guess we won't find it to-day," said the rabbit. It was now getting on toward afternoon, and Uncle Wiggily began thinking of where he would spend the night.

"I know what to do," said the red monkey. "I'll make a little house here in the woods, and we'll stay in that. We'll build a fire, and make believe we are camping out. And, while I am making the house out of sticks and leaves, you can walk around and look for your fortune."

"Very good," said the old gentleman rabbit, and so he started off, leaving the monkey to make the house in the woods. Uncle Wiggily walked on and on, but he didn't find his fortune, and it was getting rather late. He was just about to start back to where he had left the red monkey, when all of a sudden he heard a crying in the woods.

"Ha! I know what that is!" exclaimed the rabbit. "That is a baby fox, and near him is the old papa fox, who wants to catch and eat me. I'll not go near him, but I'll hurry home."

So he started toward the monkey's house, but the crying became louder, and the rabbit thought that perhaps, after all, it might not be a baby fox. And then, before he could twinkle his nose more than seven times, there was a rustling in the bushes, and out came a little boy squirrel. One of his legs was broken, and he was limping along on a piece of wood for a crutch.

"Oh, you poor little fellow!" cried the rabbit. "You look just like Billie or Johnny Bushytail after a football game. What has happened?"

"Oh, a boy threw a stone at me, and hurt me!" answered the little squirrel. "I'm lost and I can't walk home, and I don't know what to do."

"I'll help you," spoke Uncle Wiggily, kindly, but when he tried to, he found that his own rheumatism was so bad that he could hardly move. And the little boy squirrel was so stiff that he could barely walk, and there they were, both in the woods, with night coming on, and no way to get home.

"Oh, what shall we do?" cried Uncle Wiggily, and he wished the monkey would come along. And just then, if you will believe me, there was another rustling in the bushes, and out galloped Munchie Trot, the strong pony boy.

"Ha! What is the trouble here?" he asked, switching his tail, just like a wooden horse on the merry-go-round.

"Oh, we are both so lame that we can't walk," said Uncle Wiggily, "and we are a long way from the monkey's house. What shall we do?"

"Yes!" cried the little lame squirrel boy, "Boo-hoo! Hoo-boo what shall we do?"

"Don't say another word!" cried Munchie. "I'll take care of you. Just get on my back and I'll soon take you to the monkey's house in the woods." Then the pony boy knelt down so that Uncle Wiggily and the squirrel could get up on his back.

And when they got there and the cupboard was bare -- oh, please excuse me, that belongs in another story -- when they got up on Munchie's back and were holding tightly to the saddle, off the pony boy started through the woods, galloping to the monkey's house.

Then a whole lot of mosquitoes swarmed out of the bushes and tried to bite Uncle Wiggily and the squirrel, but Munchie switched his tail at the stinging insects, and away they scattered.

Then a big owl flew down out of a tree and tried to grab the squirrel, but the pony trotted so fast that the owl was left behind. And next a wolf tried to pull the rabbit off the horse, but Munchie tickled the savage creature in the ribs with his hoof, and the wolf ran away, sneezing.

Then the pony came safely to the house that the monkey had built in the woods, and he and Uncle Wiggily and the squirrel stayed there in peace and quietness all night, and they put some salve and a bandage on the squirrel's hurt leg to make it well.

And the next day there was another adventure. I'll tell you what it was on the next page, when the story will be about Uncle Wiggily and the green parrot -- that is, if the piano key doesn't unlock the front door and let in a red, white and blue mosquito to bite the baby's toes.



Story XXIV

Uncle Wiggily And The Parrot


Uncle Wiggily was the first one to awaken in the little house that the monkey had built in the woods. It was the morning after the day when Munchie Trot had brought the rabbit and the little squirrel boy home on his back.

"Well, my rheumatism is somewhat better to-day," said the old gentleman rabbit to himself as he stretched out first one leg and then the other to see if they hurt him. He didn't have much pain, so he started to make the fire to boil the coffee.

And some of the wood which he put on the fire was wet so that it smoked. And the smoke got up the monkey's nose, and made him sneeze, so that he was awakened, and he helped to get the breakfast in a hurry.

Then, in turn, Munchie Trot woke up, and next the squirrel boy. His leg hurt him very much, but Uncle Wiggily and the monkey bound it up with some splints, and some soft bark, tying it with ribbon grass, and then they all had breakfast, and felt better.

"But how am I to get home?" asked the little squirrel boy. "My mamma and papa will worry about me, I know."

"Oh, as to that," said Munchie Trot, switching his long tail to keep the flies off the breakfast table, "I will take you home on my back."

"Very good," said Uncle Wiggily, "and I will go a little way with you, and come back here. Perhaps I may find part of my fortune in that way."

"That's nice," spoke the red monkey, "and I'll stay here and get dinner. And, say, Uncle Wiggily, if you happen to see a green parrot just bring him along to whistle for me."

"I will," promised the old gentleman rabbit. Then he helped the little lame squirrel boy up on the pony's back, and off Munchie started with Uncle Wiggily hopping alongside. The rabbit looked for his fortune, but he couldn't find it, and pretty soon he had come as far as he thought he ought to go, so he said he would start back.

"Good-by," called the lame squirrel boy, "and thank you so much for being kind to me. Perhaps you may find your fortune on your way back."

"Or, if you don't find that," spoke Munchie, as he waved good-by with his long tail, "perhaps you will find the green parrot."

Then Uncle Wiggily hopped back toward where he had left the monkey getting dinner at the little house in the woods. And, just as the old gentleman rabbit was passing under a butternut tree, he heard a voice singing this little song:

"Oh, I'm a jolly, jolly sailor lad, I sail the ocean blue. And if you're glad, and not very bad, I'd like to sail with you. Oh, it's yo-ho-ho when the wind does blow, And the waves run mountains high. We will skip along and sing a song Beneath the bright blue sky.

"Oh, once I lived in a big wire cage, In a house upon a hill. For birds like me were the style you see, Though I sometimes felt quite ill. I had seeds to eat, in a seed dish neat, But they didn't agree with me, So I flew away on a rainy day, To live in a greenwood tree."

"My, that's rather strange," said Uncle Wiggily. "I don't see how a sailor lad could live in a cage, nor yet perch in a tree. I must look into this. Perhaps it may be the beginning of my fortune."

So he crept along very softly, and there, perched on the limb of a tree, was a nice green parrot, scratching his crooked beak with his left foot.

"Ha! How do you do? How are the oysters? Have you been in swimming? Pass the crackers, please. Right this way for your hot ice-cream cones!" quickly cried the green parrot in a shrill voice.

"Well of all things!" exclaimed the rabbit. "I am pretty well, thank you, but I don't know anything about oysters, and I haven't been in swimming. I don't see any crackers to pass, and, as for hot ice-cream cones, I never heard of them."

"Ha! Ha!" laughed the parrot. "Never mind me. That was only my joking way. But I'm glad to see you anyhow. I was only fooling about hot ice-cream cones. Listen and I'll whistle a song for you," and then and there, without even wiggling his tail once, he whistled a song called: "Never Drop a Penny Down a Crack in the Boardwalk."

"How do you like that?" asked the parrot as he stood on one leg and stretched out his wings.

"It was very fine," said the rabbit. "And I believe you are just what I am looking for. Will you kindly come and whistle for the monkey, so the bears won't catch him?"

"I certainly will," spoke the parrot, politely. "Show me the way. I am very fond of monkeys. I used to know one who could play five hand organs at once -- one with his tail."

"This is a red monkey, and he is a friend of the hand organ one," said Uncle Wiggily, as he hopped on ahead to show the green parrot the way.

Well, pretty soon, not so very long, they came near to the place where the little house was. They heard a curious hissing noise, like a steam radiator sissing in cold weather.

"My! What's that? A snake?" asked the parrot, in alarm. Uncle Wiggily looked through the bushes. Then he laughed.

"It is only the monkey trying to whistle," said the rabbit, "but he can't do it."

"Poor fellow!" spoke the green parrot kindly. "I'll whistle for him," and he did so. At first the monkey was frightened, thinking some real dogs were coming at the sound of the whistle, but then Uncle Wiggily and the parrot popped out of the bushes, laughing, and they told the monkey who they were, the rabbit explaining that the parrot had come to whistle and scare the bears away.

"It's very kind of you," said the red monkey, "and perhaps in time I may learn to whistle a little myself. But come now and have dinner."

So the monkey and the parrot and Uncle Wiggily ate their lunch and in the afternoon they all looked for the old gentleman's fortune, but they couldn't find it. And that night something very strange happened as they were all sleeping in the little house which the monkey had built in the woods.

It was all dark and quiet when, all of a sudden, the fuzzy fox sneaked up. He broke open the front window, and he was just crawling in through the hole to eat up the rabbit when the parrot was quickly awakened by feeling the wind blowing on him through the broken glass. Then he saw the burglar fox, and he whistled for the make-believe dogs and cried out:

"Fire! Thieves! Police! Bean-soup! Trolley Cars! Ice-cream cones! Robbers! Get out of here! Take your tail with you! Police! Mud pies! Cocoanut pudding! Merry-go-rounds! Look out! Fire! Fish hooks! Automobiles! Bang-bang! Whoop-de-doodle-do!"

Well, if you'll believe me, that fuzzy fox was never so frightened in all his life before. He thought a whole lot of soldiers, and guns, and dogs, and police were after him, and he jumped out of the window and ran off as fast as his legs would take him. Then Uncle Wiggily and the green parrot and the red monkey went to sleep again, and there's no more to this story, as you can see for yourself.

But in case the umbrella doesn't turn outside in, and scare the spoon holder off the table and make the napkins jump over the sugar bowl, the next story will be about Uncle Wiggily and the hippity-hop toad.



Story XXV

Uncle Wiggily And The Hoptoad


"Dear me!" exclaimed Uncle Wiggily as he got out of bed the morning after the green parrot had scared away the fuzzy fox, "I do seem to be having the most surprising adventures, but I can't find my fortune. Anyhow, I'm glad we had the parrot with us last night; aren't you, red monkey?"

"Indeed I am," declared the little chap with the long tail. "And perhaps he will bring us good luck, and you may come across your fortune at any moment. Why don't you go look for it while I take my whistling lesson?"

"Are you going to try again to whistle?" asked the rabbit.

"Indeed I am," replied the monkey. "I'm not going to give up just because I can't do a thing the first time or the forty-'leventh time. If it's possible for me to whistle I'm going to learn."

"Bravo!" cried the parrot, fluttering his green wings. "That's the way to talk. Well, now we'll have breakfast, and after that I'll give you a whistling lesson, but first I must sing a song." So he sang this one:

"Once there was a dollie, Who could shut her eyes, They were blue like buttercups, Under summer skies. She had hair like roses, And her teeth were red, Sometimes when she walked along She stood on her head.

"Inside her was sawdust, Fine as fine could be, Made from sawing little boards That grew in a tree. She could walk on tiptoes, Also skip a rope, Every Sunday morning she Washed her face with soap."

"My! That was a funny doll, with red teeth and hair like roses," said the monkey. "I wonder if she was any relation to me?"

"And who ever heard of blue buttercups?" asked the rabbit. "Buttercups are yellow! Every one knows that."

"I know," said the parrot. "You see there really wasn't ever any such dollie -- I just made up that song as I went along. But now for breakfast. Yo, ho! Ho, yo!"

Well, it was a nice breakfast they all had together in the little house the monkey had built, and when it was over the parrot started on the whistling lesson. Uncle Wiggily watched the monkey for a time, and saw the long-tailed chap turn a double back somersault when he found he couldn't whistle any other way. But even that didn't seem to do any good.

"Never mind," said the parrot, kindly; "you may learn yet. Never give up!"

"I'll not," said the monkey.

"Well, I think I will go off and see if I can find my fortune," said Uncle Wiggily. "I'll come back to dinner," and off he hopped, looking on all sides for gold or diamonds so that he could get rich and go back home to live in peace and comfort.

Well, the old gentleman rabbit hadn't gone on very far before he came to a place where there was a hole in the ground, and in front of it was a sign, which read:

"Hop Down Here And Get Rich."

"Ah, ha!" exclaimed the rabbit. "Indeed, I'll not do that. There must be a bad fox or a bear down there. I'll keep away." So he hopped on very quickly, and a voice called out after him:

"Aren't you coming down and get rich?"

"No, I'm not!" answered the rabbit, as he looked back and saw a savage mud turtle sticking his long neck and snaky head out of the hole. Then the rabbit kept on, and he went so fast that the turtle couldn't catch up to him.

Well, the next place he came to was a little pond of water, and in front of this was a piece of paper on which was written:

"Jump In Here And Get Rich."

"Ah, ha! No, indeed!" exclaimed Uncle Wiggily, foxy-like. "They can't catch me that way! There is probably an alligator in that pond."

So away he ran as fast as he could go, and a voice cried after him:

"Aren't you coming in?" And, looking back, he saw a big, savage water rat.

"No, indeed; I'm not coming in," said the old gentleman rabbit, and he hurried on, while the water rat gnashed his sharp teeth, because he was so disappointed at not catching the rabbit.

Well, the next place Uncle Wiggily came to was a big, bright, tin can standing beside the path that led through the woods.

"Ha! I wonder what that can be?" thought the rabbit. "Perhaps there is a sign on it telling me to climb in and get rich." So he looked all around the tin can, but there was no sign. "That must be a safe place," thought the rabbit. "It may be full of gold or diamonds. I'm going to have a look in."

He tried to climb up the sides of the can, but they were too smooth, so he got some long sticks and some short ones, and, by tying them together with ribbon grass, Uncle Wiggily made a little ladder. Then, by standing this up against the tin can, he could climb up and look in.

When he first looked over the top of the can he couldn't see anything. Then he leaned away far over, and the first thing he knew, in he had fallen ker-splash! and the can was full of molasses -- yes, there poor Uncle Wiggily was in a can of molasses and he was so stuck up that he didn't know what to do.

He tried to swim out, but the molasses was too thick. And he kept sinking deeper and deeper.

"Oh, dear! What shall I do?" he cried. "I can never get out!"

And then, all of a sudden, a voice outside the can called:

"Who are you, and what is the trouble?"

"Oh, please help me," begged the rabbit.

"I will," said the voice again. "I am the hippity-hop toad, and I am going to take that can up on my back, and hippity-hop up and down with it until I turn all the molasses into molasses candy, and then you can climb out on that. Hold fast, please."

Well, Uncle Wiggily held fast, and the first thing he knew the can in which he was a prisoner gave a lurch and a swaying motion, and then it almost turned upside down, and then he knew it must be up on the back of the hippity-hop toad.

Then, my goodness! I wish you could have seen that toad hop. Up and down he went like the dasher in a churn, or like a steam pump. Up and down! Up and down, faster and faster! The molasses splashed all over and some got up Uncle Wiggily's nose and some in his eyes, and it was all he could do to hold on to the sides of the can. But somehow he managed it.

But pretty soon the molasses got thicker and thicker, and then it began to get harder and harder, and pretty soon it was turned into sticks of molasses candy. Then Uncle Wiggily took these candy sticks and made a ladder of them, and when the hippity-hop toad set down the can off his back the rabbit climbed up the inside of it on his candy ladder, went down his wooden ladder outside the can and he was safe.

Of course he had lots of spots of molasses on him, but the toad showed him where there was a brook of water in which he washed himself. Then he thanked the hippity-hop toad and went back to the monkey house, though still without his fortune.

Now in the next story, in case the mucilage bottle doesn't upset on the doormat and make the letterman stick fast to it so he can't whistle, I'll tell you about Uncle Wiggily and the angle worms.



Story XXVI

Uncle Wiggily And The Worms


"Well, where in the world have you been?" asked the red monkey of Uncle Wiggily, as the old gentleman rabbit hopped along after he had gotten out of the molasses can.

"Oh, I had an adventure," replied the rabbit, and he told how the hippity-hop toad had saved him from the sticky stuff. "But can you whistle yet, red monkey?" asked Uncle Wiggily.

"No, he doesn't seem to be able to do it," spoke the green parrot, in a sort of sad and hopeless tone. "Every time he tries to whistle he puckers his face up in such a funny way that I have to laugh, and when I laugh I can't whistle. Can't you keep your face straight, so I won't have to giggle?" asked the green bird, solemn-like.

Illustration: Uncle Wiggily and the Alligator

"I can't seem to," replied the monkey, and he made another effort to whistle, but he puckered up such a funny face, and his tail got all tied up in a hard knot, and he looked so queer that even Uncle Wiggily had to laugh.

"You see how it is," said the parrot. "I can't give whistling lessons and laugh at the same time," and then he had to laugh "Ha! Ha!" and "Ho! Ho!" because you see the monkey made another queer face trying to get the knots out of his tail.

"I think I have a plan," said Uncle Wiggily after a bit.

"What is it?" asked the monkey.

"You must get behind a tree, red monkey," said the rabbit. "Then the parrot can tell you how to whistle, and give you a lesson without seeing the funny faces you make. Then he can whistle, to show you how, and he won't have to laugh."

"The very thing!" cried the parrot. So they tried that way, and they got along quite nicely. Well, by that time it was the dinner hour, and, after the meal, Uncle Wiggily said he would go out again to look for his fortune, and would come back to supper.

"But don't fall into any more molasses cans," cautioned the monkey, and the rabbit gentleman said he would not. Away Uncle Wiggily hopped over the hills, across the fields and through the woods. Pretty soon he came to a pile of nice brown dirt.

"Ha, some one has been digging here," thought the rabbit. "Perhaps some one else is also looking for a fortune of gold or diamonds. If that is so I had better dig here, too."

So, with his sharp paws, the rabbit began to dig in the dirt near the pile of earth. Faster and faster he dug until, all of a sudden, he saw something moving in the hole he had made.

"Ha! I wonder if there is moving-gold here?" he thought.

But when he looked again he saw that it was only a little angleworm, or earth worm, as some people call them, who was crawling out to sun himself.

"Oh, I hope I haven't hurt you!" exclaimed Uncle Wiggily, kindly, as he lifted up the worm gently in his paws.

"Not a bit of it," answered the worm, twisting about to see if his tail was all there. "But I'm glad you're not a fisherman, Mr. Rabbit."

"Why so?" asked Uncle Wiggily, as he shook some dirt out of his left ear.

"Because if you were you might stick me on a sharp hook and toss me into the water for the fish to eat. Nothing is worse than to have a hook stuck into you," said the worm, moving around until he was in two knots. Then he untied himself again.

"I should think hooks might be unpleasant," spoke the rabbit. "But I won't hurt you, and here is a bit of cherry pie for you."

"Thank you, most kindly," said the angle worm, as he sat up on the end of his tail and ate the cherry pie, juice and all. "But why are you digging in the earth, Uncle Wiggily?"

"To find my fortune," answered the rabbit, and he told how long he had been looking for gold or diamonds and how he hadn't found any yet. "Is there any gold down under the ground where you live?" asked the rabbit, sad-like.

"Not a bit, I'm sorry to say," answered the worm. "I live down there with numbers of my friends, but there is no gold. You had better dig somewhere else. But you have been very kind to me, and if ever I can do you a favor I will."

"Thank you," said Uncle Wiggily, so he hopped out of the hole he had made, and, after saying good-bye to the worm, he traveled on to find another place where he might dig for his fortune.

He came to a place in the woods, where the ground was nice and soft, and there he started to make another hole. Well, he hadn't gone down very far before, all of a sudden, he heard a growling voice behind him calling out:

"Here! Who said you could dig in my land?"

"Oh, I beg your pardon. Is this your land?" asked the rabbit, and he looked up to see the skillery-scalery alligator glaring down at him.

"Yes, this is my land, and these are my woods, and because you were so bold as to dig here I'm going to eat you up!" shouted the 'gator, lashing his double-jointed tail around in the dried leaves. "Here I come!" he cried.

Then he made a dive, with his big, wide-open jaws, down into the hole Uncle Wiggily had dug, but the rabbit didn't wait for him. Out he jumped, and away he hopped, and the 'gator crawled after him. Faster and faster ran the rabbit, and faster and faster came the alligator.

"Oh, I know he'll catch me!" thought poor Uncle Wiggily. "Oh, help! Will no one help me?" he cried.

"Yes, we'll help you!" called a little voice on the ground, and, looking down the rabbit saw the angle worm. And, crawling along with him were about a million other worms, some larger and some smaller than he. "Run along as fast as you can," said the first angle worm, "and we'll twine ourselves in knots around the alligator's legs so that he can't chase you any more. Run! Run!"

Well, you may be sure Uncle Wiggily ran as hard as he could.

"I'll get you!" cried the alligator, and he made a jump after the rabbit, but it was the last jump the skillery-scalery creature made that day. For the next instant those million angle worms just tied themselves in hard knots, and sailor knots, and bow knots, and double knots, and true lovers' knots and all sorts of knots around the tail and legs of the alligator, and he couldn't move another inch.

"Now's your chance! Hop away, Uncle Wiggily!" cried the first worm. "We'll hold the alligator here because you were so kind to me."

And the rabbit hopped safely away, and the ugly 'gator couldn't even wiggle his double-jointed tail. Then, when the rabbit was safe at the monkey's house, all the angle worms untied their knots off the alligator, and they scurried down into the ground before he could bite them. So that's how it all happened, just as true as I'm telling you. And that 'gator was so angry that he almost bit a piece out of his own tail. Then he went off in the woods and wasn't seen again for some time.

But this wasn't the last of Uncle Wiggily's adventures; no, indeed. In case the fish-hook doesn't catch the baseball and make the lamp chimney all smoky, I'll tell you next about Uncle Wiggily and the black beetle.



Story XXVII

Uncle Wiggily And The Beetle


One beautiful sunshiny day, when the wind was blowing through the tree-tops, making music like a church organ many miles away, Uncle Wiggily awakened in the little house which the red monkey had built for him in the deep woods.

"Well, I'm going to make another search for my fortune this morning," he said as he wiggled his whiskers to get the dried leaves out of them, for he had slept on a bed of leaves, you know.

"And I'll go with you," said the red monkey; "Because the last two or three times you went off by yourself you got into trouble."

"Trouble? I should say I did!" exclaimed the old gentleman rabbit.

"There was the time when you fell into the can of molasses, and the hippity-hop toad had to jump up and down with it on his back, until it was made into sticks of candy," said the red monkey.

"True enough," spoke Uncle Wiggily.

"And then there was the time when the skillery-scalery alligator chased you," went on the red monkey, "and the angle worms tied themselves into knots about his legs to stop him. Do you remember that?"

"Indeed I do," said the old gentleman rabbit. "And I will be very glad to have you come along with me and help me. We will start right after breakfast."

So the two friends built a little camp-fire in front of the wooden house in the woods and they cooked some oatmeal and some carrots and turnips, and Uncle Wiggily made a cherry pie with plenty of red juice in it. And the monkey found a bag of peanuts under a chestnut tree and he roasted them for his breakfast. Then they started off.

On and on they went through the woods, over the hills, up one side and down the other, around the corner, where a big gray rock rested on some green moss, and then, all of a sudden, there was a queer noise up in the air. It was like wings fluttering and a voice calling. And the voice said:

"Is the red monkey down there?"

"Oh, my! I wonder who can want you?" said Uncle Wiggily.

"Maybe it's the bear who once climbed up a tree after me," cried the red monkey. "I'm going to hide." So he crawled under a big, broad leaf. Then once more the voice called:

"I want the red monkey!"

"Oh, please Uncle Wiggily, don't let him get me!" begged the shivering and shaking monkey. "Throw a stone at that bear, will you?"

"Ha! Hum!" exclaimed the old gentleman rabbit. "I don't very well see how it can be a bear. Bears don't fly in the air, for they have no wings. I'll take a look."

So he looked up in the air, and there, instead of a bear flying overhead, it was only Dickie Chip-Chip, the little sparrow boy.

"Well, bless me!" cried Uncle Wiggily. "What are you doing up there, Dickie?"

"Oh, I'm making believe I'm a messenger boy," said the sparrow. "I have a telegram for the red monkey."

"Oh, ho! So that's why you wanted me, is it?" asked the long-tailed chap, as he crawled out from under the leaf. "What is the message about, if you please?"

"Here it is," spoke Dickie, and then from under his wing he took a piece of white cocoanut with writing on it. And no sooner had the red monkey read it than he began to cry.

"What's the matter?" asked Uncle Wiggily.

"Oh, dear!" sobbed the red monkey, "my little brother who works on a hand organ nearly had his tail cut off by getting it twisted around the handle. He is very sick, and I must go home right away. Oh, how sorry I am!" and then the red monkey ate up the piece of cocoanut that had the message written on it.

"You had better go home at once," said Uncle Wiggily.

"But I don't like to leave you," said the red monkey.

"Oh, I will get along all right!" spoke the brave old rabbit gentleman. "Go ahead, and when your brother is well, come back."

"I will," promised the red monkey, as he started for home.

"And I'll fly on ahead to tell them he is coming," said Dickie Chip-Chip. So they both called good-by to Uncle Wiggily, and hurried away through the woods, while the rabbit gentleman kept on in search of his fortune. And now for the black beetle.

Uncle Wiggily was walking along under a green tree, looking for some gold or diamonds when, all of a sudden something jumped out of the bushes and grabbed his crutch away from him. Then Uncle Wiggily saw that it was a wolf, and the wolf sprang down into a big hole in the ground, taking the crutch with him.

"Now," called the wolf, showing his ugly teeth, "if you want your crutch, Mr. Rabbit, you'll have to come down this hole after it. Come on down."

But Uncle Wiggily knew better than that, for just as surely as he jumped down into that hole the wolf would have eaten him all up. And the rabbit didn't know what to do, for he couldn't walk without his crutch on account of being lame with the rheumatism.

"Oh, this is terrible!" cried the rabbit. "Whatever shall I do? I can't stay in these woods forever."

And just then there was a rustling in the leaves, and out walked a big black, pinching beetle. In front of his head he had two things just like fire tongs, or a crab's claws, with which to pinch.

"What is the trouble?" asked the black beetle politely.

"The wolf, down the hole, has my crutch, and he won't give it to me," said the rabbit.

"Ha! we will very soon fix that," spoke the beetle. "Just tie a string around me, Uncle Wiggily, and lower me down into the hole. Then I'll pick up the crutch in my strong pincers, and you can haul me up again as I hold fast to it."

"But the wolf may get you," said the rabbit.

"I'll fix that wolf," replied the beetle, winking his two little eyes, real jolly-like.

So Uncle Wiggily tied a string around the black insect, and lowered him down into the hole. The wolf saw him coming and cried out:

"Oh! You can't get this crutch, for I'm sitting on it, and I'll bite you."

"Just you watch," spoke the black beetle, winking one eye this time. So he looked down, and, surely enough, the wolf was sitting on the crutch. But the beetle knew a good trick. He swung himself around on the end of the string, which the rabbit held, and, as he got near to the wolf, the beetle suddenly pinched the savage creature on the tail.

"Oh, my! Ouch!" cried the wolf, and he jumped up in a hurry. And that was just what the beetle wanted, for now he could reach the crutch as the wolf was not sitting on it any more. In his strong pincers he took hold of it.

"Pull me up!" called the beetle to the rabbit, and Uncle Wiggily did so, crutch and all, by the string, and they left the wolf down in the hole as angry as a mud pie. So that's how the beetle got back the rabbit's crutch for him, and that's the end of this story.

But there'll be another one soon, about Uncle Wiggily and Kittie Kat -- that is if the puppy dog across the street doesn't chew a hole in the milk bottle and scare the iceman all to pieces so that he goes roller skating with the jumping rope.



Story XXVIII

Uncle Wiggily And Kittie Kat


"Well," said Uncle Wiggily, as he and the black beetle went along through the woods, after the rabbit's crutch had been taken away from the savage wolf, "don't you want to come along with me, Mr. Beetle, and help me look for my fortune?"

"Indeed, I would like to very much," said the funny little insect, "but the truth of the matter is that I have to go to work to-morrow, and so I can't come."

"Work -- what work do you do?" inquired Uncle Wiggily.

"Oh, I am going to punch holes in trolley car transfers with my strong pincers," answered the beetle. "Now, I will have to bid you good-by, but if ever any one takes your crutch down a hole again, send for me and I'll get it back for you."

So the beetle said good-by to the old gentleman rabbit, and went his way, and Uncle Wiggily, after looking at his crutch to be sure the wolf had not bitten a piece out of it, went on looking for his fortune.

"My! It's quite lonesome going by yourself," said the rabbit, as he hopped along through the woods. "I miss the red monkey and the grasshopper and the black beetle. But then they can't always be with me, so I'll have to travel on alone."

On and on he went. Sometimes in the fields he stopped to hear the birds sing, and he heard them talking among themselves about how they must soon get ready to go down South, for cold weather was coming. That made the old gentleman rabbit feel a little sad, and he wished that he could soon go back home, where Sammie and Susie Littletail were waiting for him.

"But I can't go until I find my fortune," he said. "I must look harder than ever for it."

Then, sometimes, when he went through the woods, he heard the little brooks whispering to the ferns, how that soon there would be ice and snow all over, with boys and girls skating and sliding down hill.

"Burr-r-r-r-r-r! That makes me shiver!" exclaimed the rabbit. "I, too, must get ready for winter. Oh, if I could only find that gold and those diamonds I'd go right straight home, and never travel about any more."

So he looked under stones and down in hollow stumps, but not a piece of gold nor a sparkling diamond could he find. Then it began to get late, and the sun was darkened behind the clouds.

"I wonder where I can stay to-night?" thought Uncle Wiggily. "I must pick out a nice, big stump, fill it with leaves, and sleep in there."

Well, it didn't take him long to find what he wanted, and he prepared his bed for the night. Then he built a little fire in front of the stump and cooked his supper. He ate some carrots and a turnip sandwich with peanut butter on it, and the last thing he ate was a large piece of cherry pie. Then he washed the dishes and, curling up on the soft leaves, he was soon asleep, dreaming of his little nephew and niece, Sammie and Susie.

Now, about midnight, the savage alligator, who hadn't had anything to eat in a long time, started out to find something. And pretty soon he came to the stump where Uncle Wiggily was sleeping.

"Ah, there is a good meal for me!" cried the skillery-scalery creature, as he reared up on the end of his double-jointed tail and put his long nose down in the hollow stump.

"Hey! What's this? Who is it? Has the red monkey come back?" cried the rabbit, suddenly awakening. "I'm glad to see you, Mr. Monkey. Here is some cherry pie for you."

And then, being only half awake, Uncle Wiggily took a large piece of the pie and held it out, thinking he was giving it to the monkey. But it slipped from his hand and it fell right into the alligator's face.

And the cherry juice ran down into the eyes of the skillery-scalery creature, and tickled him so that he sneezed, and then he ran away, for he thought the red monkey might possibly be in the stump, and the alligator was afraid the monkey might throw hot potatoes down his throat.

Uncle Wiggily looked out of the stump, and by the light of the silvery moon he saw the alligator running away, and that was the first time he knew it was the skillery creature, and not the monkey, who had come in so suddenly.

"My! That was a narrow escape!" cried the rabbit. "It's a good thing I took that cherry pie to bed with me. I must be on the watch, for the alligator may come back." But the skillery-scalery creature, with the double-jointed tail, didn't return, though Uncle Wiggily didn't sleep very good the rest of the night on account of being so anxious and worrying so much.

And in the morning when he awakened from a little nap the old gentleman rabbit felt very strange. He tried to get up, but he found that he couldn't. He was as dizzy as if he had been on a merry-go-round and he felt very ill.

"It must have been the fright the alligator gave me," he thought. "Oh, dear, what shall I do? Here I am, all alone in this stump in the woods, and no one to help me. Oh, I'm a poor, forsaken old rabbit, and nobody loves me! Oh, if Sammie or Susie were only here. I'm sure --  -- "

And just then there was a scratching sound outside the stump.

"Hark! What's that?" whispered the rabbit. "That must be the alligator coming back to get me! And I can't even get up to throw some cherry pie at him. Oh, if the red monkey or the black beetle would only come!"

Then the scratching noise sounded some more, and Uncle Wiggily was getting so frightened that he didn't know what to do. And then, all of a sudden, he saw something white at the top hole of the stump, and a voice exclaimed:

"Well, if there isn't my dear old Uncle Wiggily! And you are ill, I know you are. I can tell by the way your nose twinkles."

"Indeed, I am ill," said the poor rabbit, "but who are you?" For you know he couldn't see well, as his glasses had fallen off.

"Oh, I am Kittie Kat," said the voice, and there, surely enough, was the little pussy girl. She had been away on her summer vacation, and was just coming back to get ready for school when she happened to walk through the woods. There she heard a voice in the stump, and, going to look, she saw Uncle Wiggily.

"Oh, how glad I am to see you, Kittie Kat," said the rabbit.

"And how sorry I am to see you ill," said the pussy girl. "But don't worry. I'm going to make you well. Just keep quiet."

Then that brave little pussy girl scurried around, and gathered some leaves from a plant called catnip.

"For," said Kittie, "if catnip is good for cats, it must be good for rabbits." So she made some hot catnip tea, and gave it to Uncle Wiggily, and in an hour he was all better and could sit up. Then Kittie made him some toast with some slices of yellow carrots on it, and he felt better still, and by noon he was as good as ever.

"But I don't know what I would have done, only for you, Kittie Kat," said the rabbit. "Thank you, very much. Now I can travel on and seek my fortune."

"And I'll come with you," spoke Kittie Kat. So they traveled on together, and they had an adventure the next day. I'll tell you about it right away, for the next story will be of Uncle Wiggily and Jennie Chipmunk -- that is, if the green trunk up in the attic doesn't go off on a vacation all by itself down to Asbury Grove, and hide in the sand to scare the popcorn man.



Story XXIX

Uncle Wiggily And Jennie


"Now, Uncle Wiggily," said Kittie Kat, as she and the old gentleman rabbit went along, the day after he had been cured by the catnip tea, "you must take good care of yourself. Keep in the shade, and walk slowly, for I don't want you to get sick again."

"And I don't want to myself," spoke Uncle Wiggily, "for I want to find my fortune."

"Oh, I think you will, and very soon," said Kittie. "I dreamed last night of a pile of gold and diamonds, and I'm sure you will soon be rich, so that you can come back home, and live with us all again."

"Where was the pile of gold of which you dreamed?" asked the rabbit. "Was it at the end of the rainbow? Because, if it was, there is no use to think of it. I once looked there and found nothing."

"No, it wasn't there," said Kittie, shaking her head. "I don't know where it was because I awakened before my dream was over, but I'm sure you will soon find your fortune. Now remember to walk slowly, and keep in the shade."

So she and Uncle Wiggily traveled on and on. Once they came to a big hill, which they could hardly climb, and they didn't know what to do. But they happened to meet a friendly mud turtle, who was very strong, and who had a large, broad shell.

"Get on my back," said the turtle, "and I will take you up the hill. I go slowly, but I am very sure. You will have time to rest yourselves while I am climbing up."

So Uncle Wiggily and Kittie Kat got on the turtle's back, and in time he took them up the hill. Then, after traveling on a little farther, they came to a broad river.

"Oh, how shall we ever get across?" asked Kittie.

"Perhaps I can make a boat," said the rabbit. He was looking for some wood and some broad leaves with which to make a sail, when along came swimming a big goldfish.

"Just perch upon my back," the fish said, "and I will be very glad to take you across."

"But you swim under water, and we will get all wet," objected Uncle Wiggily.

"No, I will swim with my back away up out of water," said the goldfish, and this he did, so that the rabbit and the pussy girl were taken safely over to the other side of the river and they never even so much as wet their eyelashes.

"Perhaps I may find my fortune over here," spoke Uncle Wiggily, as he hopped along after thanking the goldfish. He looked on the ground, and up in the air, but no fortune could he find.

"There is a little house, made of leaves and bark over there," said Kittie, pointing through the woods, "let us go and see who is in it."

"Perhaps a bear lives there," said the rabbit.

"It is too small for a bear's house," decided Kittie.

But as they came close to it they heard a scratching noise inside, and they thought perhaps it might be the fuzzy fox. And then, all of a sudden, they heard a voice singing this song:

"I sweep, I sew, I dust, I mend, From morning until night. And then I wash the plates and cups. And scrub the table white.

"I love to make a pudding, Also a pie and cake. And when I do my ironing, Potatoes do I bake.

"Now I must hurry -- hurry, To get a meal for you, And then I'll go and gather A hickory nut or two."

"Why, I know who that is!" cried Kittie Kat.

"Who?" asked Uncle Wiggily, making his nose twinkle like three stars and a moon on a frosty night.

"It's Jennie Chipmunk!" cried Kittie. "I just know it is. Oh, Jennie!" she called. "Is that you?"

"Yes, who is it that wants me?" asked a voice, and out from the tiny house stepped the little chipmunk girl. She had on her sweeping cap, and her apron, and in one hand was a cloth and in the other a plate she was drying.

"Well, well, Jennie, you're as busy as ever, I see!" exclaimed Uncle Wiggily. "But are you living here?"

"Hush! No," answered Jennie Chipmunk. "I don't live here, but in this house is a dear old lady squirrel, who is so feeble that she can't get around and do all her work. So every day I come over and clean up for her, and get her meals. Oh, I just love to work!" cried Jennie.

"I believe you," spoke the rabbit. "But can't we help?"

"Of course we can," decided Kittie. "You get some wood for the fire, Uncle Wiggily, and Jennie and I will do the housework."

Then the rabbit and Kittie went in the little house, and Jennie Chipmunk introduced them to the old lady squirrel, who had to lie down in bed most of the time.

"Oh, I am very glad to see you," she said in her gentle voice. "I don't know what I would do without Jennie. She is such a help; aren't you, Jennie?"

But Jennie wasn't there to answer, for she had skipped out into the kitchen to finish the dishes, and she was singing away as she hurried along as happy as a grasshopper.

Then Uncle Wiggily brought in a lot of wood, and with Kittie to help with the sweeping and dusting, the house was soon as neat as a piece of apple pie on a Sunday morning.

"Now we must go out and gather some nuts for the old lady squirrel," said Jennie.

"What will we carry them in?" asked Kittie.

"Oh, there is a basket for you, and Uncle Wiggily can use his valise, and as for me," said Jennie, "I have little pockets in each side of my cheeks, you know." And it's really true, a chipmunk has little pouches or pockets one on each side of its face. You look the next time you see one, and notice how a chipmunk's cheeks stick out when it has a lot of nuts to carry.

So the nuts were soon gathered for the old lady squirrel, and then Jennie made a cup of tea for Uncle Wiggily and Kittie. And as they sat in the house drinking it, and talking cheerfully to the old lady squirrel, all of a sudden the fuzzy old fox came along and tried to get in. But Uncle Wiggily saw him through the window, and quickly shut and locked the door.

"Never mind," cried the fox, as he sat down outside and licked his lips. "I'll wait until you come out, Mr. Rabbit, and then I'll get you."

"Oh! what shall we do?" cried Kittie Kat in great fright.

"I'll show you," said Jennie Chipmunk. So she took the big dusting brush down off the nail, and she stuck the brush out of the window, and she waved it at the fox -- waved the brush, not the window you know.

And when that fox saw the fuzzy brush waving, he thought it was the bushy tail of Old Dog Percival. And the fox was so afraid of dogs that then and there he gave three separate and distinct howls, and away he ran as fast as his legs would take him and so Uncle Wiggily and Kittie Kat could come out.

"My! But you are a smart little girl, Jennie Chipmunk," said the old gentleman rabbit. "I never would have thought of that."

Then Jennie sang her song again, and made a cherry pie for the rabbit, and he and Kittie traveled on, and the next day something else happened. I'll tell you about it right soon, when the story will be of Uncle Wiggily going berrying; that is, if the peanut man doesn't put a watermelon in the baby carriage and break the wheels so the rag doll can't eat her sawdust cake.



Story XXX

Uncle Wiggily Goes Berrying


"Well, this is a beautiful day," said Kittie Kat, as she and Uncle Wiggily walked along through the woods one morning.

"Yes, this weather is very nice," agreed the old gentleman rabbit. "I ought to find my fortune to-day. I have been traveling after it a long time, and I am getting quite tired."

Kittie Kat looked at him, and she was sorry to see that Uncle Wiggily appeared quite old. He was bending over as he walked, and he had to go very slowly, for his rheumatism was quite painful, even though he had his crutch that Nurse Jane Fuzzy-Wuzzy had made for him out of a cornstalk.

"Poor old rabbit," thought the pussy girl. "I hope that he finds his fortune soon, or it will not be of much use to him. I must look as hard as I can."

So, as they went along Kittie Kat looked under all the stones and behind the bushes and down in hollow stumps. And once, when she lifted up a stone with her claws, she saw something glittering under it.

"Oh, here is a diamond!" she cried, but it was only a piece of glass.

And, a little later Uncle Wiggily saw something shining under a big log. He cried out:

"Oh, joy! I have found some gold." But it was only a shining piece of tin. They were both much disappointed, but they kept on, still searching.

At last they came to a house that was built just on the edge of a deep, dark, dismal wood, and there was some smoke coming from the chimney of this house.

"I'm going there and ask if they know where I can find my fortune," said Uncle Wiggily.

"Better not," spoke Kittie Kat. "There may be a wolf or a fox in there. Better not."

So Uncle Wiggily looked carefully on the ground all about the little house, and then he said:

"No, Kittie Kat, a fox or a wolf can't live in here, or I could see the marks of their feet in the mud. I think a man or a woman lives in that house, and I am going to knock on the door, for they surely will be kind to us."

So, with the pussy girl following behind, Uncle Wiggily went up to the door of the little house, and knocked: "Rat-a-tat-tat!"

"Ha! Who is there?" asked a quivering-quavering voice.

"It is I -- Uncle Wiggily Longears, the old gentleman rabbit, and I am looking for my fortune," he said.

Then the door suddenly opened, and there stood a little old woman, in a green dress, and she had such a long nose and such a long chin that they almost touched, and if she had been strong enough she could have cracked a nut between them.

"Oh, that's an old witch!" cried Kittie Kat.

"Nonsensicalness!" exclaimed Uncle Wiggily. "There are no such things as witches. Besides, it isn't polite to call names, Kittie Kat."

"Oh, I'm sorry," said the pussy girl, looking at her tail.

"That's all right," said the old lady kindly, and she smiled. And when she did this she wasn't at all bad looking, but instead, very nice. "Lots of people think I'm a witch," she said, "and they won't come near me. But I'm not, and I love boys and girls and animals."

"I am so old, however, that I can't go very far from home, and I would like to go off in the woods, and get some berries to make a berry pie. But alas! and alack-a-day! I cannot. But what was it you wanted, Uncle Wiggily?"

"I wanted to know if you could tell me where to find my fortune," said the rabbit.

"Yes," answered the old lady in the green dress, "I think I can tell you where to find your fortune. If you will travel on for three days more you will come to a little hill. Go up this hill, and down the other side, and there, at the bottom, you will find your fortune."

"Oh, joy!" cried the rabbit gentleman.

"How lovely!" exclaimed Kittie Kat. "Oh, how glad I am. Let's start off at once, Uncle Wiggily."

"No, not at once," said the old gentleman rabbit. "First I must do a kindness to this good old lady. I heard you say you would like some berries," he went on, "so I will go and get them."

"And I will come also," said Kittie Kat.

"It is very kind of you," spoke the old lady with the long nose and the pointed chin. So she gave them a basket in which to put the berries, and away went Uncle Wiggily and the pussy girl.

Soon they came to where there were a whole lot of bushes and they began picking the berries. The basket was almost full, and the rabbit was wondering if the lady would give him some of the berry pie after she made it, when, all of a sudden, there was a rustling in the bushes and out sprang a savage wolf.

"Ah, ha!" he growled, as he showed his sharp teeth, "now I have you both! Oh, what a good meal I will have!"

"Oh, please do not eat us!" begged the rabbit. "I am just about to find my fortune; can't you wait until after that?"

"No!" growled the wolf. Then he crouched down, ready for a spring. Uncle Wiggily and Kittie Kat were too frightened to move. They looked all around for help, but all they could see were the berry bushes. And one bush seemed redder than the others. In fact, it was as red as red ink, and, as the rabbit looked at it this bush seemed to move.

"Here I come!" cried the wolf, and he jumped up into the air. But, as he did so the very red bush seemed to leap also, and then this bush grabbed the wolf by his tail, swung him around and around and tossed him away up in the top of a tall tree.

"There! I'll teach you to play tricks on Uncle Wiggily," cried a voice, and then the red bush came over to the rabbit, and instead of being a bush it was the red monkey, and he had come along just in time to save the rabbit and the pussy. You see he looked so much like a berry bush, as he crouched down, that the wolf didn't know him, and neither did Uncle Wiggily.

"Well, this is a joyful surprise!" cried the rabbit, as he and Kittie Kat thanked the red monkey. "I'm glad to see you once more."

Then the wolf ran howling away through the woods, and the monkey helped the rabbit and the pussy girl to fill the basket with berries and they took them to the old lady, who made a pie as big as the wash basin.

And the next day the rabbit started off after the gold and diamonds. And, in case the lead pencil doesn't crawl up the white wall and make a funny picture of a man riding on an elephant, I'll tell you next about Uncle Wiggily finding his fortune.



Story XXXI

Uncle Wiggily's Fortune


The little old lady in the green dress, whose nose and chin nearly touched, was very glad to get the berries which Uncle Wiggily and Kittie Kat gathered. She was very sorry that the wolf had frightened them, but she thought it was just fine of the red monkey to come along when he did.

"And I just wish you could have seen him toss the wolf over the tree-tops by his tail," said the old gentleman rabbit. "It was as good as going to the circus."

"Well, for doing such a trick, the red monkey can have two pieces of my berry pie," spoke the little old woman in the green dress. And that red monkey was very, very thankful, and he ate the two pieces of pie, even down to the last drop of juice.

Illustration: Uncle Wiggily's Fortune

Of course the rabbit gentleman and Kittie Kat had some pie too, and, after they had eaten their share, and had washed their faces and paws they stayed at the house of the little old woman all night.

"For I want Uncle Wiggily to be nice and rested so he can start off after his fortune to-morrow," she said.

Well, the next morning the rabbit gentleman got ready to go. The old lady with the green dress filled his valise full of good things to eat, including some berry pie, for there were no more cherries now, you know. Then, with Kittie Kat on one side of him and the red monkey on the other side, Uncle Wiggily set off.

"Remember," called the old lady, as she said good-by, "you must travel straight on for three days, and you needn't stop on the way to look for your fortune, for you won't find it. Just keep on, and at the end of the third day you will come to a hill. Go up the hill, and down the other side, and you will then come into your fortune, and I hope you will live for a good many years to enjoy it."

"Thank you so much!" exclaimed the rabbit. "It hardly seems possible that I am going to be rich after all my travels. What kind of a fortune will it be?"

"Oh, you must wait and see," said the kind little old lady.

Well, the rabbit and the pussy girl and the red monkey traveled on and on. The first day they came to a big mountain, and the monkey wanted to climb up it to see if there were any cocoanut trees growing on the top.

"No," Uncle Wiggily told him. "We must keep straight on the level road until we come to the hill." And it is a good thing they didn't climb that mountain. For on top lived a big giant who had a big club, and he might have hit the red monkey with it. Mind, I'm not saying for sure, but that might have happened, you know.

So the three friends traveled on and on, and at the second day they came to where there was a big ball of blue yarn beside a little lake. It was a nice, soft ball of yarn, such as kittens play with when grandma is knitting warm mittens for winter.

"Oh, I must stop and play with that ball of yarn," said Kittie Kat.

"No," said the rabbit, "you must not do that, for the old lady said we were to keep straight on for three days."

And it is a good thing Kittie Kat didn't roll the ball, for inside of it was a big rat, and he might have bitten the little pussy girl. Mind, I'm not saying for sure, but that might have happened.

"Now, this is the third day," spoke Uncle Wiggily when they got up one morning, after having slept in a hollow stump. "By nightfall we ought to come to the hill, and on the other side will be my fortune. Oh, how glad I am!"

So they kept on and on, stopping for dinner in a nice shady place, and toward evening they came to the hill.

"There it is!" cried the rabbit as he hurried up it. "Oh, I can hardly wait until I get to the other side."

Up he went, and up went the red monkey and up went Kittie Kat. And on the way the bad fuzzy fox sprang out from the bushes and tried to catch them, but Uncle Wiggily tickled him with his crutch and made him sneeze and fall down hill.

Then they came to the top of the hill. The sun was just setting in the clouds, and they were all colored golden and violet and purple, and oh, it was beautiful! Uncle Wiggily came to a stop. On one side was the red monkey and on the other the pussy girl. The rabbit rubbed his eyes. Then he took off his glasses and polished them on his handkerchief. Then he looked down the hill.

"Why -- why!" exclaimed Uncle Wiggily. "There must be some mistake. I don't see any gold or diamonds. And this place -- why, it's the very place I started away from so many weeks ago! There is where I live -- there is where Sammie and Susie Littletail live -- that's the tree where Johnnie and Billie Bushytail live, and there is the pond where Alice and Lulu and Jimmie Wibblewobble, the ducks, live! This is home! There can't be a fortune here!"

Oh, how disappointed he felt. The sun sank lower behind the clouds and made them more golden and green and purple.

Then out from their homes ran the rabbit children and the squirrel brothers and the duck children, and Peetie, and Jackie Bow-Wow, and Bully the Frog, and his brother, and Dottie and Munchie Trot, and Buddy and Brighteyes Pigg -- and all the others.

"Oh, here is Uncle Wiggily! Our Uncle Wiggily has come back!" they cried, leaping about in joy. "Oh, how glad we are to see you. Happy! Happy welcome! You are rich, Uncle Wiggily! Rich! Very rich!"

"Rich!" said the rabbit, rubbing his eyes and trying to stand up while all his friends gathered around him. "But I don't understand. The little old lady in the green dress said I would find my fortune here, but I don't see it."

"Let me explain," said Sammie Littletail. "Do you see that field of cabbage, Uncle Wiggily?" and the rabbit boy pointed to it.

"Yes," said the rabbit, "I see the field."

"There are seventeen million, two hundred and fifty-six thousand, nine hundred and three cabbages there," said Sammie, "and they are all yours. And do you see that field of turnips?"

"Yes," said Uncle Wiggily, as he looked down the hill, "I see them."

"There are nineteen million, four hundred and thirty-three thousand, eight hundred and sixty-six turnips," said Sammie, "and they are all yours. And do you see that field of carrots?"

"I do," said Uncle Wiggily, but he couldn't see so very far, as tears of joy were in his eyes.

"There are one hundred million, eight hundred and twenty-three thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine and a half carrots in that field," said Sammie. "Jillie Longtail, the mouse, had the half carrot because she was ill, but all the rest are yours, and you are the richest rabbit in the world -- the very richest -- there is your fortune. You can sell the turnips and carrots and cabbages and have forty-'leven barrels of gold."

"But -- but I don't understand," said Uncle Wiggily, as he tried to hug all his friends at once.

"It was this way," said Sammie, "when you were gone we all planted things in your garden and fields for you, and we took care of them, hoeing and watering them, until they grew as never carrots or turnips or cabbages grew before. So now you have come back to us, and you are rich."

And it was true. After traveling almost around the earth in search of his fortune, Uncle Wiggily came back to find it right at home, and that's the way it often happens in this world.

Well, you can imagine how surprised he was. He hugged and kissed all his friends and then he went into his old house with Sammie and Susie Littletail, and when he had sold the cabbages and carrots and turnips for many barrels of gold, there he lived for many, many years, as happy an old gentleman rabbit as you could find in a day's journey. And though his rheumatism bothered him at times it couldn't be helped. And he gave all his friends as much money as they wanted, and they all had good times together, and lots of fun, and every once in a while Uncle Wiggily would treat everybody to strawberry ice-cream cones with cabbage or turnip sauce on.

And now I have come to the end of this book. But I still have some more stories about the old gentleman rabbit in my typewriter, in case you would like to hear them. And I am going to put them in another volume to be called "Uncle Wiggily's Automobile."

In that machine he had the most surprising adventures of which you ever heard. Why, once the doodle-oodle-um got twisted around the tinker-um-tankerum, and again the noodle-oodle-um wouldn't go, and he had to give it a drink of molasses. And again the snicker-snoozicum got the toothache. But Uncle Wiggily didn't mind, and he traveled many miles in his auto. I'll tell you all that happened, so don't worry, but go to sleep and in the morning the sun may be shining. So I'm going to say good-by for a little while, and I wish you all happy dreams.

<eob>

A Girl Of The Commune

By

G. A. Henty



Chapter I.


Jeremiah Brander was one of the most prominent personages in the Cathedral town of Abchester. He inhabited an old-fashioned, red brick house near the end of the High Street. On either side was a high wall facing the street, and from this a garden, enclosing the house, stretched away to a little stream some two hundred yards in the rear; so that the house combined the advantage of a business residence in front, with those of seclusion, an excellent garden, and an uninterrupted view behind.

Jeremiah Brander enjoyed, in a very large degree, the confidence and respect of his fellow-townsmen. His father and his grandfather had been, like himself, solicitors, and he numbered among his clients most of the county families round. Smaller business he left to the three younger men who divided between them the minor legal business of the place. He in no way regarded them as rivals, and always spoke of them benevolently as worthy men to whom all such business as the collection of debts, criminal prosecutions, and such matters as the buying and selling of houses in the town, could be safely entrusted. As for himself he preferred to attend only to business in his own line, and he seldom accepted fresh clients, never, indeed, until a new-comer had taken his place among the accepted society of the county.

In the public business of the city, however, he played a very important part. He was Town Clerk, treasurer of several societies, solicitor to the Abchester County and City Bank, legal adviser of the Cathedral Authorities, deacon of the principal Church, City Alderman, president of the Musical Society, treasurer of the Hospital, a director of the Gas Company, and was in fact ready at all times to take a prominent part in any movement in the place.

He was a man of some fifty years of age, inclined to be stout, somewhat florid in complexion, and always dressed with scrupulous care. There was nothing about him to indicate that he belonged to the legal profession. His talk as a rule was genial and almost cheery, but his manner varied according to the circumstances. In his capacity as treasurer he was concise and business-like; in matters connected with the Church he was a little given to be dogmatic, which, considering the liberality of his subscriptions to all the Church objects and charities was but natural.

As president of the Musical Society he was full of tact, and acted the part of general conciliator in all the numerous squabbles, jealousies, and heart-burnings incidental to such associations. In every one of the numerous offices he filled he gave unbounded satisfaction, and the only regret among his fellow-townsmen was that he had on three occasions refused to accept the honor of the Mayoralty, alleging, and with a fair show of reason, that although ready at all times to aid to the utmost in any movement set afoot for the advantage of the city, it was impossible for him to spare the time required to perform properly the duties of Mayor.

Jeremiah Brander had married the daughter of a gentleman of an old county family which had fallen somewhat in circumstances. It was rumored at the time that he had lent some assistance to the head of the family, and that the match was scarcely a willing one on the lady's part. However that might be, no whisper had ever been heard that the marriage was an unhappy one. It was regarded as rather a come-down for her, but if so she never showed that she felt it as a fall. The marriage had certainly improved his standing in the county. His wife formed a sort of link between him and his clients, and he occupied a considerably better position among them than his father had done, being generally accepted as a friend as well as a legal adviser.

It is not to be supposed that so successful a man had no detractors. One of his legal brethren had been heard to speak of him contemptuously as a humbug. A medical practitioner who had failed to obtain the post of House Surgeon at the Hospital, owing to the support the President had given to another competitor for the post, had alluded to him bitterly as a blatant ass; and a leading publican who had been fined before the magistrates for diluting his spirits, was in the habit of darkly uttering his opinion that Jerry Brander was a deep card and up to no good.

But as every great man has his enemies, the opinion of a few malcontents went for nothing in the general consensus of admiration for one who was generally regarded as among the pillars of Abchester society, and an honor to the city.

"It is high time you did something, Jerry," his wife said to him one morning after their three daughters had left the breakfast-table.

"In what way, Eliza?" Mr. Brander said, looking up from his newspaper; "it seems to me I do a good deal."

"You know what I mean," she said, sharply. "You know you promised me a hundred times that you would give up all this miserable business and settle down in the county. The girls are growing up, Mary has just left Girton and is of an age to go into society."

"She may be of age," Mr. Brander said, with an irritability unusual to him, "but it strikes me that society is the last thing she is thinking of. We made a mistake altogether in giving way to her and letting her go to that place; she has got her head full of all sorts of absurd ideas about woman's mission and woman's duties, and nonsense of that sort, and has got out of hand altogether. You have not a shadow of influence over her, and I can't say that I have much more. Thank goodness her sisters don't take after her in any way."

"Well, that is all true," Mrs. Brander said, "and you know we have agreed on that subject for a long time, but it is no answer to my question. I have been content to live all these years in this miserable dull place, because I was fool enough to believe your promise that you would in time give up all this work and take a position in the county."

"To some extent I kept my promise," he said. "There is not a week that we don't drive half-a-dozen miles, and sometimes a dozen, to take part in a dull dinner."

"That is all very well so far as it goes, but we simply go to these dinners because you are the family lawyer and I am your wife."

"Well, well, you know, Eliza, that I was in treaty for the Haywood's Estate when that confounded mine that I had invested in went wrong, and fifteen thousand were lost at a blow -- a nice kettle of fish we made between us of that."

"We," she repeated, scornfully.

"Yes, we. You know perfectly well that before I went into it I consulted you. The mine was paying well then, and at the rate I bought in would have paid twenty per cent on the investment. I told you that there was a certain risk always with these mines, and that it was either a big addition to our income or a total loss."

"Yes, but you said that coal mines were not like other mines."

"And as a rule they are not," he said, "but there was first that great strike, then a fall in the price of coal, and then just when things began to look better again we came upon that fault that nobody had dreamt of being there, and then the whole thing went to smash. You must not be impatient. I am as anxious as you are, Eliza, to have done with all this, and I hope by the time Clara and Julia are ready to come out, I may be able to carry out the plans we have always had -- I as much as you. Tancred takes a great deal of the work off my hands now, and I can see that he has the confidence of most of my people. In another couple of years I shall have no fear of the business falling off if I hand it over to him entirely. You know he has only a fifth share, and I have no doubt he will be glad to arrange to pay me half or perhaps three-fifths when I retire. Now I must be going across to the office."

The office was situated in a smaller house standing opposite the lawyer's residence. In his father's time a portion of the ground floor of the house was devoted to business purposes, but after his marriage Jeremiah Brander had taken the house opposite and made it his place of business.

About twelve o'clock a gig drew up at the door; a moment later a young clerk came in.

"Doctor Edwards wishes to speak to you, Mr. Brander."

"Show him in."

"Well, doctor," he said, as his visitor entered, "it is seldom that I see you here, though we meet often enough elsewhere. Come you to buy or to sell, or do you want a will prepared or a patient sued? If so you know that's altogether out of my line."

"I quite understand that, Brander," the other said, as he took the armchair the lawyer pointed out to him. "No, I have come to tell you something you will be very sorry to hear. I have just come in from Fairclose. I had a note from Hartington last night asking me to go over first thing this morning."

"He does not look like a man who would require professional services, doctor; he is sixty, I suppose, but he could tire out most of the younger men either across country or after the partridges."

"Yes, he looks as hard as iron and sound as a roach, but appearances are deceptive. I should have said as you do yesterday if anyone had asked me. I have come to tell you to-day in confidence that he has not many months, perhaps not many weeks to live."

The lawyer uttered an exclamation of surprise and regret.

"Yes, it is a bad business," the doctor went on, "he told me that when he came back from hunting yesterday he went upstairs to change when suddenly the room seemed to go round. Fortunately he had just sat down on a couch and taken off his top boots, and he fell sideways on to it. He says he was insensible for about half an hour; the first thing he was conscious of was the servant knocking at the door, to say that dinner was ready; he told the man that he did not feel well and should not go down; he got off his things and lay down for an hour and then felt well enough to write the note to me. Of course I made a thorough examination of him, and found that, as I feared, it was a bad case of heart disease, probably latent for a long time, but now I should say making rapid progress. Of course I told him something of the truth.

"'Is it as bad as that?' he said. 'I have felt a lot of palpitation lately after a hard run with the hounds, and fancied something must be wrong. Well, say nothing about it, doctor; when it comes it must come, but I don't want my affairs to be discussed or to know that every man I meet is saying to himself 'poor old buffer, we shan't have him long among us.'

"Then he said more seriously, 'I would rather it should be so than that I should outgrow my strength and become a confirmed invalid. I have enjoyed my life and have done my best to do my duty as a landlord and as a magistrate. I am as prepared to die now as I should be twenty years on. I have been rather a lonely man since I lost my wife. Cuthbert's ways are not my ways, for he likes life in London, cares nothing for field sports. But we can't all be cast in one groove, you know, and I have never tried to persuade him to give up his life for mine, why should I? However, though I wish you to tell no one else, I should be glad if you will call on Brander and ask him to drive over. I made my will years ago, but there are a few matters I should like to talk over with him.'"

"This is sad, indeed," the lawyer said, sympathetically. "The Squire -- everyone about here calls him the Squire, you know, though there are men with broader acres than his in the neighborhood -- will be terribly missed. Dear, dear, it will make a sad gap indeed: how long do you think he is likely to last?"

"He might go at any moment, Brander; but as he has rallied from this shock it may be some little time before he has another. I should give him perhaps a couple of months. By the way, I think his son ought to be informed of it."

"I will ask him about it," the lawyer said. "Of course Cuthbert ought to know, but may be the Squire will keep it entirely to himself. I should say there is nothing that would upset him more than the thought of being fretted over, and I am not sure that he is not right. Of course I shall drive over there this afternoon."

After Dr. Edwards had left, Jeremiah Brander sat for a long time in deep thought. Once the clerk came in to ask for instructions about a deed that he was drawing up, but he waved him away impatiently. "Put it aside," he said, "I cannot see to it just now, I am busy, and not to be disturbed for the next hour, whoever comes."

It was evidently a difficult problem Jeremiah Brander had to solve. He took out his bank-book and went through his payments for a long while back and then went through some bundles of old checks. One of these he took off the file; it was for the sum of fifteen thousand pounds, made payable to self.

"It is lucky now," he muttered, "that I drew it, as I didn't want it known even in the bank what I was putting the money into," then from a strongbox with the name "J. W. Hartington," he took out a bundle of documents, many of which were receipts for money signed by the Squire, carefully examined the dates and amounts, and put them down on a piece of paper.

"There would be no difficulty about the signature," he said; "none whatever; a child could imitate it."

Laying one of the sheets before him he wrote on a sheet of foolscap "J. W. Hartington" a score of times, imitating the somewhat crabbed handwriting so accurately that even an expert would have had some difficulty in detecting the difference; he then tore the sheet into small pieces, put them into the heart of the fire, and watched them shrivel up to nothing.

"I think it could be done without the slightest risk," he said to himself, "if one managed the details carefully." Then he sat down and remained for half an hour without stirring. "It can be done," he said at last, "it is well worth trying; the property ought to be worth seventy thousand, but at a forced sale it might go for fifty-five or sixty. I reckoned last week that I could sell out my stocks for twenty-six thousand, which, with the fifteen thousand, would bring it over forty, and I could raise the balance on the estate without difficulty; then with the rents and what I shall draw for this business, I shall be in clover." He locked up the papers carefully, put on his hat, and went across the road to lunch.

There was no trace in his face or manner of the grave matters that had occupied his thoughts for the last two hours. He was cheerful and even gay over the meal. He joked Mary about the advancement of women, told the other girls that he intended that they should take lessons in riding, gave them an amusing account of the meeting of the Musical Society he had attended the evening before, and told his wife that she must dress specially well at the dinner they were going to that evening, as he had heard that most of the county big-wigs would be there.

Mr. Brander was always pleasant in the bosom of his family, occasionally sharp words might pass when he and his wife were alone, but when the girls were present he was always the genial father. There is no better advertisement for a man than his children's talk. They are unconsciously his best trumpeters, and when Mr. Brander's name was mentioned and his many services to his townsmen talked over, the fact that he was one of the best and kindest of men in his family circle, and that his girls positively worshipped him, was sure to be adduced as final and clinching evidence of the goodness of his character.

After lunch he went down to the bank and had a private interview with the manager.

"By the bye," he said, after a short talk, "I have a client who wants to buy fifty shares."

The manager glanced sharply at him.

"They stand at a premium," Mr. Brander went on, as if not noticing the glance; "though they have fallen thirty shillings lately. It is not an investment I should myself recommend, but at the same time, for various reasons, I did not care to endeavor to dissuade him; it would scarcely do for it to be reported that I had said anything to the disadvantage of this institution, standing as I do in the position of its solicitor. I think you mentioned the other day that you held rather more shares than you cared for, perhaps you could let me have some?"

The other nodded. "I could part with fifty," he said, dryly.

"Let me think, when was the last board meeting?"

"This day fortnight."

"I have rather neglected the matter in the pressure of business," Mr. Brander said, quietly, "and my client thinks the matter is already concluded, so perhaps it would be as well to date the transfer on the day after the board meeting, and I will date my check accordingly."

"It will be all the same to me," the manager said, "shall I draw out the transfer at once?"

"Do so. The shares stand at six pounds ten, I think, so I will draw you out a check for three hundred and twenty-five pounds. That will be right, I think," and he wrote a check and handed it across to the manager.

"What name shall I put in as the purchaser, Mr. Brander?"

"James William Hartington."

The manager lifted his brows and hesitated for a moment, but then, without a remark, filled in the transfer, dating it as requested.

"I must get two of the clerks to witness my signature," he said.

The lawyer nodded.

Two young clerks were fetched up by the messenger.

"I only want you to witness my signature," the manager said, as he signed his name. "Please to sign here, Mr. Karford; now Mr. Levison, you sign underneath." He held his finger to the spot where they were to sign in such a way that they could not even if they wished read the name inserted in the body of the document.

"I will take it away with me and obtain Hartington's signature," Mr. Brander said, after they had left the room, "I am going over to see him now. I will send it in to you before the next board meeting, and by the way it would be as well when you get it stamped to pass it in with several others. I know how these things are done, and in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred the directors don't even glance at the names on the transfers. Of course they are nothing to them, they have other things to think about, but there might possibly be some remark at your transferring some of your shares just at the present moment. By the way," he said, carelessly, "I don't think if I were you I would make any further advances to Mildrake. Of course, he has a big business, and no doubt he is all right, but I have learned privately that they are not doing as well as they seem to be, and I know the bank is pretty deep there already."

The manager turned somewhat paler, but said, though with manifest effort -- 

"They are perfectly safe, Mr. Brander, as safe as a bank."

"No doubt, no doubt, Mr. Cumming, but you know all banks are not perfectly safe. Well, I dare say you can manage that for me."

"Certainly, there can be no difficulty whatever about it. I have ten or twelve other transfers, and there will doubtless be some more before next board meeting. The affixing the stamp is a purely mechanical business."

After the lawyer had left Mr. Cumming sat for some time passing his hand nervously over his chin.

"Brander evidently has an idea that all is not right," he thought to himself. "Of course he cannot know how things really stand or he would never have let Hartington take shares. It is a curious transaction altogether, and I cannot make head nor tail of it. However, that is no business of mine. I will cash the check at once and send the money to town with the rest; if Mildrake can hold on we may tide matters over for the present; if not there will be a crash. However, he promised to send me forty-eight hours' notice, and that will be enough for me to arrange matters and get off."

Returning to his office the lawyer found his gig waiting at the door, and at once drove over to Fairclose, Mr. Hartington's place.

"I am grieved, indeed, to hear the news Edwards brought me this morning," he said, as he entered the room where the Squire was sitting.

"Yes, it is rather sudden, Brander, but a little sooner or a little later does not make much difference after all. Edwards told you, of course, that I want nothing said about it."

"That is so."

"Nothing would annoy me more than to have any fuss. I shall just go on as I have before, except that I shall give up hunting; it is just the end of the season, and there will be but two or three more meets. I shall drive to them and have a chat with my friends and see the hounds throw off. I shall give out that I strained myself a bit the last time I was out, and must give up riding for a time. Have you brought my will over with you?"

"Yes, I thought you might want to add something to it."

"That is right, there are two or three small legacies I have thought of; there is a list of them."

Mr. Brander took out the will and added a codicil. The legacies were small ones of ten or twenty pounds to various old people in the village, and the work occupied but a few minutes. The housekeeper and one of the men were called up to witness the signature, and when they had retired Mr. Brander sat chatting for half an hour on general topics, Mr. Hartington avoiding any further allusion to the subject of his illness. Mr. Brander got back in time to dress comfortably for dinner.

"Really, Mary," he said, when he went into the drawing-room where his wife and Mary were waiting ready for him, "I do think you might dress yourself a little more brightly when we are going to such a house as we are to-night. I don't say that that black silk with the lace and those white flowers are not becoming, but I think something lighter and gayer would be more appropriate to a young girl."

"I don't like colors, father, and if it hadn't been for mamma I should never have thought of getting these expensive flowers. I do think women lower themselves by dressing themselves as butterflies. No wonder men consider they think of nothing but dress and have no minds for higher matters."

"Pooh, pooh, my dear, the first duty of a young woman is to look as pretty as she can. According to my experience men don't trouble themselves much about the mind, and a butterfly after all is a good deal more admired than a bee, though the bee is much more useful in the long run."

"If a woman is contented to look like a butterfly, father, she must be content to be taken for one, but I must say I think it is degrading that men should look upon it in that light. They don't dress themselves up in all sorts of colors, why should we."

"I am sure I can't tell you why, Mary, but I suppose it is a sort of instinct, and instincts are seldom wrong. If it had been intended that women should dress themselves as plainly and monotonously as we do, they would not have had the love of decorating themselves implanted almost universally among them. You are on the wrong track, child, on the wrong track altogether, and if you and those who think like you imagine that you are going to upset the laws of nature and to make women rivals of men in mind if not in manner, instead of being what they were meant to be, wives and mothers, you are althogether mistaken."

"That is only another way of putting it, father, that because woman have for ages been treated as inferiors they ought always to remain so."

"Well, well, my dear, we won't argue over it. I think you are altogether wrong, but I have no objection to your going your own way and finding it out at last for yourself, but that does not alter my opinion that on an occasion of a set dinner-party in the county where everybody will be in their fullest fig, that dress, which is pretty and becoming enough in its way, I admit, can hardly be considered as appropriate."

Mary did not answer, but gave an almost imperceptible shrug of her shoulders, expressing clearly her absolute indifference to other people's tastes so long as she satisfied her own. Mary was indeed decided in most of her opinions. Although essentially feminine in most respects, she and the set to which she had belonged at Girton, had established it as a principle to their own satisfaction, that feminine weaknesses were to be sternly discouraged as the main cause of the position held relatively to men. Thus they cultivated a certain brusqueness of speech, expressed their opinion uncompromisingly, and were distinguished by a certain plainness in the fashion of their gowns, and by the absence of trimmings, frillings, and similar adornments.

At heart she was as fond of pretty things as other girls of her age, and had, when she attired herself, been conscious that she felt a greater satisfaction at her appearance than she ought to have done, and doubted whether she had not made an undue concession to the vanities of society in the matter of her laces and flowers. She had, however, soothed her conscience by the consideration that she was at home but for a short time, and while there she might well fall in with her parents' views, as she would be soon starting for Germany to enter upon earnest work. Her father's remarks then were in a sense satisfactory to her, as they showed that, although she had made concessions, she had at least gone but half-way.

The dinner passed off well. Mary was fortunate in being taken down by a gentleman who had advanced views on the necessity of British agriculturists adopting scientific farming if they were to hold their own against foreign producers, and she surprised him by the interest she exhibited in his theories. So much so, that he always spoke of her afterwards as one of the most intelligent young women he had ever met.

Mr. Brander was in remarkably good spirits. On such occasions he entirely dropped his profession, and showed a keen interest in all matters connected with the land. No one would that evening have supposed that his mind was in the smallest degree preoccupied by grave matters of any kind.



Chapter II.


As his father had said, Cuthbert Harrington's tastes differed widely from his own. Cuthbert was essentially a Londoner, and his friends would have had difficulty in picturing him as engaged in country pursuits. Indeed, Cuthbert Hartington, in a scarlet coat, or toiling through a turnip field in heavy boots with a gun on his shoulder, would have been to them an absurd anomaly.

It was not that he lacked strength; on the contrary, he was tall and well, if loosely, built. Grace is not a common manly attribute, but he possessed it to an eminent degree. There was a careless ease in his manner, an unconscious picturesqueness in his poses, a turn, that would have smacked of haughtiness had there been the slightest element of pride in his disposition, in the curve of the neck, and well-poised head.

His life was chiefly passed among artists, and like them as a class, he affected loose and easy attire. He wore turn-down collars with a carelessly-knotted necktie, and a velvet jacket. He was one of those men whom his intimates declared to be capable of doing anything he chose, and who chose to do nothing. He had never distinguished himself in any way at Harrow. He had maintained a fair place in his forms as he moved up in the school, but had done so rather from natural ability than from study. He had never been in the eleven, although it was the general opinion he would have certainly had a place in it had he chosen to play regularly. As he sauntered through Harrow so he sauntered through Cambridge; keeping just enough chapels and lectures to avoid getting into trouble, passing the examinations without actual discredit, rowing a little, playing cricket when the fit seized him, but preferring to take life easily and to avoid toil, either mental or bodily. Nevertheless he read a great deal, and on general subjects was one of the best informed men of his college.

He spent a good deal of his time in sketching and painting, art being his one passion. His sketches were the admiration of his friends, but although he had had the best lessons he could obtain at the University he lacked the application and industry to convert the sketches into finished paintings. His vacations were spent chiefly on the Continent, for his life at home bored him immensely, and to him a week among the Swiss lakes, or in the galleries of Munich or Dresden, was worth more than all the pleasures that country life could give him.

He went home for a short time after leaving the University, but his stay there was productive of pleasure to neither his father nor himself. They had not a single taste in common, and though Cuthbert made an effort to take an interest in field sports and farming, it was not long before his father himself told him that as it was evident the life was altogether distasteful to him, and his tastes lay in another direction, he was perfectly ready to make him an allowance that would enable him either to travel or to live in chambers in London.

"I am sorry, of course, lad," he said, "that you could not make yourself happy with me here, but I don't blame you, for it is after all a matter of natural disposition. Of course you will come down here sometimes, and at any rate I shall be happier in knowing that you are living your own life and enjoying yourself in your own way, than I should be in seeing you trying in vain to take to pursuits from which you would derive no pleasure whatever."

"I am awfully sorry, father," Cuthbert had said. "I heartily wish it had been otherwise, but I own that I would rather live in London on an almost starvation income than settle down here. I have really tried hard to get to like things that you do. I feel it would have been better if I had always stayed here and had a tutor; then, no doubt, I should have taken to field sports and so on. However, it is no use regretting that now, and I am very thankful for your offer."

Accordingly he had gone up to London, taken chambers in Gray's Inn, where two or three of his college friends were established, and joined a Bohemian Club, where he made the acquaintance of several artists, and soon became a member of their set. He had talked vaguely of taking up art as a profession, but nothing ever came of it. There was an easel or two in his rooms and any number of unfinished paintings; but he was fastidious over his own work and unable from want of knowledge of technique to carry out his ideas, and the canvases were one after another thrown aside in disgust. His friends upbraided him bitterly with his want of application, not altogether without effect; he took their remonstrances in perfect good temper, but without making the slightest effort to improve. He generally accompanied some of them on their sketching expeditions to Normandy, Brittany, Spain, or Algiers, and his portfolios were the subject of mingled admiration and anger among his artist friends in St. John's Wood; admiration at the vigor and talent that his sketches displayed, anger that he should be content to do nothing greater.

His days were largely spent in their studios where, seated in the most comfortable chair he could find, he would smoke lazily and watch them at work and criticise freely. Men grumbled and laughed at his presumption, but were ready to acknowledge the justice of his criticism. He had an excellent eye for color and effect and for the contrast of light and shade, and those whose pictures were hung, were often ready enough to admit that the canvas owed much of its charm to some happy suggestion on Cuthbert's often ready part.

Every two or three months he went home for a fortnight. He was greatly attached to his father, and it was the one drawback to the contentment of his life that he had been unable to carry out the Squire's wishes, and to settle down with him at Fairclose. He would occasionally bemoan himself over this to his friends.

"I am as bad as the prodigal son," he would say, "except that I don't get what I deserve, and have neither to feed on husks nor to tend swine; but though the fatted calf would be ready for me if I were to return I can't bring myself to do so."

"I don't know about being a prodigal," Wilson, one of the oldest of his set would grumble in reply, "but I do know you are a lazy young beggar, and are wasting your time and opportunities; it is a thousand pities you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth. Your father ought to have turned you adrift with an allowance just sufficient to have kept you on bread and butter, and have left you to provide everything else for yourself; then you would have been an artist, sir, and would have made a big name for yourself. You would have had no occasion to waste your time in painting pot-boilers, but could have devoted yourself to good, honest, serious work, which is more than most of us can do. We are obliged to consider what will sell and to please the public by turning out what they call pretty pictures -- children playing with dogs, and trumpery things of that sort. Bah, it is sickening to see a young fellow wasting his life so."

But Cuthbert only laughed good-temperedly, he was accustomed to such tirades, and was indeed of a singularly sweet and easy temper.

It was the end of the first week in May, the great artistic event of the year was over, the Academy was opened, the pictures had been seen and criticised, there was the usual indignation at pictures being hung generally voted to be daubs, while others that had been considered among the studios as certain of acceptance, had been rejected. Two or three of Cuthbert's friends were starting at once for Cornwall to enjoy a rest after three months' steady work and to lay in a stock of fresh sketches for pictures for the following year.

"I will go with you," Cuthbert said when they informed him of their intention, "it is early yet, but it is warm enough even for loafing on the rocks, and I hate London when it's full. I will go for a fortnight anyhow," and so with Wilson and two younger men, he started for Newquay, on the north of Cornwall. Once established there the party met only at meals.

"We don't want to be doing the same bits," Wilson said, "and we shall see plenty of each other of an evening." Cuthbert was delighted with the place, and with his usual enthusiasm speedily fixed upon a subject, and setting up his easel and camp-stool began work on the morning after his arrival. He had been engaged but a few hours when two young ladies came along. They stopped close to him, and Cuthbert, who hated being overlooked when at work, was on the point of growling an anathema under his fair drooping mustache, when one of the girls came close and said quietly -- 

"How are you, Mr. Hartington? Who would have thought of meeting you here?"

He did not recognize her for a moment and then exclaimed -- 

"Why, it is Mary Brander. I beg your pardon," he went on, taking off his soft, broad-brimmed hat, "I ought to have said Miss Brander, but having known you so long as Mary Brander, the name slipped out. It must have been three years since we met, and you have shot up from a girl into a full-grown young lady. Are your father and mother here?"

"No, I came down last week to stay with my friend, Miss Treadwyn, who was at Girton with me. Anna, this is Mr. Cuthbert Hartington. Mr. Hartington's place is near Abchester, and he is one of my father's clients."

Miss Treadwyn bowed and Cuthbert took off his hat.

"We have known each other ever since we were children," Mary went on, "that is to say ever since I was a child, for he was a big boy then; he often used to come into our house, while Mr. Hartington was going into business matters with my father, and generally amused himself by teasing me. He used to treat me as if I was a small sort of monkey, and generally ended by putting me in a passion; of course that was in the early days."

"Before you came to years of discretion, Miss Brander. You were growing a very discreet damsel when I last saw you, and I felt rather afraid of you. I know that you were good enough to express much disapproval of me and my ways."

"Very likely I did, though I don't remember it. I think I was very outspoken in those days."

"I do not think you have changed much in that respect, Mary," Miss Treadwyn said.

"Why should one say what one does not think," Mary said, sturdily, "it would be much better if we all did so. Do you not agree with me, Mr. Hartington?"

"It depends upon what 'better' means; it would be awful to think of the consequences if we all did so. Society would dissolve itself into its component parts and every man's hand would be against his neighbor. I do not say that people should say what they do not think, but I am sure that the world would not be so pleasant as it is by a long way if every one was to say exactly what he did think. Just imagine what the sensation of authors or artists would be if critics were to state their opinions with absolute candor!"

"I think it were better if they did so, Mr. Hartington; in that case there would be fewer idiotic books written and fewer men wasting their lives in trying vainly to produce good paintings."

"That is true enough," Cuthbert laughed, "but you must remember that critics do not buy either books or paintings, and that there are plenty of people who buy the idiotic books and are perfectly content with pictures without a particle of artistic merit."

"I suppose so," she admitted, reluctantly, "but so much the worse, for it causes mediocrity!"

"But we are most of us mediocre -- authors like Dickens, Thackeray, and George Eliot are the exception -- and so are artists like Millais and Landseer, but when books and paintings give pleasure they fulfil their purpose, don't they?"

"If their purpose is to afford a livelihood to those that make them, I suppose they do, Mr. Hartington; but they do not fulfil what ought to be their purpose -- which should, of course, be to elevate the mind or to improve the taste."

He shook his head.

"That is too lofty an ideal altogether for me," he said. "I doubt whether men are much happier for their minds being improved or their tastes elevated, unless they are fortunate enough to have sufficient means to gratify those tastes. If a man is happy and contented with the street he lives in, the house he inhabits, the pictures on his walls, and the books he gets from a library, is he better off when you teach him that the street is mean and ugly, the house an outrage on architectural taste, the wall-papers revolting, the pictures daubs, and the books trash? Upon my word I don't think so. I am afraid I am a Philistine."

"But you are an artist, are you not, Mr. Hartington," Miss Treadwyn said, looking at the sketch which had already made considerable progress.

"Unfortunately, no; I have a taste for art, but that is all. I should be better off if I had not, for then I should be contented with doing things like this; as it is I am in a perpetual state of grumble because I can do no better."

"You know the Latin proverb meliora video, and so on, Mr. Hartington, does it apply?"

"That is the first time I have had Latin quoted against me by a young lady," Cuthbert said, smilingly, but with a slight flush that showed the shaft had gone home. "I will not deny that the quotation exactly hits my case. I can only plead that nature, which gave me the love for art, did not give me the amount of energy and the capacity for hard work that are requisite to its successful cultivation, and has not even given me the stimulus of necessity, which is, I fancy, the greatest human motor."

"I should be quite content to paint as well as you do, Mr. Hartington," Anna Treadwyn said. "It must add immensely to the pleasure of travelling to be able to carry home such remembrances of places one has seen."

"Yes, it does so, Miss Treadwyn. I have done a good deal of wandering about in a small way, and have quite a pile of portfolios by whose aid I can travel over the ground again and recall not only the scenery but almost every incident, however slight, that occurred in connection therewith."

"Well, Anna, I think we had better be continuing our walk."

"I suppose we had. May I ask, Mr. Hartington, where you are staying? I am sure my mother will be very pleased if you will call upon us at Porthalloc. There is a glorious view from the garden. I suppose you will be at work all day, but you are sure to find us in of an evening."

"Yes, I fancy I shall live in the open air as long as there is light enough to sketch by, Miss Treadwyn, but if your mother will be good enough to allow me to waive ceremony, I will come up some evening after dinner; in the meantime may I say that I shall always be found somewhere along the shore, and will be glad to receive with due humility any chidings that my old playmate, if she will allow me to call her so, may choose to bestow upon me."

Anna Treadwyn nodded. "I expect we shall be here every day; the sea is new to Mary, and at present she is wild about it."

"How could you go on so, Mary," she went on, as they continued their walk.

"How could I?" the girl replied. "Have we not agreed that one of the chief objects of women's lives should not only be to raise their own sex to the level of man, but generally to urge men to higher aims, and yet because I have very mildly shown my disapproval of Cuthbert Hartington's laziness and waste of his talents, you ask me how I can do it!"

"Well, you see, Mary, it is one thing for us to form all sorts of resolutions when we were sitting eight or ten of us together in your rooms at Girton; but when it comes to putting them into execution one sees things in rather a different light. I quite agree with our theories and I hope to live up to them, as far as I can, but it seems to me much easier to put the theories into practice in a general way than in individual cases. A clergyman can denounce faults from the pulpit without giving offence to anyone, but if he were to take one of his congregation aside and rebuke him, I don't think the experiment would be successful."

"Nathan said unto David, thou art the man."

"Yes, my dear, but you will excuse my saying that at present you have scarcely attained the position of Nathan."

Mary Brander laughed.

"Well, no, but you see Cuthbert Hartington is not a stranger. I have known him ever since I can remember, and used to like him very much, though he did delight in teasing me; but I have been angry with him for a long time, and though I had forgotten it, I remember I did tell him my mind last time I saw him. You see his father is a dear old man, quite the beau-ideal of a country squire, and there he is all alone in his big house while his son chooses to live up in London. I have heard my father and mother say over and over again that he ought to be at home taking his place in the county instead of going on his own way, and I have heard other ladies say the same."

"Perhaps mothers with marriageable daughters, Mary," Anna Treadwyn said with a smile, "but I don't really see why you should be so severe on him for going his own way. You are yourself doing so without, I fancy, much deference to your parents' opinions, and besides I have heard you many a time rail against the soullessness of the conversation and the gossip and tittle-tattle of society in country towns, meaning in your case in Abchester, and should, therefore, be the last to blame him for revolting against it."

"You forget, Anna," Mary said, calmly, "that the cases are altogether different. He goes his way with the mere selfish desire to amuse himself. I have set, what I believe to be a great and necessary aim before me. I don't pretend that there is any sacrifice in it, on the contrary it is a source of pleasure and satisfaction to devote myself to the mission of helping my sex to regain its independence, and to take up the position which it has a right to."

"Of course we are both agreed on that, my dear, we only differ in the best way of setting about it."

"I don't suppose Mr. Hartington will take what I said to heart," Mary replied serenely, "and if he does it is a matter of entire indifference to me."

The subject of their conversation certainly showed no signs of taking the matter to heart. He smiled as he resumed his work.

"She is just what she used to be," he said to himself. "She was always terribly in earnest. My father was saying last time I was down that he had learned from Brander that she had taken up all sorts of Utopian notions about women's rights and so on, and was going to spend two years abroad, to get up her case, I suppose. She has grown very pretty. She was very pretty as a child, though of course last time I saw her she was at the gawky age. She is certainly turning the tables on me, and she hit me hard with that stale old Latin quotation. I must admit it was wonderfully apt. She has a good eye for dress; it is not many girls that can stand those severely plain lines, but they suit her figure and face admirably. I must get her and her friend to sit on a rock and let me put them into the foreground of one of my sketches; funny meeting her here, however, it will be an amusement."

After that it became a regular custom for the two girls to stop as they came along the shore for a chat with Cuthbert, sometimes sitting down on the rocks for an hour; their stay, however, being not unfrequently cut short by Mary getting up with heightened color and going off abruptly. It was Cuthbert's chief amusement to draw her out on her favorite subject, and although over and over again she told herself angrily that she would not discuss it with him, she never could resist falling into the snares Cuthbert laid for her. She would not have minded had he argued seriously with her, but this was just what he did not do, either laughing at her theory, or replying to her arguments with a mock seriousness that irritated her far more than his open laughter.

Anna Treadwyn took little part in the discussions, but sat an amused listener. Mary had been the recognized leader of her set at Girton; her real earnestness and the fact that she intended to go abroad to fit herself the better to carry out her theories, but making her a power among the others. Much as Anna liked and admired her, it amused her greatly to see her entangled in the dilemma, into which Cuthbert led her, occasionally completely posing her by his laughing objections. Of an evening Cuthbert often went up to Porthalloc, where he was warmly welcomed by Anna's mother, whose heart he won by the gentle and deferential manner that rendered him universally popular among the ladies of the families of his artist friends. She would sit smilingly by when the conflicts of the morning were sometimes renewed, for she saw with satisfaction that Anna at least was certainly impressed with Cuthbert's arguments and banter, and afforded very feeble aid to Mary Brander in her defence of their opinions.

"I feel really obliged to you, Mr. Hartington," she said one evening, when the two girls happened to be both out of the room when he arrived, "for laughing Anna out of some of the ideas she brought back from Girton. At one time these gave me a great deal of concern, for my ideas are old-fashioned, and I consider a woman's mission is to cheer and brighten her husband's home, to be a good wife and a good mother, and to be content with the position God has assigned to her as being her right and proper one. However, I have always hoped and believed that she would grow out of her new-fangled ideas, which I am bound to say she never carried to the extreme that her friend does. The fact that I am somewhat of an invalid and that it is altogether impossible for her to carry out such a plan as Miss Brander has sketched for herself, and that there is no opportunity whatever for her to get up a propaganda in this quiet little Cornish town, has encouraged that hope; she herself has said but little on the subject since she came home, and I think your fights with Miss Brander will go far to complete her cure."

"It is ridiculous from beginning to end," Cuthbert said, "but it is natural enough. It is in just the same way that some young fellows start in life with all sorts of wild radical notions, and settle down in middle age into moderate Liberals, if not into contented Conservatives. The world is good enough in its way and at any rate if it is to get better it will be by gradual progress and not by individual effort. There is much that is very true in Miss Brander's views that things might be better than they are, it is only with her idea that she has a mission to set them right that I quarrel. Earnestness is no doubt a good thing, but too much of it is a misfortune rather than an advantage. No doubt I am prejudiced," he laughed, "because I am afraid that I have no particle of it in my composition. Circumstances have been against its growth, and there is no saying what I might be if they were to change. At present, at any rate, I have never felt the want of it, but I can admire it among others even though I laugh at it."

A month passed, and Wilson and his two companions moved further along the coast in search of fresh subjects, but Cuthbert declined to accompany them, declaring that he found himself perfectly comfortable where he was, at which his companions all laughed, but made no attempt to persuade him further.

"Do you know, Mary," Anna said, a few days later, "you and Mr. Hartington remind me strongly of Beatrice and Benedict."

"What do you mean, Anna?" Mary asked, indignantly.

"Nothing, my dear," Anna replied, demurely, "except that you are perpetually quarrelling."

"We may be that," Mary said, shortly, "but we certainly shall not arrive at the same kind of conclusion to our quarrel."

"You might do worse, Mary; Mr. Hartington is charming. My mother, who is not given to general admiration, says he is one of the most delightful men that she ever met. He is heir to a good estate, and unless I am greatly mistaken, the idea has occurred to him if not to you. I thought so before, but have been convinced of it since he determined to remain here while those men he was with have all gone away."

"You will make me downright angry with you, Anna, if you talk such nonsense," Mary said, severely. "You know very well that I have always made up mind that nothing shall induce me to marry and give up my freedom, at any rate for a great many years, and then only to a man who will see life as I do, become my co-worker and allow me my independence. Mr. Hartington is the last man I should choose; he has no aim or purpose whatever, and he would ruin my life as well as his own. No, thank you. However, I am convinced that you are altogether mistaken, and Cuthbert Hartington would no more dream of asking me to be his wife than I should of taking him for a husband -- the idea is altogether preposterous."

However, a week later, Cuthbert, on going up to Porthalloc one morning, and catching sight of Mary Brander in the garden by herself, joined her there and astonished her by showing that Anna was not mistaken in her view. He commenced abruptly -- 

"Do you know, Miss Brander, I have been thinking over your arguments, and I have come to the conclusion that woman has really a mission in life. Its object is not precisely that which you have set yourself, but it is closely allied to it, my view being that her mission is to contribute to the sum of human happiness by making one individual man happy!"

"Do you mean, is it possible that you can mean, that you think woman's mission is to marry?" she asked, with scorn, "are you going back to that?"

"That is entirely what I meant, but it is a particular case I was thinking of, rather than a general one. I was thinking of your case and mine. I do not say that you might not do something towards adding to the happiness of mankind, but mankind are not yearning for it. On the other hand I am sure that you could make me happy, and I am yearning for that kind of happiness."

"Are you really in earnest, Mr. Hartington?"

"Quite in earnest, very much so; in the six weeks that I have been here I have learnt to love you, and to desire, more earnestly certainly than I have ever desired anything before, that you should be my wife. I know that you do not credit me with any great earnestness of purpose, but I am quite earnest in this. I do love you, Mary."

"I am sorry to hear it, and am surprised, really and truly surprised. I thought you disapproved of me altogether, but I did think you gave me credit for being sincere. It is clear you did not, or you could not suppose that I would give up all my plans before even commencing them. I like you very much, Cuthbert, though I disapprove of you as much as I thought you disapproved of me; but if ever I do marry, and I hope I shall never be weak enough to do so, it must be to someone who has the same views of life that I have; but I feel sure that I shall never love anyone if love is really what one reads of in books, where woman is always ready to sacrifice her whole life and her whole plans to a man who graciously accepts the sacrifice as a matter of course."

"I was afraid that that would be your answer," he said gravely. "And yet I was not disposed to let the chance of happiness go without at least knowing that it was so. I can quite understand that you do not even feel that I am really in earnest. So small did I feel my chances were, that I should have waited for a time before I risked almost certain refusal, had it not been that you are on the point of going abroad for two years. And two years is a long time to wait when one feels that one's chance is very small at the end of that time. Well, it is of no use saying anything more about it. I may as well say good-bye at once, for I shall pack up and go. Good-bye, dear; I hope that you are wrong, and that some day you will make some man worthy of you happy, but when the time comes remember that I prophesy that he will not in the slightest degree resemble the man you picture to yourself now. I think that the saying that extremes meet is truer than those that assert that like meets like; but whoever he is I hope that he will be someone who will make you as happy as I should have tried to do."

"Good-bye, Cuthbert," she said, frankly, "I think this has all been very silly, and I hope that by the time we meet again you will have forgotten all about it."

There was something in his face, as she looked up into it, that told her what she had before doubted somewhat, that he had been really in earnest for once in his life, and she added, "I do hope we shall be quite good friends when we meet again, and that you will then see I am quite right about this."

He smiled, gave her a little nod, and then dropping her hand sauntered into the house.

"It is the most foolish thing I have ever heard of," she said to herself, pettishly, as she looked after him. "I can't think how such an idea ever occurred to him. He must have known that even if I had not determined as I have done to devote myself to our cause, he was the last sort of man I should ever have thought of marrying. Of course he is nice and I always thought so, but what is niceness when he has no aims, no ambitions in life, and he is content to waste it as he is doing."

Five minutes later Anna Treadwyn joined her in the garden.

"So I was right after all, Mary?"

"How do you know, do you mean to say that he has told you?"

"Not exactly, but one can use one's eyes, I suppose. He said nothing last night about going away, and now he is leaving by this afternoon's coach; besides, although he laughed and talked as usual one could see with half an eye that it was forced. So you have actually refused him?"

"Of course I have, how can you ask such a question? It was the most perfectly absurd idea I ever heard of."

"Well, I hope that you will never be sorry for it, Mary."

"There is not much fear of that," Mary said, with a toss of her head, "and let me say that it is not very polite, either of you or him, to think that I should be ready to give up all my plans in life, the first time I am asked, and that by a gentleman who has not the slightest sympathy with them. It is a very silly and tiresome affair altogether, and I do hope I shall never hear anything of it again."



Chapter III.


Cuthbert Hartington had been back in town but two days when he received a letter from Mr. Brander apprising him of the sudden death of his father. It was a terrible shock, for he had no idea whatever that Mr. Hartington was in any way out of health. Cuthbert had written only the day before to say that he should be down at the end of the week, for indeed he felt unable to settle down to his ordinary course of life in London. He at once sent off a telegram ordering the carriage to meet him by the evening train, and also one to Mr. Brander begging him to be at the house if possible when he arrived.

Upon hearing from the lawyer that his father had been aware that he might be carried off at any moment by heart disease, but that he had strictly forbidden the doctor and himself writing to him, or informing anyone of the circumstances, he said -- 

"It is just like my father, but I do wish it had not been so. I might have been down with him for the last three months of his life."

"The Squire went on just in his usual way, Cuthbert. I am sure that he preferred it so. He shrunk, as he said, from knowing that people he met were aware that his days were numbered, and even with me after our first conversation on the subject, he made no allusion whatever to it. He was as cheery and bright as ever, and when I last met him a week ago, even I who knew the circumstances, could see no difference whatever in his manner. I thought he was wrong, at first, but I came to the conclusion afterwards that his decision was not an unwise one. He spared you three months of unavailing pain; he had no fear of death, and was able to go about as before to meet his friends without his health being a subject of discussion, and in all ways to go on as usual until the call came. His death was evidently painless; he sat down in his easy arm-chair after lunch for his usual half-hour's nap, and evidently expired in his sleep. The servant found him, as he believed, still asleep when he came in to tell him that the carriage was at the door, and it was only on touching him he discovered what had happened. They sent the carriage off at once to fetch Dr. Edwards. He looked in at my office and took me over with him, and I got back in time to write to you."

The shock that the Squire's sudden death caused in Abchester, was, a fortnight later, obliterated by the still greater sensation caused by the news that the bank had put up its shutters. The dismay excited thereby was heightened when it became known that the manager had disappeared, and reports got about that the losses of the bank had been enormous. The first investigation into its affairs more than confirmed the worst rumors. For years it had been engaged in propping up the firm not only of Mildrake and Co., which had failed to meet its engagements on the day preceding the announcement of the bank's failure, but of three others which had broken down immediately afterwards. In all of these firms Mr. Cumming was found to have had a large interest.

On the day after the announcement of the failure of the bank, Mr. Brander drove up to Fairclose. He looked excited and anxious when he went into the room where Cuthbert was sitting, listlessly, with a book before him.

"I have a piece of very bad news to tell you, Mr. Hartington," he said.

"Indeed?" Cuthbert said, without any very great interest in his voice.

"Yes; I daresay you heard yesterday of the failure of the bank?"

"Dr. Edwards looked in here as he was driving past to tell me of it. Had we any money in it?"

"I wish that was all, it is much worse than that, sir. Your father was a shareholder in the bank."

"He never mentioned it to me," Cuthbert said, his air of indifference still unchanged.

"He only bought shares a comparatively short time ago, I think it was after you were here the last time. There were some vague rumors afloat as to the credit of the bank, and your father, who did not believe them, took a few shares as a proof of his confidence in it, thinking, he said, that the fact that he did so might allay any feeling of uneasiness."

"I wonder that you allowed him to invest in bank shares, Mr. Brander."

"Of course I should not have done so if I had had the slightest idea that the bank was in difficulties, but I was in no way behind the scenes. I transacted their legal business for them in the way of drawing up mortgages, investigating titles, and seeing to the purchase and sales of property here in the county; beyond that I knew nothing of their affairs. I was not consulted at all in the matter. Your father simply said to me, 'I see that the shares in the bank have dropped a little, and I hear there are some foolish reports as to its credit; I think as a county gentleman I ought to support the County Bank, and I wish you to buy say fifty shares for me.'"

"That was just like my father," Cuthbert said, admiringly, "he always thought a great deal of his county, and I can quite understand his acting as he did. Well, they were ten pound shares, I think, so it is only five hundred gone at the worst."

"I am afraid you don't understand the case," Mr. Brander said, gravely; "each and every shareholder is responsible for the debts of the bank to the full extent of his property, and although I earnestly hope that only the bank's capital has been lost, I can't disguise from you that in the event of there being a heavy deficiency it will mean ruin to several of the shareholders."

"That is bad, indeed," Cuthbert said, thoroughly interested now. "Of course you have no idea at present of what the state of the bank is."

"None whatever, but I hope for the best. I am sorry to say I heard a report this morning that Mr. Hislop, who was, as you know, the chairman of the bank, had shot himself, which, if true, will, of course, intensify the feeling of alarm among the shareholders."

Cuthbert sat silent for some time.

"Well," he said, at last, "this is sudden news, but if things are as bad as possible, and Fairclose and all the estate go, I shall be better off than many people. I shall have that five thousand pounds that came to me by my mother's settlement, I suppose?"

"Yes, no doubt. The shares have not been transferred to my name as your father's executor. I had intended when I came up next week to go through the accounts with you, to recommend you to instruct me to dispose of them at once, which I should have done in my capacity of executor without transferring them in the first place to you. Therefore, any claim there may be will lie against the estate and not against you personally."

"That is satisfactory anyhow," Cuthbert said, calmly. "I don't know how I should get on without it. Of course I shall be sorry to lose this place, but in some respects the loss will be almost a relief to me. A country life is not my vocation, and I have been wondering for the last fortnight what on earth I should do with myself. As it is, I shall, if it comes to the worst, be obliged to work. I never have worked because I never have been forced to do so, but really I don't know that the prospects are altogether unpleasant, and at any rate I am sure that I would rather be obliged to paint for my living than to pass my life in trying to kill time."

The lawyer looked keenly at his client, but he saw that he was really speaking in earnest, and that his indifference at the risk of the loss of his estates was unaffected.

"Well," he said, after a pause, "I am glad indeed that you take it so easily; of course, I hope most sincerely that things may not be anything like so bad as that, and that, at worst, a call of only a few pounds a share will be sufficient to meet any deficiency that may exist, still I am heartily glad to see that you are prepared to meet the event in such a spirit, for to most men the chance of such a calamity would be crushing."

"Possibly I might have felt it more if it had come upon me two or three years later, just as I had got to be reconciled to the change of life, but you see I have so recently and unexpectedly come into the estate that I have not even begun to appreciate the pleasures of possession or to feel that they weigh in the slightest against the necessity of my being obliged to give up the life I have been leading for years. By the bye," he went on, changing the subject carelessly, "how is your daughter getting on in Germany? I happened to meet her at Newquay three weeks ago, and she told me she was going out there in the course of a week or so. I suppose she has gone."

"Yes, she has gone," Mr. Brander said, irritably. "She is just as bent as you were, if you will permit me to say so, on the carrying out of her own scheme of life. It is a great annoyance to her mother and me, but argument has been thrown away upon her, and as unfortunately the girls have each a couple of thousand, left under their own control by their mother's sister, she was in a position to do as she liked. However, I hope that a year or two will wean her from the ridiculous ideas he has taken up."

"I should doubt whether her cure will be as prompt as you think, it seemed to me that her ideas were somewhat fixed, and it will need a good deal of failure to disillusionize her."

"She is as obstinate as a little mule," Mr. Brander said shortly. "However, I must be going," he went on, rising from his chair. "I drove over directly I had finished my breakfast and must hurry back again to the office. Well, I hope with all my heart, Mr. Hartington, that this most unfortunate affair will not turn out so badly after all."

Cuthbert did not echo the sentiment, but accompanied his visitor silently to the door, and after seeing him off returned to the room, where he reseated himself in his chair, filled and lighted his pipe, put his legs on to another chair, and proceeded to think the matter out.

It was certainly a wholly unexpected change; but at present he did not feel it to be an unpleasant one, but rather a relief. He had for the last ten days been bemoaning himself. While but an heir apparent he could live his own life and take his pleasure as he liked. As owner of Fairclose he had duties to perform -- he had his tenants' welfare to look after, there would be the bailiff to interview every morning and to go into all sorts of petty details as to hedges and ditches, fences and repairs, and things he cared not a jot for, interesting as they were to his dear old father. He supposed he should have to go on the Bench and to sit for hours listening to petty cases of theft and drunkenness, varied only by a poaching affray at long intervals.

There would be county gatherings to attend, and he would naturally be expected to hunt and to shoot. It had all seemed to him inexpressedly dreary. Now all that was, if Brander's fears were realized, at an end, even if it should not turn out to be as bad as that, the sum he would be called upon to pay might be sufficient to cripple the estate and to afford him a good and legitimate excuse for shutting up or letting the house, and going away to retrench until the liabilities were all cleared off. Of course he would have to work in earnest now, but even the thought of that was not altogether unpleasant.

"I believe it is going to be the best thing that ever happened to me," he said to himself. "I know that I should never have done anything if it hadn't been for this, and though I am not fool enough to suppose I am ever going to turn out anything great, I am sure that after a couple of years' hard work I ought to paint decently, and anyhow to turn out as good things as some of those men. It is just what I have always been wanting, though I did not know it. I am afraid I shall have to cut all those dear old fellows, for I should never be able to give myself up to work among them. I should say it would be best for me to go over to Paris; I can start on a fresh groove there. At my age I should not like to go through any of the schools here. I might have three months with Terrier; that would be just the thing to give me a good start; he is a good fellow but one who never earns more than bread and cheese.

"There isn't a man in our set who really knows as much about it as he does. He has gone through our own schools, was a year at Paris, and another at Rome. He has got the whole thing at his fingers' ends, and would make a splendid master if he would but go in for pupils, but with all that he can't paint a picture. He has not a spark of imagination, nor an idea of art; he has no eye for color, or effect. He can paint admirably what he sees, but then he sees nothing but bare facts. He is always hard up, poor fellow, and it would be a real boon to him to take me for three months and stick at it hard with me, and by the end of that time I ought to be able to take my place in some artist's school in Paris without feeling myself to be an absolute duffer among a lot of fellows younger than myself. By Jove, this news is like a breeze on the east coast in summer -- a little sharp, perhaps, but splendidly bracing and healthy, just the thing to set a fellow up and make a man of him. I will go out for a walk and take the dogs with me."

He got up, went to the stables, and unchained the dogs, who leapt round him in wild delight, for the time of late had been as dull for them as for him; told one of the stable boys to go to the house and say that he would not be back to lunch, and then went for a twenty mile walk over the hills, and returned somewhat tired with the unaccustomed exertion, but with a feeling of buoyancy and light-heartedness such as he had not experienced for a long time past. For the next week he remained at home, and then feeling too restless to do so any longer, went to town, telling Mr. Brander to let him know as soon as the committee, that had already commenced its investigations into the real state of the bank's affairs, made their first report.

The lawyer was much puzzled over Cuthbert's manner. It seemed to him utterly impossible that anyone should really be indifferent to losing a fine estate, and yet he could see no reason for Cuthbert's assuming indifference on so vital a subject unless he felt it. He even discussed the matter with his wife.

"I cannot understand that young Hartington," he said; "most men would have been completely crumpled up at the news I gave him, but he took it as quietly as if it had been a mere bagatelle. The only possible explanation of his indifference that I can think of is that he must have made some low marriage in London, and does not care about introducing his wife to the county; it is just the sort of thing that a man with his irregular Bohemian habits might do -- a pretty model, perhaps, or some peasant girl he has come across when out sketching."

"He never did care particularly about anything," Mrs. Brander said, "and it may be he is really glad to get away from the country."

"That would be possible enough if he had a good income in addition to Fairclose, but all that he will have is that five thousand that came to him from his mother, and I should say he is likely enough to run through that in a couple of years at the outside, and then where will he be?"

"I can't think, Jeremiah, how you ever permitted his father to do such a mad thing as to take those shares."

"I know what I am doing, my dear, don't you worry yourself about that. You have been wanting me for a very long time to give up business and go into the country. How would Fairclose suit you?"

"You are not in earnest," she exclaimed, with an excitement very unusual to her. "You can't mean that?"

"I don't often say what I don't mean, my dear, and if Fairclose comes into the market, more unlikely things than that may come to pass; but mind, not a word of this is to be breathed."

"And do you really think it will come into the market?" she asked.

"As certain as the sun will rise to-morrow morning. We only held our first meeting to-day, but that was enough to show us that the directors ought all to be shut up in a lunatic asylum. The affairs of the bank are in a frightful state, simply frightful; it means ruin to every one concerned."

"It is fortunate, indeed, that you did not hold any shares, Jeremiah."

"I was not such a fool," he said, shortly, "as to trust my money in the hands of a body of men who were all no doubt excellent fellows and admirable county gentlemen, but who knew no more of business than babies, and who would be mere tools in the hands of their manager; and I had the excellent excuse that I considered the legal adviser of a bank should have no pecuniary stake whatever in its affairs, but be able to act altogether without bias."

There was an ironical smile on his lips, and his wife said, admiringly -- 

"How clever you are, Jeremiah."

"It did not require much cleverness for that," he said, with some complacency. "You can reserve your compliments, my dear, until we are established at Fairclose. All I ask is that you won't ask any questions or allude to the matter until it is settled, but leave it entirely in my hands. So far things are working in the right direction."

"Perhaps it will be a good thing for Cuthbert Hartington after all," she said, after sitting for some minutes in silence.

"No doubt it will," he said. "At any rate as he does not take it to heart in the slightest degree, we need not worry ourselves over him."

"It is funny," she said, "but sometimes the idea has occurred to me that Cuthbert might some day take a fancy to one of our girls, and I might see one of them mistress at Fairclose; but I never dreamt I might be mistress there myself, and I can't guess, even now, how you can think of managing it."

"Don't you trouble to guess, at all, my dear; be content with the plum when it falls into your mouth, and don't worry yourself as to how I manage to shake the tree to bring the fruit down."

Three weeks later it became known definitely that after calling up the remainder of the bank's capital there would be a deficiency of nearly a million, and that every shareholder would be called upon to contribute to the full extent of his ability, to cover the losses. One or two letters from Mr. Brander had already prepared Cuthbert for the final result of the investigation, and he had already begun to carry out the plan he had marked out for himself. He had, as soon as he had returned, astonished his friends by informing them that he found that instead of coming into his father's estates, as he had expected, it was not likely he would ever touch a penny from them, as his father had been a shareholder in the Abchester Bank, and so he believed everything would be swept away.

"Fortunately," he went on, "I have got enough of my own to keep my head above water, and, I dare say you fellows won't believe me, but I mean to go to work in earnest."

The announcement was made to a dozen men who were smoking in Wilson's studio, he having returned the day before from Cornwall.

"Well, youngster, I won't commiserate with you," he growled. "I have been wondering since I heard from King last night what had kept you away, what on earth you would do with yourself now you have come into your money. I often thought it was the worst thing in the world for you that you had not got to work, and if you are really going to set to now, I believe the time will come when you will think that this misfortune is the best thing that ever happened to you."

"I am not quite sure that I do not think so already," Cuthbert replied. "I am not at all disposed to fancy myself a martyr, I can assure you. I mean to go over to Paris and enter an Art School there. I know what you fellows are. You would never let me work."

There was a general chorus of indignation.

"Well, how much do you work yourselves? You potter about for nine months in the year, and work for four or five hours a day for the other three."

"Saul among the prophets!" Wilson exclaimed. "The idea of Cuthbert Hartington rebuking us for laziness is rich indeed," and a roar of laughter showed the general appreciation of the absurdity.

"Never mind," Cuthbert said, loftily. "You will see; 'from morn till dewy eve,' will be my idea of work. It is the way you men loaf, and call it working, that has so far kept me from setting to. Now I am going to burst the bonds of the Castle of Indolence, and when I come back from Paris I shall try to stir you all up to something like activity."

There was another laugh, and then Wilson said, "Well, it is the best thing you can do to go abroad. I don't believe you would ever make a fresh start here."

"I have made fresh a start, Wilson; our respected brother Terrier here, has undertaken to teach me the rudiments, and for the next three months his studio doors will be closed to all visitors from ten to five."

"Is that so? I congratulate you, Cuthbert; that really looks like business, and if Terrier can't teach you how to use the brush and put on color no one can. Gentlemen, we will drink the health of the new boy. Here is to Cuthbert Hartington, and success to him." Glasses were raised and the sentiment heartily echoed.

For three months Cuthbert worked steadily; to his own surprise, not less than to that of his instructor, he found the hours none too long for him. During that time he had received a letter from Mr. Brander that surprised him.

"Dear Mr. Hartington, -- In accordance with your instructions I at once informed the Receiver of the bank that you were prepared to hand over the Fairclose estates for the benefit of the creditors, instead of waiting for the calls to be made, and that you wished the matter to be arranged as speedily as possible as you were shortly going abroad. The necessary deeds will in a few days be prepared. You will doubtless be surprised to hear that I have arranged with the Receiver for the purchase of the estates by private treaty. I have long been intending to retire from business, and have been on the lookout for an estate in the county. I hope this arrangement will not be displeasing to you."

As Mr. Brander had the reputation of being a wealthy man, and his wife's wishes that he should retire from business and purchase an estate in the county were public property, Cuthbert was not surprised, but at the same time he was not altogether pleased. He had never liked the lawyer. He had no particular grounds for not doing so, but he had as a boy an instinctive notion that he was a humbug.

"I wonder," he said to himself, "whether he has all along had an eye to Fairclose, and whether he really did his best to dissuade my father from making that disastrous investment. At any rate, it does not make any difference to me who is there. It might have been some stranger, some manufacturing fellow; I would rather think of Mary being at the old place than a man of that sort. He would have been more likely than Brander to be hard on the tenants, and to have sold off all the things and have turned the place inside out. I don't say that under ordinary circumstances I should choose Brander as a landlord, but he will know well enough that there would be nothing that would do him more harm in the county than a report that he was treating the Squire's tenants harshly. Well, I suppose I had better write him a line saying that I am glad to hear that he has bought the place, as I would naturally prefer that it should be in his hands than those of a stranger."

A fortnight later, Cuthbert, in looking over the "Abchester Guardian," which was sent to him weekly, as the subscription was not yet run out, read the following paragraph: "We understand that our greatly respected townsman, Mr. J. Brander, has purchased the house and estate of Fairclose, which has come into the market owing to the failure of the Abchester Bank, in which the late Mr. Hartington was most unfortunately a shareholder, and which has involved hundreds of families in ruin. The greatest sympathy is everywhere expressed for Mr. Cuthbert Hartington. We understand that the price given by Mr. Brander was £55,000. We believe that we are correct in stating that Mr. Brander was the holder of a mortgage of £15,000 on the estate."

"Mortgage for £15,000," Cuthbert repeated, "impossible. Why should my father have mortgaged the place? He could have no occasion to raise the money. His tastes were most simple, and I am sure that he never lived beyond his income. He paid me a handsome allowance, but, thank God, I never exceeded it. What in the world can this mean! I will write to Brander at once. No, I won't, I will write to the liquidator. If there was such a thing he is certain to have looked into it closely, for it was so much off the sum available for assets."

By return of post Cuthbert received the following letter:

"Dear Mr. Hartington -- In reply to your question I beg to confirm the statement in the newspaper cutting you send to me. Mr. Brander was the holder of a mortgage for £15,000 on your father's estate. I looked into the matter very closely, as it came as a surprise upon us. Everything was in proper order. Mr. Brander's bank-book showed that he drew out £15,000 on the date of the mortgage, and the books of the bank confirm his book. Notice had been given to them a week previously that he would require that sum in notes and gold, and it was so paid over to him. His books also show payment of the interest, and his receipts for the same were found among Mr. Hartington's papers. There was, therefore, no shadow of a doubt possible as to the genuine nature of the mortgage. -- Yours truly, W. H. Cox."

Although satisfied that for some reason or other his father had borrowed this sum on mortgage from his lawyer, Cuthbert was no less puzzled than before as to the purpose for which it had been raised, or what his father could possibly have done with the money. He, therefore, wrote to Mr. Brander, saying that though it was a matter in which he had himself no pecuniary interest, he should be glad if he would inform him of the circumstance which led his father to borrow such a sum.

"I thought," he said, "that I knew everything about my father's money affairs, for he always spoke most openly about them to me, and he never let drop a word as to the mortgage or as to any difficulty in which he had involved himself, or any investment he had thought of making; and I am, therefore, entirely at a loss to understand how he could have required such a sum of money."

The lawyer's answer came in due course.

"My dear Mr. Hartingon, -- I was in no way surprised at the receipt of your letter, and indeed have been expecting an inquiry from you as to the mortgage. It happened in this way: Some three years ago your father said to me, 'I want to raise £15,000 on the estate, Brander.' I was naturally greatly surprised, for acting for him as I did, I was, of course, aware that he lived well within his income. He went on, 'Of course you are surprised, Brander, but as you must know well most men have a skeleton in a cupboard somewhere. I have one, and as I am getting on in life I want to bury it for good. It makes no difference to you what it is, and I have no intention of going into the matter. It suffices that I want £15,000.' 'Of course there is no difficulty about that, sir,' I said, 'the estate is unencumbered, and as there is no entail you are free to do with it as you like. 'But I want it done quietly,' he said, 'I don't want it talked about that I have mortgaged Fairclose. The best plan by far would be for you to do it yourself, which I have no doubt you can do easily enough if you like.' I said that I would much rather have nothing to do with it, as I have always considered it a mistake for lawyers to become principals in money transactions with their clients, and had always refused to do anything of the sort. However, he put the matter so strongly that he at last induced me, against my better judgment, to consent to advance the money, and at his earnest request I handed him the money in notes, so that no one, even at the bank, should be aware that such a sum had passed between us. Of course the mortgage was drawn up in the usual form and duly executed and witnessed, and I have no doubt that the liquidator of the bank will be happy to show you your father's receipt for the money and the receipts given by me to him for the interest. As you say the matter does not pecuniarily affect you now, but at the same time I am naturally anxious you should satisfy yourself thoroughly that the transaction was in every respect a bona fide one."

Cuthbert sat for some time with the letter before him.

"I suppose the dear old dad must have got into some scrape or other years ago," he said to himself. "What it was it is no use wondering, still less inquiring about. I am surprised he never told me, but I suppose he could not wind himself up to the point, and I have no doubt he intended to tell me some day, and would have done so if he hadn't been carried off so suddenly. Anyhow, he knew me well enough to be sure that when I heard of this mortgage, and learned how it had been done that my love and respect for him would be sufficient to prevent my trying to search into his past. He little thought that the mortgage would not affect me to the extent of a penny. Well, there is an end of it, and I won't think any more about the matter the secret is dead and buried; let it rest there. And now it is time to be off to my work."



Chapter IV.


A year later Cuthbert Hartington was sitting in a room, somewhat better furnished than the majority of the students' lodgings, on the second floor of a house in Quartier Latin. The occupant of the room below, Arnold Dampierre, was with him. He was a man three or four years Cuthbert's junior, handsome, grave-eyed, and slightly built; he was a native of Louisiana, and his dark complexion showed a taint of Mulatto blood in his veins.

"So you have made up your mind to stay," he said.

"Certainly, I intend to see it through; in the first place I don't want to break off my work, and as you know am ambitious enough to intend to get a couple of pictures finished in time for the Salon, although whether they will hang there, is another matter altogether."

"Don't pretend to be modest, Cuthbert. You know well enough they will be hung, and more than that, they will be a success. I would wager a hundred dollars to a cent on it, though you haven't as yet settled on the subjects. You know that you are Goudé's favorite pupil and that he predicts great things for you, and there is not one of us who does not agree with him. You know what Goudé said of the last thing you did. 'Gentlemen, I should be proud to be able to sign my name in the corner of this picture, it is admirable.'"

"It was but a little thing," Cuthbert said, carelessly, but nevertheless coloring slightly, "I hope to do much better work in the course of another year." Then he went back to the former subject of conversation.

"Yes, I shall see it through. We have had a good many excitements already -- the march away of the troops, and the wild enthusiasm and the shouts of 'À Berlin!' I don't think there was a soul in the crowd who was not convinced that the Germans were going to be crumpled up like a sheet of paper. It was disgusting to hear the bragging in the studio, and they were almost furious with me when I ventured to hint mildly that the Prussians were not fools, and would not have chosen this time to force France into a war if they had not felt that they were much better prepared for it than Napoleon was. Since then it has been just as exciting the other way -- the stupor of astonishment, the disappointment and rage as news of each disaster came in; then that awful business at Sedan, the uprising of the scum here, the flight of the Empress, the proclamation of the Republic, and the idiotic idea that seized the Parisians that the Republic was a sort of fetish, and that the mere fact of its establishment would arrest the march of the Germans. Well, now we are going to have a siege, I suppose, and as I have never seen one, it will be interesting. Of course I have no shadow of faith in the chattering newspaper men and lawyers, who have undertaken the government of France; but they say Trochu is a good soldier, and Paris ought to be able to hold out for some time. The mobiles are pouring in, and I think they will fight well, especially the Bretons. Their officers are gentlemen, and though I am sure they would not draw a sword for the Republic, they will fight sturdily for France. I would not miss it for anything. I am not sure that I shan't join one of the volunteer battalions myself."

"You have nothing to do with the quarrel," his companion said.

"No, I have nothing to do with the quarrel; but if I were walking along the streets and saw a big lout pick a quarrel with a weaker one and then proceed to smash him up altogether, I fancy I should take a hand in the business. The Germans deliberately forced on the war. They knew perfectly well that when they put up a German Prince as candidate for the throne of Spain it would bring on a war with France. Why, we ourselves were within an ace of going to war with France when Guizot brought about the Spanish marriage, although it was comparatively of slight importance to us that Spain and France should be united. But to the French this thing was an absolutely vital question, for with Germany and Spain united their very existence would be threatened, and they had nothing for it but to fight, as Germany knew they would have to do."

"But the candidature was withdrawn, Hartington."

"Withdrawn! ay, after the damage was done and France in a flame of indignation. If a man meets me in the street and pulls me by the nose, do you think that if he takes off his hat and bows and says that he withdraws the insult I am going to keep my hands in my pockets? Twice already has France been humiliated and has stood it? Once when Prussia made that secret treaty with Bavaria and Baden, and threw it scornfully in her face; the second time over that Luxembourg affair. Does Germany think that a great nation, jealous of its honor and full of fiery elements, is going to stand being kicked as often as she chooses to kick her? You may say that France was wrong in going to war when she was really unprepared, and I grant she was unwise, but when a man keeps on insulting you, you don't say to yourself I must go and take lessons in boxing before I fight him. You would hit out straight even if he were twice as big as yourself. That is what I feel about it, Dampierre, and feeling so I fancy that when the thing begins here I shall get too hot over it to help joining in. Ah, here come some of the lads."

There was a clatter of feet on the staircase, and a moment later half a dozen young Frenchmen ran in in a state of wild excitement.

"They have entered Versailles, a party of their horsemen have been seen from Valerian, and a shot has been fired at them. They have fled."

"Well, I should think they naturally would," Cuthbert said. "A handful of horsemen are not likely to remain to be made targets of by the guns of Valerian."

"It is the beginning of the end," one of the students exclaimed. "Paris will assert herself, France will come to her assistance, and the Germans will find that it is one thing to fight against the armies of a despot, and another to stand before a free people in arms."

"I hope so, René, but I own I have considerable doubts of it. A man when he begins to fight, fights because he is there and has got to do it. If he does not kill the enemy he will be killed; if he does not thrash the enemy he will be thrashed; and for the time being the question whether it is by a despot or by a Provisional Government that he is ruled does not matter to him one single jot. As to the Parisians, we shall see. I sincerely hope, they will do all that you expect of them, but in point of fact I would rather have a battalion of trained soldiers than a brigade of untrained peasants or citizens, however full of ardor they may be."

"Ah, you English, it is always discipline, discipline."

"You are quite right, René, that is when it comes to fighting in the open; fighting in the streets of a town is a very different thing. Then I grant individual pluck will do wonders. Look at Saragosa, look at Lucknow. Civilians in both cases fought as well as the best trained soldiers could do, but in the field discipline is everything. Putting aside the great battles where your feudal lords, with their brave but undisciplined followers, met our disciplined bow and billmen, look at the Jacquerie, the peasants were brave enough, and were animated by hate and despair, but they were scattered like chaff by mere handfuls of knights and men-at-arms. The Swiss have defended their mountains against the armies of despots, because they had mountains to defend, and were accustomed to scaling the rocks, and all good shots, just as the people of a town might hold their streets. I believe that you will hold Paris. I doubt whether the Germans will ever be able to enter your walls, but famine will enter, and, defend yourselves as obstinately as you may, the time must come when food will give out."

"As if we should wait to be starved," another of the students said scoffingly. "If the time comes when there's nothing to eat, we would set Paris on fire and hurl ourselves every man upon the Germans, and fight our way through. Do you think that they could block every road round Paris?"

"I know nothing about military affairs, Leroux, and therefore don't suppose anything one way or the other. I believe the Parisians will make a gallant defence, and they have my heartiest good wishes and sympathy, and when all you men join the ranks my intention is to go with you. But as to the end, my belief is that it will be decided not by Paris but by France."

"Bravo, bravo, Cuthbert," the others exclaimed, "that shows, indeed, that you love France. René said he thought you would shoulder a musket with us, but we said Englishmen only fought either for duty or interest, and we did not see why you should mix yourself up in it."

"Then you are altogether wrong. If you said Englishmen don't fight for what you call glory, you would be right, but you can take my word for it that in spite of what peace-at-any-price people may say, there are no people in the world who are more ready to fight when they think they are right, than Englishmen. We find it hard enough to get recruits in time of peace, but in time of war we can get any number we want. The regiments chosen to go to the front are delighted, those who have to stay behind are furious. Glory has nothing to do with it. It is just the love of fighting. I don't say that I am thinking of joining one of your volunteer battalions because I want to fight. I do so because I think you are in the right, and that this war has been forced upon you by the Germans, who are likely to inflict horrible sufferings on the city."

"Never mind why you are going to fight," Leroux said, "you are going to fight for us, and that is enough. You are a good comrade. And your friend, here, what is he going to do?"

"I shall join also," Dampierre said. "You are a Republic now, like our own, and of course my sympathies are wholly with you."

"Vive la Republique! Vive l'Americain!" the students shouted.

Cuthbert Hartington shrugged his shoulders.

"We were just starting for a stroll to the walls to see how they are getting on with the work of demolition. Are any of you disposed to go with us?"

They were all disposed, being in so great a state of excitement that anything was better than staying indoors quietly. The streets were full of people, carts were rumbling along, some filled with provisions, others with the furniture and effects of the houses now being pulled down outside the enciente, or from the villas and residences at Sèvres Meudon and other suburbs and villages outside the line of defence.

Sometimes they came upon battalions of newly-arrived mobiles, who were loudly cheered by the populace as they marched along; sturdy sunburnt peasants with but little of the bearing of soldiers, but with an earnest serious expression that seemed to say they would do their best against the foes who were the cause of their being torn away from their homes and occupations. Staff officers galloped about at full speed; soldiers of the garrison or of Vinoy's Corps, who had come in a day or two before, lounged about the streets looking in at the shops. No small proportion of the male population wore kepis, which showed that they belonged either to the National Guard or to the battalions that were springing into existence.

"Why do we not register our names to-day!" René exclaimed.

"Because a day or two will make no difference," Cuthbert replied, "and it is just as well to find out before we do join something about the men in command. Let us above all things choose a corps where they have had the good sense to get hold of two or three army men, who have had experience in war, as their field officers. We don't want to be under a worthy citizen who has been elected solely because he is popular in his quarter, or a demagogue who is chosen because he is a fluent speaker, and has made himself conspicuous by his abuse of Napoleon. This is not the time for tomfoolery; we want men who will keep a tight hand over us, and make us into fair soldiers. It may not be quite agreeable at first, but a corps that shows itself efficient is sure to be chosen when there is work to be done, and will be doing outpost duty, whilst many of the others will be kept within the walls as being of no practical use. Just at present everything is topsy-turvy, but you may be sure that Trochu and Vinoy, and the other generals will gradually get things into shape, and will not be long before they find what corps are to be depended on and what are not."

Crossing the river they made their way out beyond the walls. Even the light-hearted students were sobered by the sight beyond. Thousands of men were engaged on the work of demolition. Where but ten days since stood villas surrounded by gardens and trees, there was now a mere waste of bricks and mortar stretching down to the Forts of Issy and Vanves. The trees had all been felled and for the most part cut up and carried into Paris for firewood. Most of the walls were levelled, and frequent crashes of masonry showed that these last vestiges of bright and happy homes would soon disappear. A continuous stream of carts and foot-passengers came along the road to the gate -- the men grim and bitter, the women crying, and all laden with the most valued of their little belongings. Numbers of cattle and herds of sheep, attended by guards, grazed in the fields beyond the forts.

"By Jove, Dampierre," Cuthbert said, "if I hadn't made up my mind to join a corps before, this scene would decide me. It is pitiful to see all these poor people, who have no more to do with the war than the birds in the air, rendered homeless. A good many of the birds have been rendered homeless too, but fortunately for them it is autumn instead of spring, and they have neither nests nor nestlings to think of, and can fly away to the woods on the slopes below Meudon."

"What a fellow you are, Hartington, to be thinking of the birds when there are tens of thousands of people made miserable."

"I fancy the birds are just as capable of feeling misery as we are," Cuthbert said quietly, "not perhaps over trivial matters, though they do bicker and quarrel a good deal among themselves, but they have their great calamities, and die of thirst, of hunger, and of cold. I remember during a very hard frost some years ago our garden was full of dying birds, though my father had bushels of grain thrown to them every day. It was one of the most painful sights I ever saw, and I know I felt pretty nearly as much cut up at it as I do now. I hate to see dumb animals suffer. There is a sort of uncomplaining misery about them that appeals to one, at any rate appeals to me, infinitely. These poor fellows are suffering too, you will say. Yes, but they have their consolation. They promise themselves that as soon as they get into Paris they will join a corps and take vengeance on those who have hurt them. They may think, and perhaps with reason, that when the trouble is over, they will find their cottages still standing, and will take up life again as they left it. They have at least the consolation of swearing, a consolation which, as far as I know, is denied to animals and birds."

"You are a rum fellow, Hartington, and I never know when you are in earnest and when you are not."

"Let us go back," René Caillard, who, with the others, had been standing silently, said abruptly. "This is too painful; I feel suffocated to think that such a humiliation should fall on Paris. Surely all civilized Europe will rise and cry out against this desecration." He turned and with his comrades walked back towards the gate. Cuthbert followed with Arnold Dampierre.

"That is just the way with them," the former said, "it would have been no desecration had they encamped before Berlin, but now, because it is the other way, they almost expect a miracle from Heaven to interpose in their favor. Curious people the French. Their belief in themselves is firm and unshakable, and whatever happens it is the fault of others, and not of themselves. Now, in point of fact, from all we hear, the Germans are conducting the war in a very much more humane and civilized way than the French would have done if they had been the invaders, and yet they treat their misfortunes as if high Heaven had never witnessed such calamities. Why, the march of the Germans has been a peaceful procession in comparison with Sherman's march or Sheridan's forays. They have sacked no city, their path is not marked by havoc and conflagration; they fight our men, and maybe loot deserted houses, but as a rule unarmed citizens and peasants have little to complain of."

"That is true enough," the other agreed reluctantly.

"My opinion is," Cuthbert went on, "that all these poor people who are flocking into Paris are making a hideous mistake. If they stopped in their villages the betting is that no harm would have come to them; whereas now they have left their homes unguarded and untenanted -- and it would not be human nature if the Germans did not occupy them -- while in Paris they will have to go through all the privations and hardships of a siege and perhaps of a bombardment; besides there are so many more hungry mouths to feed. In my opinion Trochu and the Provisional Government would have acted very much more wisely had they issued an order that no strangers, save those whose houses have been destroyed, should be allowed to enter the city, and advising the inhabitants of all the villages round either to remain quietly in their homes, or to retire to places at a distance. Fighting men might, of course, come in, but all useless mouths will only hasten the date when famine will force the city to surrender."

"You seem very sure that it will surrender sooner or later, Hartington," Dampierre said, irritably. "My opinion is that all France will rise and come to her rescue."

"If Bazaine cuts his way out of Metz they may do it, but we have heard nothing of his moving, and the longer he stays the more difficulty he will have of getting out. He has a fine army with him, but if he once gives time to the Germans to erect batteries commanding every road out of the place, he will soon find it well-nigh impossible to make a sortie. Except that army France has nothing she can really rely upon. It is all very well to talk of a general rising, but you can't create an army in the twinkling of an eye; and a host of half-disciplined peasants, however numerous, would have no chance against an enemy who have shown themselves capable of defeating the whole of the trained armies of France. No, no, Dampierre, you must make up your mind beforehand that you are going in on the losing side. Paris may hold out long enough to secure reasonable terms, but I fancy that is about all that will come of it."

The other did not reply. He had something of the unreasoning faith that pervaded France, that a Republic was invincible, and that France would finally emerge from the struggle victorious.

"We shall try and find out to-night about the corps," René Caillard said, as the others overtook them some distance inside the gates. "After what we have seen to-day we are all determined to join without delay. I heard last night from some men at Veillant's that they and a good many others have put their names down for a corps that is to be called the Chasseurs des Ecoles. They said they understood that it was to be composed entirely of students. Not all art, of course, but law and other schools."

"That would be just the thing," Cuthbert said, "if they can only get some good officers. One likes the men one has to work with to be a little of one's own class. Well, if the officers are all right you can put my name down. I suppose there is no occasion for me to go myself."

"Of course there is occasion, lazy one. You have to be sworn in."

Cuthbert nodded. "I suppose we shan't have to give up work altogether?"

"I should think not," René said. "I suppose we shall have two or three hours' drill in the morning and nothing more till the time for action comes. Of course the troops and the mobiles will do the work at the forts and walls, and we shall be only called out if the Prussians venture to attack us, or if we march out to attack them."

"So much the better. I came here to work, and I want to stick to it and not waste my time in parades and sentry duty. Well, we shall meet at the studio in the morning and you can give us your news then."

Some fifteen young men met on the following morning at Goudé's studio.

"Now, gentlemen," said the artist, a short man, with a large head, and an abundant crop of yellow hair falling on to his shoulders, "please to attend to business while you are here. Paint -- you have plenty of time outside to discuss affairs."

M. Goudé was an artist of considerable talent, but of peppery temper. He had at one time gone to war with the Hanging Committee of the Salon because one of his paintings had been so badly hung that he declared it to be nothing short of an insult, and had forthwith proceeded to publish the most violent strictures upon them. The result was that on the following year his pictures were not hung at all, whereupon, after another onslaught upon them, he had declared his determination never again to submit a picture to the judgment of men whose natural stupidity was only equalled by their ignorance of art.

This vow he had for eight years adhered to, only occasionally painting a picture and selling it privately, but devoting himself almost entirely to the studio he had opened, when he ceased exhibiting. He was an admirable teacher and his list of pupils was always full. He was an exacting master and would take none but students who showed marked ability. As a preliminary picture had to be presented to him for examination, and at least three out of four of the canvases sufficed to ensure their authors' prompt rejection.

It was, therefore, considered an honor to be one of Goudé's pupils, but it had its drawbacks. His criticisms were severe and bitter; and he fell into violent passions when, as Leroux once observed, he looked like the yellow dwarf in a rage. Cuthbert had heard of him from Terrier, who said that Goudé had the reputation of being by far the best master in Paris. He had presented himself to him as soon as he arrived there; his reception had not been favorable.

"It is useless, Monsieur," the master had said, abruptly, "there are two objections. In the first place you are too old, in the second place you are a foreigner, and I do not care to teach foreigners. I never had but one here, and I do not want another. He was a Scotchman, and because I told him one day when he had produced an atrocious daub, that he was an imbecile pig, he seized me and shook me till my teeth chattered in my head, and then kicked over the easel and went out."

"You may call me an imbecile pig if you like," Cuthbert said with his quiet smile, "it would hurt me in no way. I have come over to learn, and I am told you are the best master in Paris. When a man is a great master he must be permitted to have his peculiarities, and if he likes to treat grown-up men as children, of course he can do so, for are we not children in art by his side."

Monsieur Goudé was mollified, but he did not show it.

"Have you brought any canvases with you?"

"I have brought the last two things I did before leaving London."

"Well, you can bring them if you like," the master said, ungraciously, "but I warn you it will be useless. You English cannot paint, even the best of you. You have no soul, you are monotonous, but you may bring them."

An hour later Cuthbert returned to the studio, which was now occupied by the students.

"You are prompt," the master said, looking round from the student whose work he was correcting with no small amount of grumbling and objurgation. "Put your things on those two spare easels, I will look at them presently."

Seeing that several of the other students were smoking, Cuthbert filled and lighted his pipe, calmly placed the pictures on the easels without taking off the cloths in which they were wrapped, and then put his hands into the pockets of his velvet jacket and looked round the room. After his experience of some of the luxuriously arranged studios at St. John's Wood, the room looked bare and desolate. There was no carpet and not a single chair or lounge of any description. Some fifteen young fellows were painting. All wore workmen's blouses. All had mustaches, and most of them had long hair. They appeared intent on their work, but smiles and winks were furtively exchanged, and the careless nonchalance of this tall young Englishman evidently amused them. In four or five minutes M. Goudé turned round and walked towards the easels. Cuthbert stepped to them and removed the cloths. The master stopped abruptly, looked at them without speaking for a minute or two, then walked up and closely examined them.

"They are entirely your own work?" he asked.

"Certainly, I did not show either of them to my master until I had finished them."

They were companion pictures. The one was a girl standing in a veranda covered with a grapevine, through which bright rays of sunshine shone, one of them falling full on her face. She was evidently listening, and there was a look of joyous expectancy in her face. Underneath, on the margin of the canvas, was written in charcoal, "Hope." The other represented the same figure, darkly dressed, with a wan, hopeless look in her face, standing on a rock at the edge of an angry sea, over which she was gazing; while the sky overhead was dark and sombre without a rift in the hurrying clouds. It was labelled "Despair."

For two or three minutes longer M. Goudé looked silently at the pictures and then turning suddenly called out, "Attention, gentlemen. Regard these pictures, they are the work of this gentleman who desires to enter my studio. In the eight years I have been teaching I have had over two hundred canvases submitted to me, but not one like these. I need not say that I shall be glad to receive him. He has been well taught. His technique is good and he has genius. Gentlemen, I have the honor to present to you Monsieur Cuthbert Hartington, who is henceforth one of you."

The students crowded round the pictures with exclamations of surprise and admiration. It was not until M. Goudé said sharply "to work," that they returned to their easels.

"You will find canvases in that cupboard if you like to set at work at once. Choose your own size and subject and sketch it out in chalk. I should like to see how you work. Ah, you have a portfolio. I will look through your sketches this afternoon if you will leave it here."

Cuthbert chose a canvas from a pile ready stretched, selected a sketch from his portfolio of a wayside inn in Normandy, pinned it on the easel above the canvas, and then began to work. M. Goudé did not come near him until the work was finished for the morning, then he examined what he had just done.

"You work rapidly," he said, "and your eye is good. You preserve the exact proportions of the sketch, which is excellent, though it was evidently done hastily, and unless I mistake was taken before you had begun really to paint. You did not know how to use color, though the effect is surprisingly good, considering your want of method at the time. I will look through your portfolio while I am having my lunch. In an hour we resume work." So saying he took up the portfolio and left the room. The students now came up to Cuthbert and introduced themselves one by one.

"You see our master in his best mood to-day," one said. "I never have seen him so gracious, but no wonder. Now we have no ceremony here. I am René, and this is Pierre, and this Jean, and you will be Cuthbert."

"It is our custom in England," Cuthbert said, "that a new boy always pays his footing; so gentlemen, I hope you will sup with me this evening. I am a stranger and know nothing of Paris; at any rate nothing of your quarter, so I must ask two of you to act as a committee with me, and to tell me where we can get a good supper and enjoy ourselves."

From that time Cuthbert had been one of the brotherhood and shared in all their amusements, entering into them with a gayety and heartiness that charmed them and caused them to exclaim frequently that he could not be an Englishman, and that his accent was but assumed. Arnold Dampierre had been admitted two months later. He had, the master said, distinct talent, but his work was fitful and uncertain. Some days he would work earnestly and steadily, but more often he was listless and indolent, exciting M. Goudé's wrath to fever heat.

Among the students he was by no means a favorite. He did not seem to understand a joke, and several times blazed out so passionately that Cuthbert had much trouble in soothing matters down, explaining to the angry students that Dampierre was of hot southern blood and that his words must not be taken seriously. Americans, he said, especially in the south, had no idea of what the English call chaff, and he begged them as a personal favor to abstain from joking with him, or it would only lead to trouble in the studio.



Chapter V.


There was no more talk after the master had given the order for work. Most of the easels were shifted round and fresh positions taken up, then there was a little pause.

"She is late," M. Goudé said, with an impatient stamp of the foot. The words were scarcely out of his mouth when the door opened and a girl entered.

"Good-morning, messieurs," and she made a sweeping courtesy.

"You are five minutes late, Minette."

"Ma foi, master, what would you have with the Prussians in sight and all Paris in the streets -- five minutes mean neither here nor there. I expected praise for having come at all."

"There, there," the artist said hastily, "run into your closet and change, we are all waiting."

She walked across the room to a door in the corner, with an expression of careless defiance in her face, and reappeared in five minutes in the dress of a Mexican peasant girl attired for a fête. The dress suited her admirably. She was rather above the middle height, her figure lithe and supple with exceptionally graceful curves; her head was admirably poised on her neck. Her hair was very dark, and her complexion Spanish rather than French. Her father was from Marseilles and her mother from Arles.

Minette was considered the best model in Paris, and M. Goudé had the merit of having discovered her. Three years before, when passing through a street inhabited by the poorer class of workmen in Montmartre, he had seen her leaning carelessly against a doorway. He was struck with the easy grace of her pose. He walked up the street and then returned. As he did so he saw her spring out and encounter an older woman, and at once enter upon a fierce altercation with her. It was carried on with all the accompaniment of southern gesture and ceased as suddenly as it began; the girl, with a gesture of scorn and contempt turning and walking back to the post she had left with a mien as haughty as that of a Queen dismissing an insolent subject.

"That girl would be worth a fortune as a model," the artist muttered. "I must secure her; her action and gesture are superb." He walked up to her, lifted his broad hat, and said "Mademoiselle, I am an artist. My name is Goudé. I have an academy for painting, and I need a model. The work is not hard, it is but to sit or stand for two or three hours of a morning, and the remuneration I should offer would be five francs a day for this. Have I your permission to speak to your parents?"

There was an angry glitter in her eye -- a change in her pose that, slight as it was, reminded the artist of a cat about to spring.

"A model for a painter, monsieur? Is it that you dare to propose that I shall sit without clothes to be stared at by young men? I have heard of such things. Is this what monsieur wishes?"

"Not at all, not at all," Mr. Goudé said hastily. "Mademoiselle would always be dressed. She would be sometimes a Roman lady, sometimes a Spanish peasant, a Moorish girl, a Breton, or other maiden. You would always be free to refuse any costume that you considered unsuitable."

Her expression changed again. "If that is all, I might do it," she said; "it is an easy way of earning money. How often would you want me?"

"I should say three times a week, and on the other three days you would have no difficulty in obtaining similar work among artists of my own acquaintance. Here is my card and address."

The girl took it carelessly.

"I will speak to my father about it this evening when he comes home from work. You are quite sure that I shall not have to undress at all?"

"I have assured mademoiselle already that nothing of the sort will be required of her. There are models indeed who pose for figure, but these are a class apart, and I can assure mademoiselle that her feelings of delicacy will be absolutely respected."

The next day Minette Dufaure appeared at the studio and had ever since sat for all the female figures required. The air of disdain and defiance she had first shown soon passed away, and she entered with zest and eagerness upon her work. She delighted in being prettily and becomingly dressed. She listened intelligently to the master's descriptions of the characters that she was to assume, and delighted him with the readiness with which she assumed suitable poses, and the steadiness with which she maintained them.

There was nothing of the stiffness of the model in her attitudes. They had the charm of being unstudied and natural, and whether as a bacchanal, a peasant girl, or a Gaulish amazon, she looked the part equally well; her face was singularly mobile, and although this was an inferior consideration to the master, she never failed to represent the expression appropriate to the character she assumed.

Her reputation was soon established among the artists who occasionally dropped into Goudé's studio, and her spare time was fully occupied, and that at much higher rates of pay than those she earned with him. After the first two or three months she came but twice a week there, as that amply sufficed for the needs of the studio. On his telling her that he should no longer require her to come three times a week, as his pupils had other things to learn besides drawing the female figure, the master said -- 

"I must pay you higher in future, Minette. I know that my friends are paying you five francs an hour."

"A bargain is a bargain," she said. "You came to me first, and but for you I should never have earned a penny. Now we have moved into a better street and have comfortable lodgings. We have everything we want, and I am laying by money fast. You have always treated me well, and I like you though your temper is even worse than my father's. I shall keep to my agreement as long as you keep to yours, and if you do not I shall not come here at all."

With the students Minette was a great favorite. In the pause of five minutes every half-hour to allow her to change her position, she chatted and laughed with them with the frankest good temper, more than holding her own in the sallies of chaff. When they occasionally made excursions in a body into the country to sketch and paint, she was always of the party, going in the capacity of comrade instead of that of a model, contributing a full share to the lunch basket, but ready to pose as a peasant girl with a fagot on her head, a gleaner, or a country-woman with a baby on her lap, according to the scene and requirements. It was a matter of course that Minette should be present at every supper party or little fête among the students, always being placed in the seat of honor at the head of the table, and joining in all the fun of those merry reunions. For a time she treated all alike as comrades, and accepted no compliments save those so extravagant as to provoke general laughter. Gradually, however, it came to be understood among the students that Minette made an exception in the case of Arnold Dampierre, and that on occasions when they happened to break up in pairs he was generally by her side.

"One never can tell what women will do," René Caillard said one evening, when five or six of them were sitting smoking together. "Now, Minette might have the pick of us."

"No, no, René," one of the others protested, "most of us are suited already."

"Well, several of us, then. I am at present unattached, and so are André, and Pierre, and Jean; so is Cuthbert. Now, putting us aside, no woman in her senses could hesitate between the Englishman and Dampierre. He has a better figure, is stronger and better looking. He is cleverer, and is as good-tempered as the American is bad; and yet she takes a fancy for Dampierre, and treats all the rest of us, including the Englishman, as if we were boys."

"I fancy women like deference," Pierre Leroux said. "She is a good comrade with us all, she laughs and jokes with us as if she were one of ourselves. Now the American very seldom laughs and never jokes. He treats her as if she were a duchess and takes her altogether seriously. I believe he would be capable of marrying her."

The others all burst into a laugh.

"What are you laughing at?" Cuthbert asked, as he entered the room at the moment.

"Pierre is just saying that he thinks the American is capable of marrying Minette."

"I hope not," Cuthbert said, more seriously than he generally spoke. "Minette is altogether charming as she is. She is full of fun and life; she is clever and sparkling. There is no doubt that in her style she is very pretty. As to her grace it needs no saying. I think she is an honest good girl, but the idea of marrying her would frighten me. We see the surface and it is a very pleasant one, but it is only the surface. Do you think a woman could look as she does in some of her poses and not feel it? We have never seen her in a passion, but if she got into one, it would be terrible. When she flashes out sometimes it is like a tongue of flame from a slumbering volcano. You would feel that there might be an eruption that would sweep everything before it. As you know, I gave up painting her after the first two months, but I sketch her in every pose; not always her whole figure, but her face, and keep the sketches for use some day. I was looking through them only yesterday and I said to myself, 'this woman is capable of anything.' She might be a Joan of Arc, or Lucraetzia Borghia. She is a puzzle to me altogether. Put her in a quiet, happy home and she might turn out one of the best of women. Let her be thrown into turbulent times and she might become a demon of mischief. At present she is altogether undeveloped. She is two and twenty in years, but a child, or rather a piquant, amusing young girl, in manner, and perhaps in disposition. She is an enigma of which I should be sorry to have to undertake the solution. As she seems, I like her immensely, but when I try to fathom what she really is, she frightens me."

The others laughed.

"Poor little Minette," Pierre Leroux said. "You are too hard upon her altogether, Cuthbert. The girl is a born actress and would make her fortune on the stage. She can represent, by the instinct of art, passions which she has never felt. She can be simple and majestic, a laughing girl and a furious woman, a Christian martyr and a bacchanal, simply because she has mobile features, intelligence, sentiment, emotion, and a woman's instinct, that is all. She is a jolly little girl, and the only fault I have to find with her is that she has the bad taste to prefer that gloomy American to me."

"Well, I hope you are right, Pierre, though I hold my own opinion unchanged -- at any rate I sincerely trust that Dampierre will not make a fool of himself with her. You men do not like him because you don't understand him. You are gay and light-hearted, you take life as it comes. You form connections easily and lightly, and break them off again a few months later just as easily. Dampierre takes life earnestly. He is indolent, but that is a matter of race and blood. He would not do a dishonorable action to save his life. I believe he is the heir to a large fortune, and he can, therefore, afford to work at his art in a dilettante sort of manner, and not like us poor beggars who look forward to earning our livelihood by it. He is passionate, I grant, but that is the effect of his bringing up on a plantation in Louisiana, surrounded by his father's slaves, for though they are now free by law the nature of the negro is unchanged, and servitude is his natural position. The little white master is treated like a god, every whim is humored, and there being no restraining hand upon him, it would be strange if he did not become hasty and somewhat arrogant.

"Not that there is any arrogance about Dampierre -- he is unaffected and simple in his tastes, except in the matter of his lodgings. I question if there is one of us who spends less than he does, but he no more understands you than you understand him; he takes your badinage seriously, and cannot understand that it is harmless fun. However, he is better in that respect than when he first came over, and in time, no doubt, his touchiness will die out. God forbid that he should ever spoil his life by such a hideous mistake as marrying Minette. Except on the principle that people are always attracted by their opposites, I can't account for his infatuation for this girl, or for her taking up with him. He has never alluded to the subject to me. I don't know that her name has ever been mentioned between us. I agree with you that I think he is in earnest about her, but my conclusion is certainly not formed on anything he has ever said himself. I have often thought that a good deal of his irritability arises from his annoyance at her fun and easy way with us all. He never comes to any of our little meetings. If he is really in earnest about her, I can understand that it would be a terrible annoyance to him to see her taking a lead in such meetings and associating so freely with your, let us say, temporary wives. I have seen him on some of our sketching excursions walk away, unable to contain his anger when you have all been laughing and joking with her."

"I consider that to be an insolence," René said hotly.

"No, no, René, imagine yourself five years older, and making a fortune rapidly by your art, in love with some girl whom you hope to make your wife. I ask you whether you would like to see her laughing and chatting en bonne camarade with a lot of wild young students. Still less, if you can imagine such a thing, joining heart and soul in the fun of one of their supper parties. You would not like it, would you?"

"No," René admitted frankly. "I own I shouldn't. Of course, I cannot even fancy such a thing occurring, but if it did I can answer for it that I should not be able to keep my temper. I think now that you put it so, we shall be able to make more allowances for the American in future."

To this the others all agreed, and henceforth the tension that had not unfrequently existed between Dampierre and his fellow-students was sensibly relaxed.

"You were not here last week, Minette," M. Goudé said, as he went up on to the platform at the end of the room to arrange her pose.

"I did not think that you would expect me, master," she said, "but even if you had I could not have come. Do you think that one could stand still like a statue for hours when great things were being done, when the people were getting their liberty again, and the flag of the despot was being pulled down from the Tuileries. I have blood in my veins, master, not ice."

"Bah!" M. Goudé exclaimed. "What difference does it make to you, or to anyone as far as I see, whether the taxes are levied in the name of an Emperor or of a Republic? Do you think a Republic is going to feed you any better and reduce your rents, or to permit Belleville and Montmartre to become masters of Paris? In a short time they will grumble at the Republic just as they grumble at the Emperor. It is folly and madness. The Emperor is nothing to me, the Government is nothing to me. I have to pay my taxes -- they are necessary -- for the army has to be kept up and the Government paid; beyond that I do not care a puff of my pipe what Government may call itself."

"You will see what you will see," said the girl, sententiously.

"I dare say, Minette, as long as I have eyes I shall do that. Now don't waste any more time."

"What am I to be, master?"

"A Spanish peasant girl dancing; hold these slips of wood in your hand, they are supposed to be castanets; now just imagine that music is playing and that you are keeping time to it with them, and swaying your body, rather than moving your feet to the music."

After two or three changes she struck an attitude that satisfied the master.

"That will do, Minette, stand as you are; you cannot improve that. Now, gentlemen, to work."

She was standing with one foot advanced, as if in the act of springing on to it; one of her arms was held above her head, the other advanced across her body; her head was thrown back, and her balance perfect.

Cuthbert looked up from his work, took out a note-book, and rapidly sketched the figure; and then, putting his book into his pocket again, returned to his work, the subject of which was a party of Breton mobiles, with stacked arms under some trees in the Champs Elysée. He had taken the sketch two days before and was now transferring it on to canvas.

"I should not be surprised," he thought to himself, "if the girl is right, and if there is not serious trouble brewing in the slums of Paris.

"As soon as these fellows find out that they are no better off for the change, and that a Republic does not mean beer and skittles, or, as they would like, unlimited absinthe and public workshops, with short hours and high pay, they will begin to get savage, and then there will be trouble. The worst of it is one can never rely upon the troops, and discipline is certainly more relaxed than usual now that the Emperor has been upset, and every Jack thinks himself as good as his master. Altogether I think we are likely to have lively times here before long. I am not sure that the enemies within are not likely to prove as great a danger to Paris as the foe without. It was a happy idea of mine to come to Paris, and I am likely to get subjects enough to last for a life-time, though I don't know that battle scenes are altogether in my line. It does not seem to me that I have any line in particular yet. It is a nuisance having to decide on that, because I have heard Wilson say an artist, like a writer, must have a line, and when he has once taken it up he must stick to it. If a man once paints sea pieces the public look to get sea pieces from him, and won't take anything else. It is the same thing if he accustoms them to Eastern, or Spanish, or any other line.

"It maybe that this war will decide the matter for me, which will be a comfort and relief, though I doubt if I shall ever be able to stick in one groove. Goudé said only yesterday that I had better go on working at both figure and landscape. At present he could not give an opinion as to which I was likely to succeed in best, but that he rather fancied that scenes of life and action, combined with good backgrounds, were my forte, and battle scenes would certainly seem to come under that category."

After work was over Cuthbert went out by himself and spent the afternoon in sketching. He was engaged on a group of soldiers listening to one of their number reading a bulletin of the latest news, when his eye fell on a young lady walking with a brisk step towards him. He started, then closed his note-book suddenly, and as she was on the point of passing, turned to her and held out his hand.

"Have you dropped from the skies, Miss Brander?"

There was surprise, but neither embarrassment nor emotion on her face as she said, frankly -- 

"Why, Cuthbert Hartington, this is a curious meeting. I did know you were in Paris, for I had heard as much from my father, but I had no idea of your address and I have wondered many times since I came here, five weeks ago, whether we should run against each other. No, I have not dropped from the clouds, and you ought to have known I should be here; I told you that I was going to have a year in Germany and then a year in France. My year in Germany was up two months ago. I went home for a fortnight, and here I am as a matter of course."

"I might have known you would carry out your programme exactly as you had sketched it, but I thought that the disturbed state of things over here might have induced you to defer that part of the plan until a more appropriate season. Surely Paris is not just at present a pleasant abode for a young lady, and is likely to be a much more unpleasant one later on."

"I think there could hardly be a more appropriate time for being here, Mr. Hartington; one could have no better time for studying social problems than the present when conventionalities have gone to the winds and one sees people as they are; but this is hardly the place to talk. I am boarding with a family at No. 15 Avenue de Passy. Will you come and see me there?"

"Certainly I will, if you will allow me. What will be a convenient time?"

"I should say three o'clock in the afternoon. They are all out then, except Madame Michaud and her little daughter, and we shall be able to chat comfortably, which we could not do if you came in the evening, when the father is at home and two boys who are away at school during the day. Will you come to-morrow?"

"Yes, my afternoons are free at present."

She held out her hand and then walked away with a steady business-like step. Cuthbert stood watching her till she had disappeared in the crowd.

"She has no more sentiment in her composition at present," he said to himself with a laugh that had some bitterness in it, "than a nether millstone. Her mind is so wrapped up in this confounded fad of hers that there is no room in it for anything else. I might have been a cousin, instead of a man she had refused, for any embarrassment or awkwardness she felt at our sudden meeting. It clearly made no impression at all upon her. She remembers, of course, that she met me at Newquay. I don't suppose she has really forgotten that I asked her to be my wife, but it was a mere incident, and affected her no more than if I had asked her to buy a picture and she had refused. I wish to goodness I had not met her again. I had got fairly over it, and was even beginning to wonder how I ever could have wanted to marry anyone so different in every way from the sort of woman I fancied I should have fallen in love with. How foolish of her coming over to Paris at this time. Well, I daresay it has all saved a lot of trouble. I suppose at that time Brander would have been delighted at the prospect, but it would have been a very different thing after the failure of the bank. I don't think he would have made a pleasant father-in-law under the present circumstances. He is an old fox. I always thought so, and I think so more than ever now. It has been a queer affair altogether. I wonder what Mary thinks of it all. I suppose she will talk to me about it to-morrow afternoon. By the way, I have to go this evening with René and the others to be sworn in or attested, or whatever they call it, at the Mairie. Their report as to the officers is satisfactory. I have heard that Longfranc was an excellent officer before he came into some money, cut the army and took up art. I have no doubt he will make a good major, and he understands the men better than most army men would do. They say the Colonel is a good man, too, and was very popular with his regiment before he retired from the service."



Chapter VI.


On inquiry of the concierge at No. 15 Avenue de Passy, Cuthbert was informed that Madame Michaud lived on the third floor. On ascending and ringing the bell the door was opened by an elderly servant.

"I have called to see Mademoiselle Brander, is she at home?"

"She is, sir."

"Would you give her my card, if you please?"

"Mademoiselle is expecting you," the servant said, and led the way at once into a sitting-room.

It was of the usual type of such room -- of good size but bare, with bee's-waxed flooring, plainly frescoed walls, and a ceiling colored gray and bordered with painted arabesques. Two or three small rugs relieved the bareness of the floor. An oval table on very thin legs stood in the middle; the chairs and couch seemed to have been made to match it, and had an eminently bare and uncomfortable appearance; a vase of flowers stood on a spindle-legged little table in front of one of the windows which opened down to the ground. Some colored prints in frames of stained wood hung on the walls, and some skimpy curtains draped the windows.

Mary Brander was seated with a writing-pad on her knee at the window unoccupied by the vase and its support. She put the writing-pad and a book, evidently a large diary, down on the floor.

"You are punctual to the minute, Mr. Hartington. I should never have credited you with that virtue."

"Nor with any other virtue, I imagine, Miss Brander," he said, with a smile.

"Oh, yes, I do. I credit you with numbers of them. Now draw that chair up to the window -- it is not comfortable, but it is the best of them -- and let us talk. Now, in the first place you don't know how sorry, how dreadfully sorry I have been about what has happened at home. I was shocked, indeed, at the news of the sudden death of your dear father. He was always so kind when he came to see us, and I liked him so much, I felt for you deeply. It must have been an awful shock for you. I heard it a few days after I got to Dresden. Then came the other news about that terrible failure and its consequences. It seemed too shocking altogether that you should have lost the dear old place, but I do think I was most shocked of all when I heard that my father had bought it. Somehow it did not seem to be right. Of course it must have been, but it did not seem so to me. Did it to you, Cuthbert?" and she looked at him wistfully.

"I have no doubt it was all right," he said, "and as it was to be sold, I think I preferred it should be to your father rather than anybody else. I believe I rather liked the thought that as it was not to be my home it would be yours."

She shook her head.

"It does not seem to me to be natural at all, and I was miserable all the time I was there the other day."

"Your father respected my wishes in all respects, Mary. I believe he kept on all the old servants who chose to stay. He promised me that he would not sell my father's hunters, and that no one should ride them, but that they should be pensioners as long as they lived; and the same with the dogs, and that at any time, if I moved into quarters where I could keep a dog or two, he would send up my two favorites to me."

"Yes, they are all there. I went out and gave cakes to the dogs and sugar to the horses every day, and talked to them, and I think regularly had a cry over them. It was very foolish, but I could not help it. It did all seem so wrong and so pitiful. I could not learn much about you from father. He said that you had only written once to him on business since things were finally settled; but that you had mentioned that you were going to Paris, and he said, too -- " and she hesitated for a moment, "that although you had lost Fairclose and all the property, you had enough to live upon in a way -- a very poor way -- but still enough for that."

"Not such a very poor way," he said. "There is no secret about it. I had five thousand pounds that had been settled on my mother, and fortunately that was not affected by the smash, so I have two hundred a year, which is amply sufficient for my wants."

"It is enough, of course, to live upon in a way, Cuthbert, but so different from what you were accustomed to."

"I don't suppose you spend two hundred a year," he said, with a smile.

"Oh, no, but a woman is so different. That is just what I have, and of course I don't spend anything like all of it; but as I said, it is so different with you, who have been accustomed to spend ever so much more."

"I don't find myself in any way pinched. I can assure you my lodgings in the Quartier Latin are not what you would call sumptuous, but they are comfortable enough, and they do not stand me in a quarter of what I paid for my chambers in London. I can dine sumptuously on a franc and a half. Another franc covers my breakfast, which is generally café au lait and two eggs; another franc suffices for supper. So you see that my necessaries of life, including lodgings and fuel, do not come to anything like half my income, and I can spend the rest in riotous living if I choose."

The girl looked at him earnestly.

"You are not growing cynical, I hope, Cuthbert?"

"I hope not. I am certainly not conscious of it. I don't look cynical, do I?"

"No," she said, doubtfully. "I do not see any change in you, but what do you do with yourself?"

"I paint," he said.

"Really!"

"Really and truly, I have become what you wanted me to become, a very earnest person indeed, and some day people may even take to buying my pictures."

"I never quite know when you are in earnest, Cuthbert; but if it is true it is very good news. Do you mean that you are really studying?"

"I am indeed. I work at the studio of one M. Goudé, and if you choose to inquire, you will find he is perhaps the best master in Paris. I am afraid the Prussians are going to interrupt my studies a good deal. This has made me angry and I have enlisted -- that is to say, been sworn in as a member of the Chasseurs des Ecoles, which most of the students at Goudé's have joined."

"What! You are going to fight against the Germans!" she exclaimed, indignantly. "You never can mean it, Cuthbert."

"I mean it, I can assure you," he said, amused at her indignation. "I suppose you are almost Germanized, and regard their war against the French as a just and holy cause."

"Certainly I do," she said, "though of course, I should not say so here. I am in France and living in a French family, and naturally I would say nothing that would hurt the feelings of the people round me, but there can be no doubt that the French deserve all the misfortunes that have fallen upon them. They would have invaded Germany, and all these poor young Germans have been torn away from their friends and families to fight."

"So have these young Frenchmen. To my mind the war was deliberately forced upon France, but I think we had better agree to differ on this subject. You have been among Germans and it is not unnatural that you should have accepted their version. I have been living among Frenchmen, and although I do not say that it would not have been much wiser if they had avoided falling into the pit dug for them, my sympathies are wholly with them, except in this outburst of folly that has resulted in the establishment, for a time at any rate, of a Republic. Now, I have no sympathy whatever with Republics, still less for a Republic controlled by political adventurers, and like many Frenchmen I am going to fight for France, and in no way for the Republic. At any rate let us agree to avoid the subject altogether. We shall never convince each other however much we might argue it over."

The girl was silent for two or three minutes, and then said -- 

"Well, we will agree not to quarrel over it. I don't know how it is that we always see things so differently, Cuthbert. However, we may talk about your doings without arguing over the cause. Of course you do not suppose there will be much fighting -- a week or two will see the end of it all."

"Again we differ," he said. "I believe that there will be some sharp fighting, and I believe that Paris will hold out for months."

She looked at him incredulously.

"I should have thought," she said, after a pause, "you were the last person who would take this noisy shouting mob seriously."

"I don't think anything of the mob one way or the other," he said. "I despise them utterly; but the troops and the mobiles are sufficient to man the forts and the walls, and I believe that middle-class corps, like the one I have entered, will fight manfully; and the history of Paris has shown over and over again that the mob of Paris, fickle, vain-headed, noisy braggadocios as they are, and always have been, can at least starve well. They held out against Henry of Navarre till numbers dropped dead in the streets, and until the Spaniards came at last from the Netherlands and raised the siege, and I believe they will hold out now. They have courage enough, as has been shown over and over again at the barricades, but they will be useless for fighting because they will submit to no discipline. Still, as I said, they can starve, and it will be a long time indeed before the suffering will become intense enough to drive them to surrender. I fear that you have altogether underrated the gravity of the situation, and that you will have very severe privations to go through before the siege is over."

"I suppose I can stand it as well as others," she laughed, "but I think you are altogether wrong. However, if it should come it will be very interesting."

"Very," he said, shortly, "but I doubt if you will see it quite in the same light when it comes to eating rats."

"I should not eat them," she said, decidedly.

"Well, when it comes to that or nothing, I own that I myself shall eat rats if I can get them. I have heard that the country rat, the fellow that lives in ricks, is by no means bad eating, but I own to having a doubt as to the Paris rat."

"It is disgusting to think of such a thing," she said, indignantly, "the idea is altogether ridiculous."

"I do not know whether you consider that betting is among the things that woman has as much right to do as man; but if you do, I am ready to wager it will come to rats before Paris surrenders."

"I never made a bet in my life," she said, "but I will wager five francs with you that there will be nothing of the sort. I do not say that rats may not be eaten in the poor quarters. I do not know what they eat there. I hear they eat horse-flesh, and for anything I know they may eat rats; but I will wager that rats will never be openly sold as an article of food before Paris surrenders."

"It is a bet," he said, "and I will book it at once," and he gravely took out a pocket-book and made an entry. "And now," he said, as he replaced the book in his pocket, "how do you pass your time?"

"I spend some hours every day at the Bibliothêque. Then I take a walk in this quarter and all round the Boulevards. One can walk just as freely there as one could in Germany, but I find that I cannot venture off them into the poorer quarters; the people stare, and it is not pleasant."

"I certainly should not recommend you to make experiments that way. In the great thoroughfares a lady walking by herself passes unnoticed, especially if she looks English or American. They are coming to understand that young women in those countries are permitted an amount of freedom that is shocking to the French mind, but the idea has not permeated to the lower strata of society.

"If you are really desirous of investigating the ways of the female population of the poorer quarters, I shall be happy to escort you whenever you like, but I do not think you will be altogether gratified with the result of your researches, and I think that you would obtain a much closer insight into French lower class life by studying Balzac and some of the modern writers -- they are not always savory, but at least they are realistic."

"Balzac is terrible," she said, "and some of the others I have read a little of are detestable. I don't think you can be serious in advising me to read them."

"I certainly should not advise you to read any of them, Miss Brander, if you were a young lady of the ordinary type; but as you take up the cause of woman in general it is distinctly necessary that you should study all the phases of female life. How else can you grapple with the question?"

"You are laughing at me again, Mr. Hartington," she said, somewhat indignantly.

"I can assure you that I am not. If your crusade is in favor only of girls of the upper and middle classes, you are touching but the fringe of the subject, for they are outnumbered by twenty to one by those of other classes, and those in far greater need of higher life than the others."

"It seems rather hopeless," Mary Brander said, despondently, after a pause, "one is so unable to influence them."

"Exactly so. You are setting yourself to move a mountain. When the time comes there may be an upheaval, and the mountain may move of its own accord; but the efforts of a thousand or ten thousand women as earnest as yourself would be no more use in proportion, than those of a colony of ants working to level the mountain."

"Don't discourage me, Cuthbert," she said, pitifully. "I do believe with all my heart in my principles, but I do often feel discouraged. The task seems to grow larger and more difficult the more I see of it, and I own that living a year among German women was rather crushing to me."

"That I can quite understand," he said, with a smile, "the average German woman differs as widely in her ideas -- I do not say aspirations, for she has none -- from your little group of theorists at Girton as the poles are apart."

"But do not think," she replied, rallying, "that I am in the least shaken because I see that the difficulty is greater than I have looked for. Your simile of ants is not correct. Great things can be done by individuals. Voltaire and Rousseau revolutionized French thought from the top to the bottom. Why should not a great woman some day rise and exercise as great influence over her sex as these two Frenchmen did? But do not let us talk about that any more. I want to hear more about what you are doing. I have thought of you so much during the past year -- it has all seemed so strange and so sad. Are you really working hard -- I mean steadily and regularly?"

"You evidently think that impossible," he laughed, "but I can assure you it is true. If you doubt me I will give you Goudé's address, and if you call upon him and say that you have an interest in me -- you can assign any reason you like, say that you are an aunt of mine and intend to make me your heir -- and beg him to inform you frankly of his opinion of my work and progress, I feel sure that he will give you an account that will satisfy your doubts."

"I don't think I could do that," she said, seriously. "There, you are laughing at me again," she broke off as she looked up at him. "Of course I could not do such a thing, but I should very greatly like to know about you."

"I do think, Miss Brander, I am working hard enough and steady enough to satisfy even you. I did so for six months in England with a fellow named Terrier. He was just the master I wanted. He had not a shadow of imagination, but was up in all the technical details of painting, and in six months' hard work I really learnt to paint; previous to that I knew nothing of painting. I could make a colored sketch, but that was all, now I am on the highway to becoming an artist. Goudé will only receive pupils whom he considers likely to do him credit, and on seeing two of the things I had done after I had been working with Terrier, he accepted me at once. He is a splendid master -- out and away the best in Paris, and is really a great artist himself. He is a peppery little man and will tolerate no nonsense, and I can assure you that he is well satisfied with me. I am going to set to work to do a couple of pictures on my own account for next year's Salon. I should have waited another year before trying my wings, if he had not encouraged me to venture at once, and as he is very much opposed to his pupils painting for exhibition until they are sufficiently advanced to begin with a success, it is proof that he has at least some hopes of me."

"I am glad indeed, Cuthbert. I shan't be quite so sorry now as I have been about your losing Fairclose. It is so much nobler to work than it is to fritter away a life doing nothing. How tiresome it is," she said, "that you have taken this unfortunate idea in your head of joining a French corps. It will unsettle you altogether."

"Really," he broke in with a laugh, "I must protest against being considered so weak and unstable. You had a perfect right in thinking me lazy, but I don't think you have any right in considering me a reed to be shaken by every passing wind. I can assure you that I am very fixed in my resolves. I was content to be lazy before simply because there was no particular reason for my being otherwise, and I admit that constitutionally I may incline that way; but when a cataclysm occurred, and, as I may say, the foundations were shaken, it became necessary for me to work, and I took a resolution to do so, and have stuck to it. Possibly I should have done so in any case. You see when a man is told by a young lady he is a useless idler, who does but cumber the earth, it wakes him up a little."

"I am sure I didn't say that," Mary said, indignantly, but with a hot flush on her cheeks.

"Not in those precise words, but you spoke to that effect, and my conscience told me you were not far wrong in your opinion. I had begun to meditate whether I ought not to turn over a new leaf when I came in suddenly for Fairclose; that of course seemed to knock it all on the head. Then came what we may call the smash. This was so manifestly an interposition of Providence in the direction of my bestirring myself that I took the heroic resolution to work."

Mary felt that it was desirable to avoid continuing the subject. She had long since come to regard that interview in the garden as a sort of temporary aberration on his part, and that although, perhaps, sincere at the moment, he had very speedily come to laugh at his own folly, and had recognized that the idea was altogether ridiculous. Upon her it had made so little impression that it had scarcely occurred to her when they met, that any passage of the sort had taken place, and had welcomed him as the lad she had known as a child, rather than as the man who had, under a passing impulse, asked her to marry him.

"I think," she said suddenly, "I will fetch Madame Michaud in. It will be nice for you to come here in the evening sometimes, and it would be better for her to ask you to do so than for me. These French people have such funny ideas."

"It would certainly be more pleasant," he agreed, "and evening will be the time that I have most leisure -- that is to say, when we do not happen to be on duty, as to which I am very vague at present. They say the sailors will garrison the forts and the army take the outpost duty; but I fancy, when the Germans really surround us, it will be necessary to keep so strong a force outside the walls, that they will have to call out some of us in addition. The arrangement at present is, we are to drill in the morning and we shall paint in the afternoon; so the evening will be the only time when we shall be free."

"What do you do in the evening generally? You must find it very lonely."

"Not at all. I have an American who is in our school, and who lodges in the same house as I do. Then there are the students, a light-hearted, merry set of young fellows. We have little supper-parties and go to each other's rooms to chatter and smoke. Then, occasionally, I drop into the theatre. It is very much like the life I had in London, only a good deal more lively and amusing, and with a great deal less luxury and a very much smaller expenditure; and -- this is very serious I can assure you -- very much worse tobacco."

The girl laughed merrily.

"What will you do about smoking when you are reduced to the extremity you prophesy?"

"That point is, I confess, troubling me seriously. I look forward with very much greater dread to the prospect of having to smoke dried leaves and the sweepings of tobacco warehouses, than I do to the eating of rats. I have been making inquiries of all sorts as to the state of the stock of tobacco, and I intend this evening to invest five pounds in laying in a store; and mean to take up a plank and hide it under the floor, and to maintain the most profound secrecy as to its existence. There is no saying whether, as time goes on, it may not be declared an offence of the gravest character for any one to have a private store of any necessary. If you have any special weaknesses, such as chocolate or tea, or anything of that sort, I should advise you not to lose a moment in laying in a good stock. You will see in another week, when people begin to recognize generally what a siege means, that everything eatable will double in price, and in a month only millionaires will be able to purchase them."

"I really will buy some tea and chocolate," she said.

"Get in a good stock," he said. "Especially of chocolate. I am quite serious, I can assure you. Unfortunately, you have no place for keeping a sheep or two, or a bullock; and bread, at the end of a couple of months, could scarcely be eaten; but, really, I should advise you to invest in a dozen of those big square boxes of biscuits, and a ham or two may come in as a welcome addition some day."

Mary laughed incredulously, but she was much more inclined than before to look at matters seriously, when, on fetching Madame Michaud in, that lady, in the course of conversation, mentioned that her husband had that morning bought three sacks of flour and a hundred tins of preserved meats.

"He is going to get some boxes," she said, "and to have the flour emptied into them, then the baker will bring them round in a cart, so that no one will guess it is flour. He says it is likely that there will be an order issued that everything of that sort is to be given into a public store for general distribution, so it must be brought here quietly. He tells me that every one he knows is doing the same thing. My servant has been out this morning eight times and has been buying eggs. She has brought a hundred each time, and we are putting them in a cask in salt."

"Do you really think all that is necessary, madame?" Mary asked, doubtfully.

"Most certainly I do. They say everything will go up to such prices as never were heard of before. Of course, in a month or two the country will come to our rescue and destroy the Prussians, but till then we have got to live. Already eggs are fetching four times as much as they did last week. It is frightful to think of it, is it not, monsieur?"

"If I were in your place, madame, I would not reckon too surely on relief in a month. I think that there is no doubt that, as you say, there will be a prohibition of anyone keeping provisions of any sort, and everything will be thrown into the public magazines. Likely enough every house will be searched, and you cannot hide your things too carefully."

"But why should they insist on everything being put in public magazines?" Mary asked. "It will not go further that way than if people keep their own stocks and eat them."

"It will be necessary, if for nothing else, to prevent rioting when the pinch comes, and people are starving in the poorer quarters. You may be sure if they have a suspicion that the middle and upper classes have food concealed in their houses, they will break in and sack them. That would only be human nature, and therefore in the interest of order alone a decree forbidding anyone to have private stores would have to be passed; besides it would make the food go much further, for you may be sure that everything will be doled out in the smallest quantities sufficient to keep life together, and before the end of the siege comes each person may only get two or three ounces of bread a day."

Madame Michaud nodded as if prepared to be reduced even to that extremity.

"You are right, monsieur, I am going to get stuff and to make a great number of small bags to hold the flour; then we shall hide it away under the boards in many places, so that if they find some they may not find it all."

"The idea is a good one, madame, but it has its disadvantages. If they find one parcel they will search so closely everywhere that they will find the rest. For that reason one good hiding-place, if you could invent one, would be better than many."

"One does not know what is best to do," Madame Michaud said, with a gesture of tragic despair. "Who could have thought that such a thing could happen to Paris!"

"It is unexpected, certainly," Cuthbert agreed, "but it has been foreseen, otherwise they would never have taken the trouble to build this circle of forts round Paris. They are useful now not only in protecting the city but in covering a wide area, where the cattle and sheep may feed under the protection of the guns. I don't think we are as likely to be as badly off for meat as for bread, for after the flocks and herds are all eaten up there are the horses, and of these there must be tens of thousands in Paris."

"That is a comfort, certainly," the Frenchwoman said, calmly, while Mary Brander made a little gesture of disgust.

"I have never tried horseflesh myself, at least that I know of, but they say it is not so bad; but I cannot think that they will have to kill the horses for food. The country will not wait until we are reduced to that extremity."

"Mr. Hartington has joined one of the regiments of volunteers, Madame Michaud."

"That is good of you, monsieur; my husband is in the National Guard, and they say every one will have to take up a musket; but as you are a foreigner, of course this would not apply to you."

"Well, for the time being I consider myself a Parisian, and as a German shell is just as likely to fall on the roof of the house where I live as on any other, I consider myself to be perfectly justified in doing my best in self-defence."

"I trust that you will call whenever you are disposed in the evening, monsieur," Madame Michaud said, cordially; "it will give my husband pleasure to meet an English gentleman who is voluntarily going to fight in the cause of France."

"Thank you, madame. I shall be very glad to do so. Mademoiselle's father is a very old friend of our family, and I have known her ever since she was a little child. It will be pleasant to me to make the acquaintance of monsieur. And now, Miss Brander, I must be going."



Chapter VII.


As he sauntered back into the city, Cuthbert met an English resident with whom he had some slight acquaintance.

"So you are not among the great army of deserters, Mr. Phipson?"

"No, I thought it better to stay here and see it out. If the Germans come in I shall hang out the English flag and I have no doubt that it will be all right. If I go away the chances are that I should find the place sacked when I return."

"Then, of course, you will keep your place open."

"It will be closed to the public to-morrow -- to the public, mind you. My English customers and friends, if they come to the little door in the Arcade, and give two knocks, and then three little ones with their knuckles on the door, will find it open, and can be served as long as there is any liquor left; but for the last three days I have been clearing out nearly all my stock. The demand has been tremendous, and I was glad enough to get rid of it, for even if the place isn't looted by the mob all the liquors might be seized by the authorities and confiscated for public use. I shall be glad when the doors are closed, I can tell you, for these people are enough to make one sick. The way they talk and brag sets my fingers itching, and I want to ask them to step into the back room, take off their coats, those uniforms they are so proud of, and stand up for a friendly round or two just to try what they are made of.

"I reckon if a chap can't take one on the nose and come up smiling, he would not be worth much when he has to stand up against the Prussians. I thought I understood them pretty well after having been coachman here for over twenty years, but I see now that I was wrong altogether. Of course I knew they were beggars to talk, but I always thought that there was something in it, and that if it came to fighting they would show up pretty well; but to hear them going on now as to what France will do and doing nothing themselves, gives one a sickener. Then the way as they blackguard the Emperor, who wasn't by any means a bad chap, puts my monkey up I can tell you. Why there is not one in fifty of them as is fit to black his boots. He had a good taste in horses too, he had; and when I hear them going on, it is as much as I can do not to slip in to them.

"That is one reason why I am stopping. A week ago I had pretty well made up my mind that I would go, but they made me so mad that I says to myself, I will stop and see it out, if it is only for the pleasure of seeing these fellows get the licking they deserve. I was out yesterday evening. There was every café crowded; there was the singing-places fuller than I ever saw them; there were drunken soldiers, who ought to have been with their regiments outside the walls, reeling about the streets. Any one as seed the place would have put it down that it was a great fête-day. As to the Prussians outside no one seemed to give them a thought. If you went from table to table you heard everyone saying that the Germans would be destroyed, and that every one who talked of peace now was a traitor."

"I quite agree with you," Cuthbert said, "they are most extraordinary people. Still I do think they will fight."

"Well, sir, I don't know whether you have heard the news that they have been licked this morning somewhere out near Clamart. I heard just now that a lot of the linesmen bolted and never stopped running till they got into Paris, but they say the Breton mobiles fought well, though they had to fall back at last."

"The troops are disorganized at present," Cuthbert said; "but when you see what a tremendous thrashing they have had it is hardly to be expected that they should fight with any confidence, but when discipline is restored and they have had a few skirmishes they will be different men altogether. As to the mobiles, they are mere peasants at present, but a month of hard work will turn them into soldiers, and I should say better soldiers than the linesmen; but I am afraid they will never make anything out of the National Guard. The only way to do so will be to establish big camps outside the walls and send them all out there and put strict army men in command, with a regiment of regulars in each camp to carry out their orders. It would be necessary, no doubt, to shoot a few hundred of them before anything like discipline could be established; and once a week the whole should be sent out to attack the Germans so as to teach them to be steady under fire. In that way they might be turned into decent soldiers."

"Lord bless you, sir, Government would never try that. There would be barricades in the streets in no time, and as the soldiers are all outside the walls the mob would upset the Government in a week."

"I am not at all saying it would do, but it is the only thing to make soldiers of them."

"Well, sir, you will know where to come when things get bad. I don't expect there will be any beer to be had, but I have been down with my son Bob into the cellar for the last four nights. I could not trust the French waiters, and we dug holes and have buried a couple of dozen kegs of my best spirits, so if they make a clear sweep of the rest I reckon we shall be able to keep that door open a goodish while."

"I shan't forget, and I hope that your spirits may escape the searchers, but you know just at present we are not popular in Paris. They have got an idea in their heads that we ought to have declared war against the Germans on their behalf; why, Heaven knows, but you may be sure that all the English places will be very strictly searched."

"Yes, I reckon on that, and we have got them twelve feet deep. It will be a job to get them out as we want them, but there won't be anything else to do and it will keep us in health."

Cuthbert had asked all the students to come in and smoke a pipe that evening in his room, and had ordered supper to be sent in.

"I am going to have it there instead of one of the usual places," he said, "because I don't think it is decent to be feasting in a public at a time like this. I expect it is about the last time we shall have anything like a supper. Things will be altogether beyond the reach of our purses in another week. Besides, I hope we shall be outside before long."

Arnold Dampierre was the first to come in.

"I am disgusted with the Parisians," he said, moodily.

"Well, yes, I am not surprised. It is not quite the spirit in which your people entered on their struggle, Dampierre."

"No, we meant it; the struggle with us was to get to the front. Why, do you know, I heard two or three of the National Guard grumbling in the highest state of indignation, and why, do you think? Because they had to sleep in the open air last night. Are these the men to defend a city? There will be trouble before long, Cuthbert. The workmen will not stand it; they have no faith in the Government nor in Trochu, nor in any one."

"Including themselves, I hope," Cuthbert smiled.

"They are in earnest. I have been up at --  -- " and he hesitated, "Montmartre this afternoon, and they are furious there."

"They are fools," Cuthbert said, scornfully, "and no small proportion are knaves besides. They read those foul pamphlets and gloat over the abuse of every decently dressed person. They rave against the Prussians, but it is the Bourgeois they hate. They talk of fighting, while what they want is to sack and plunder."

"Nothing of the kind," the American said, hotly. "They want honesty and purity, and public spirit. They see vice more rampant than it was in the days of the Empire. They see the Bourgeois shirking their duty. They see license and extravagance everywhere."

"It is a pity they don't look at home," Cuthbert laughed good-temperedly. "I have not yet learnt that either purity or honesty, or a sense of duty are conspicuous at Montmartre or Belleville. There is just as much empty vaporing there as there is down the Boulevards. As to courage, they may have a chance presently of showing whether they have more of it than the better class. Personally, I should doubt it." Then he added more seriously, "My dear Dampierre, I can of course guess where you have learnt all this. I know that Minette's father is one of the firebrands of his quarter, and that since she has been earning an income here he has never done a stroke of work, but has taken up the profession of politician. I am not doubting his sincerity. He may be for aught I know perfectly in earnest, but it is his capacity I doubt. These uneducated men are able to see but one side of the question, and that is their own.

"I am not at all blind to the danger. I believe it is possible that we are going to have another red revolution. Your men at Belleville and Montmartre are capable of repeating the worst and most terrible features of that most awful time, but you know what came of it and how it ended. Even now some of these blackguard prints are clamoring for one man to take the supreme control of everything. So far there are no signs of that coming man, but doubtless, in time, another Bonaparte may come to the front and crush down disorder with an iron heel; but that will not be until the need for a saviour of society is evident to all. I hope, my dear fellow, you will not be carried away with these visionary ideas. I can, of course, understand your predilections for a Republic, but between your Republic and the Commune, for which the organs of the mob are already clamoring, there is no shadow of resemblance. They are both founded, it is true, on the will of the majority, but in the States it is the majority of an educated and distinctly law-abiding people -- here it is the majority of men who would set the law at defiance, who desire power simply for the purposes of spoliation."

Dampierre would have replied angrily, but at this moment the door opened and two or three of the other students entered.

"Have you heard about that affair at Clamart," they demanded eagerly. "They say the line behaved shamefully, and that Trochu declares they shall be decimated."

"You may be quite sure that if he said so he will not carry it out," Cuthbert said. "The army has to be kept in a good humor, and at any rate until discipline is fully restored it would be too dangerous a task to venture on punishing cowardice. It is unfortunate certainly, but things will get better in time. You can hardly expect to make the fugitives of a beaten army into heroes all at once. I have not the least doubt that if the Germans made an attack in full force they would meet with very slight resistance; but they won't do that. They will go to work in a regular and steady way. They will erect batteries, commanding every road out of the town, and will then sit down and starve us out, hastening the process, perhaps, by a bombardment. But all that will take time. There will be frequent fighting at the outposts, and if Trochu and the rest of them make the most of the material they have at hand, poor as much of it is, they will be able to turn out an army that should be strong enough to throw itself upon any point in the German line and break its way out; but it must be an army of soldiers, not a force composed of disheartened fugitives and half-drilled citizens."

"The National Guard are drilling earnestly," René Caillard said. "I have been watching them this afternoon, they really made a very good show."

"The father of a family with a comfortable home and a prosperous business can drill as well as the most careless vaurien, René; better, perhaps, for he will take much greater pains; but when it comes to fighting, half a dozen reckless daredevils are worth a hundred of him. I think if I had been Trochu I would have issued an order that every unmarried man in Paris between the ages of sixteen and forty-five should be organized into, you might call it, the active National Guard for continual service outside the walls, while the married men should be reserved for defending the enceinte at the last extremity. The outside force might be but a third of the whole, but they would be worth as much as the whole force together. That is why I think that our corps may distinguish itself. We have none of us wives or families and nothing much to lose, consequently we shall fight well. We shan't mind hardships for we have not been accustomed to luxuries. We are fighting as volunteers and not because the law calls us under arms.

"We are educated and have got too much self-respect to bolt like rabbits. I don't say we may not retire. One can't do impossibilities, and if others don't stand, we can't oppose a Prussian Army Corps. There is one thing you must do, and that is preserve good discipline. There is no discipline at all in the National Guard. I saw a party of them yesterday drilling, and two or three of them quietly marched out of the ranks and remonstrated on terms of the most perfect equality, with their colonel as to an order he had given. The maxim of the Republic may do for civil life, though I have not a shadow of belief either in equality or fraternity; nor have I in liberty when liberty means license; whether that be so or not equality is not consistent with military discipline. An army in which the idea of equality reigns is not an army but a mob, and is no more use for fighting purposes than so many armed peasants. The Shibboleth is always absurd and in a case like the present ruinous. The first duty of a soldier is obedience, absolute and implicit, and a complete surrender of the right of private judgment."

"And you would obey an officer if you were sure that he were wrong, Cuthbert?"

"Certainly I would. I might, if the mistake did not cost me my life, argue the matter out with him afterwards, if, as might happen among us, we were personal acquaintances; but I should at the same time carry out the order, whatever it might be, to the best of my power. And now I propose that for this evening we avoid the subject of the siege altogether. In future, engaged as we are likely to be, we shall hardly be able to avoid it, and moreover the bareness of the table and the emptiness of the wine-cups will be a forcible reminder that it will be impossible to escape it. Did you show Goudé your sketch for your picture for the Salon, René?"

"I did, after you had all gone, and I have not got over the interview yet. His remarks on the design, conception, and the drawing were equally clear and decisive. He more than hinted that I was a hopeless idiot, that the time he had given me was altogether wasted, that I had mistaken my avocation, and that if the Germans knocked me on the head it would be no loss either to myself or to society in general. It is true that after he had finished he cooled down a bit and made a number of suggestions from which I gathered that if the whole thing were altered, my idea of the background altogether changed, the figures differently posed, the effect of light and shade diametrically reversed, and a few other trifling alterations made, the thing might possibly be hung on the top line. Ma foi, I feel altogether crushed, for I had really flattered myself that the sketch was not altogether without merit."

When the laugh had subsided Cuthbert said -- 

"Courage, René, Goudé's bark is always worse than his bite, and I have no doubt he will take a much more favorable view of it as you get on."

"It is all very well for you to say so," René said, ruefully. "You are a spoiled child, Goudé has never a word of reproof for you."

"Probably because he knows very well that I shall not break my heart over it. We must hold a committee of inspection on your work to-morrow; none of us have seen your design yet, and we may be able between us to make some useful suggestion."

"No, no," René exclaimed. "Heaven protect me from that. Do you come, Cuthbert; none of us mind what you say about our pictures. Your criticisms do not hurt. One would no more think of being angry with you for using your knife than with a surgeon for performing an operation."

"Very well, René, I will come round early. I have no doubt your sketch is a very good one on the whole, and after a few little changes it will satisfy even Goudé. By the way, have you heard we are to elect our company officers to-morrow?"

"Will you stand? I am sure you would have all our votes -- that is twenty-five to start with, and as we know most of the fellows in the company we certainly could secure all those who have not any candidate they want to run; besides, there are, of course, to be three officers, so we should be able to traffic votes."

"No officering for me," Cuthbert laughed. "In the first place I have no greater qualifications for the post than anyone else, and in the second place, I am English, and though I might be elected -- thanks to your votes -- I should never be liked or trusted; besides, I have not a shadow of ambition that way. I am going to fight if necessary. I shall have my note-book in my pocket, and I have no doubt that when we are lying waiting for our turn to come, I shall have lots of opportunities for jotting down little bits that will work into the great battle picture which is to have the place of honor some day in the Salon. I think it will certainly be pleasant to have one of our own number among the officers, and I propose that each of us puts down on a slip of paper the name of the man he thinks will make the best leader and throw it into a hat; then, whoever gets the most votes, we will all support, and, as you say, by a little traffic in the votes, we ought to be able to get him in among the three."

"Are you absolutely determined not to stand?"

"Absolutely and positively. So please do not any of you put my name down, two or three votes thrown away like that might alter the decision."

He tore up a sheet of paper into small slips and passed them round.

"Before we begin to write," he said, "let it be understood that no one is to vote for himself. I don't mind telling you who I am going to vote for. It is Henri Vancour. This is a matter in which it should be no question of personal liking. We should choose the man who appears to us best fitted for the post."

The name came as a surprise upon the others, for Henri was one of the last whom it would have occurred to them to choose. Pencils were already in their hands and they were on the point of writing when he spoke, and almost all would have given their votes either for René Caillard or Pierre Leroux, who were the two most popular men among the party. There was a pause for some little time before the pencils went to work.

They had not thought of Henri, but now they did think of him they acknowledged to themselves that there was a good deal to be said in his favor. He was a Norman -- quiet, hard-working, and even-tempered. His voice was seldom heard in the chorus of jokes and laughter, but when asked for an opinion he gave it at once concisely and decidedly. He was of medium height and squarely built. His face was cast in a rough mould and an expression of resolution and earnestness was predominant. He had never joined either in the invective against the Emperor, or in the confident anticipations of glorious successes over the Germans.

He listened but said nothing, and when questioned would reply, "Let us see some one do better than the Emperor before we condemn him. We will hope for the best, but so far predictions have been so wrong that it would be better to wait and see before we blow our trumpets." He had but little genius, this young Norman, but he had perseverance and power.

M. Goudé scolded him less than others with far greater talent, and had once said, "you will never be a great painter, Henri. I doubt if you will ever be in the first line, but you will take a good place in the second. You will turn out your pictures regularly and the work will always be good and solid. You may not win any great prizes, but your work will be esteemed, and in the end you will score as heavily as some of those who possess real genius."

Yes, Henri was, they all felt, now they thought it over, one they could rely upon. He would not lose his head, he would be calm in danger, as he was calm at all other times, and he certainly would show no lack of courage. Accordingly when the papers were opened he was found to have received a considerable majority of the votes.

"Thank you for choosing me, comrades," he said, quietly. "I can only say that if elected I will do my best. A man can't say more than that. Why you should have fixed upon me I cannot think, but that is your business. I think I can promise at any rate that I won't run away."

When the Franc-tireurs des Ecoles assembled the next morning, half an hour was given for consultation; then the vote was taken, and Henri Vancour was declared elected first Lieutenant of the company composed entirely of the art students, the Captain being François des Valles, who belonged to an old provincial family, a tall, dark, handsome young man, extremely popular among his comrades.

"I think he will do very well," Cuthbert said, as the company fell in. "There is no fear of his leaving us when under fire; his failing, if he has one, will be that he may want to keep us there too long. It is quite as necessary when you are fighting by the side of fellows who are not to be relied on, to know when to retreat as it is to know when to advance."

This was their first parade in uniform. This had been decided upon at the first meeting held to settle the constitution of the corps, and a quiet gray had been chosen which looked neat and workmanlike by the side of many of the picturesque but inappropriate costumes, selected by the majority of the Franc-tireurs. They had already had three days' drill and had learned to form from line into column and from column into line, to advance as skirmishers and to rally on the centres of the companies. They now marched out through the gates and were first taught to load the chassepots which had been bought by a general subscription in the schools, and then spent the morning in practising, and skirmishing, and advancing and retreating in alternate files.

When they were formed up again the old colonel said, "You are getting on well, men. Two more mornings' work and we will go out and complete our lessons in the face of the enemy."

When dismissed at the end of the third day, they were told to bring next morning, the gray greatcoats and blankets that formed part of their uniform. "Let each man bring with him three days' provisions in his bag," the colonel said, "ammunition will be served out to you and you will soon learn how to use it to advantage."



Chapter VIII.


M. Goudé grumbled much when he heard that his whole class were going to be absent for three days.

"A nice interruption to study," he said, "however, you were none of you doing yourselves any good, and you may as well be out in the fields as hanging about the streets gossiping. We can always talk, but during the past six weeks Paris has done nothing but talk. Don't come back with any of your number short. You have all got something in you and are too good for food for Prussian powder."

Cuthbert went that evening to the Michauds, in his uniform, not for the purpose of showing it off, but because men in plain clothes, especially if of fair complexions, were constantly stopped and accused of being German spies, were often ill-treated, and not unfrequently had to pass a night in the cells before they could prove their identity. Mary gave an exclamation of surprise at seeing him so attired, but made no remark until after chatting for half an hour with the Michauds. The husband presently made the excuse that he had to attend a meeting and went off, while madame took up some knitting, settled herself in an easy chair, and prepared for a quiet doze, then Mary said in English -- 

"I have no patience with you, Cuthbert, taking part with these foolish people. The more I see of them the more I get tired of their bombast and their empty talk. Every man expects everyone else to do something and no one does anything."

"They have had nothing to stir them into action yet," he said, "only the regulars and the moblots go outside the wall, and the National Guard are practically useless until the Germans make an assault. Besides, three parts of them are married men with families, and nothing short of their homes being in danger will stir them up to risk their lives. We are going out for three days to the outposts, we fall in at five o'clock to-morrow morning."

"You are going to risk your life," she said, indignantly, "for the Parisians, who have no idea whatever of risking theirs. I call it madness."

"You are going against your own doctrines, Miss Brander. Before you were indignant with me for doing nothing and being in earnest about nothing. Now that I am doing something and that in grim earnest, you are just as indignant as you were before."

"I did not mean this sort of thing," she said.

"No, I don't suppose you contemplated this. But you wanted me to work for work's sake, although as it seemed then there was no occasion for me to work."

"If it had been on the other side I should not have minded."

"Just so," he smiled. "You have become Germanized, I have not. My friends here have all enlisted; I am going with them partly because they are my friends and partly because it is evident the Germans might have well stopped this war before now, but they demand terms that France can never submit to as long as there is the faintest hope of success. You need not be at all anxious about me. We are not going to attack the Prussian positions I can assure you. We are only going out to do a little outpost duty, to learn to hear the bullets flying without ducking, and to fire our rifles without shutting our eyes. I don't suppose there are five men in the three companies who have ever fired a rifle in their lives.

"You see the Franc-tireurs are to a great extent independent of the military authorities -- if you can call men military authorities who exercise next to no authority over their soldiers. The Franc-tireurs come and go as they choose, and a good many of them wear the uniform only as a means of escape from serving, and as a whole they are next to useless. I think our corps will do better things. We are all students of art, law or physic, and a good deal like such volunteer corps as the artists or 'Inns of Court.' Some of the younger professors are in the ranks, and at least we are all of average intelligence and education, so I fancy we shall fight if we get a chance. I don't mean now, but later on when we have gained confidence in ourselves and in our rifles. Just at present the Parisians are disposed to look upon the Germans as bogies, but this will wear off, and as discipline is recovered by the line, and the mobiles grow into soldiers, you will see that things will be very different; and although I don't indulge in any vain fancy that we are going to defeat the German army, I do think that we shall bear ourselves like men and show something of the old French spirit."

"That will be a change, indeed," the girl said, scornfully.

"Yes, it will be a change," he answered, quietly, "but by no means an impossible one. You must not take the vaporings and bombast of the Paris Bourgeois or the ranting of Blanqui and the Belleville roughs as the voice of France. The Germans thought that they were going to take Paris in three days. I doubt if they will take it in three months. If we had provisions I should say they would not take it in treble that time. They certainly would not do it without making regular approaches, and before they can do that they have to capture some of the forts. These, as you know, are manned by 10,000 sailors, hardy marines and Bretons, well disciplined and untainted by the politics which are the curse of this country. Well, I must be going. I have to purchase my three days' store of provisions on my way back to my lodgings and shall have to turn out early."

"Don't do anything rash," she said, earnestly.

"I can assure you rashness is not in my line at all, and I don't suppose we shall ever get within five hundred yards of a Prussian soldier. You need not be in the least uneasy, even supposing that you were inclined to fidget about me?"

"Of course, I should fidget about you," she said, indignantly. "After knowing you ever since I was a little child, naturally I should be very sorry if anything happened to you."

"By the way," he said, without pursuing the subject farther, "I hear that there is a movement on foot for forming a corps of women. If they should do so it will afford you another illustration of the equality of your sex to ours in all matters, and I will go so far as to admit that I would much rather lead a company of the market-women than one composed of these Parisian shopkeepers."

"Don't, Mr. Hartington," she said, appealingly, "I don't feel equal to fighting now."

"Then we won't fight. Good-bye! If we are not lucky enough to light upon some empty cottages to sleep in I fancy the gloss will be taken out of this uniform before I see you again." He picked up his cap, shook hands, and was gone.

Madame Michaud woke up as the door closed.

"He has gone? your tall countryman."

"Yes, he is going out to-morrow to the outposts. I think it is very silly of him and very wrong mixing up in a quarrel that does not concern him, especially when there are tens of thousands here in Paris who, instead of fighting for their country, are content to sit all day in cafés and talk."

"They will fight when the time comes," Madame Michaud said, complacently. "They will fight like heroes. The Prussians will learn what Frenchmen are capable of doing."

But Mary had no patience just at present to listen to this sort of thing, and with the excuse that her head ached went at once to her room.

"I do not understand these English," Madame Michaud thought, as she drew the lamp nearer and resumed her knitting, "here are a young woman and a young man who are more like comrades than lovers. She was angry, more angry than I thought she could be, for she is generally good-tempered, when I asked her, the first time he came, if they were affiancés, 'We are old friends, madame,' she said, 'and nothing but friends. Cannot a girl have a man as a friend without there being any thought of love? In England people are friends, they can talk and laugh to each other without any silly ideas of this sort occurring to them. This is one of the things that keeps woman back in the scale, this supposition that she is always thinking of love.' I did not believe her then, but I have listened to-night when they thought I was asleep, and I even peeped out two or three times between my eyelids. I could not understand a word of what they said, but one can tell things by the tone without understanding the words. There was no love-making. She scolded him and he laughed. He sat carelessly in his chair, and did not move an inch nearer to her. She was as straight and as upright as she always is.

"That is not the way lovers act when one is going out to fight. I peeped out when he shook hands with her. He did not hold her hand a moment, he just shook it. They are strange people, these English. It would be wrong for a French girl thus to talk to a young man, but I suppose it is different with them. Who can understand these strange islanders? Why, if Lucien were going out to fight I should dissolve in tears, I should embrace him and hang on his neck; I might even have hysterics, though I have never had them in my life. She is a good girl, too, though she has such strange ideas about women. What can she want for them? I manage the house and Lucien goes to his office. If I say a thing is to be done in the house it is done. I call that equality. I cannot tell what she is aiming at. At times it seems to me that she is even more mad than her compatriots, and yet on other subjects she talks with good sense. What her father and mother can be about to let her be living abroad by herself is more than I can think. They must be even more mad than she is."

Work at M. Goudé's school went on steadily during the intervals between the turns of the Franc-tireurs des Ecoles going out beyond the walls. Indeed M. Goudé acknowledged that the work was better than usual. Certainly the studio was never merrier or more full of life. So far from the active exercise and the rough work entailed by the constant vigilance necessary during the long night-watches, diminishing the interest of the young fellows in their work in the studio, it seemed to invigorate them, and they painted as if inflamed with the determination to make up for lost time.

It converted them, in fact, for the time, from a group of careless, merry young fellows, into men with a sense of responsibility. Their time when away from the studio had previously been spent in follies and frivolities. They often drank much more than was good for them, smoked inordinately, were up half the night, and came in the morning to work with heavy heads and nerveless hands. Now they were soldiers, men who matched themselves against the invaders of their country, who risked their lives in her defence, and they bore themselves more erectly, a tone of earnestness replaced a languid indifference and a carelessness as to their work, and in spite of some privations in the way of food their figures seemed to expand.

The loss of two nights' sleep a week rendered early hours necessary, and ensured sound sleep during the remaining five. The discipline of the studio had been relaxed. The master felt that at such a time he could not expect the same silent concentration on work that it demanded at other times, but he found to his surprise that while they laughed and joked as they painted, they worked none the worse for this, and that in fact there was a general improvement manifest.

Cuthbert heartily enjoyed the change; the prevailing tone was more like that to which he was accustomed at the studios of St. John's Wood than was the somewhat strict discipline that had before prevailed in the studio, and he enjoyed the hard work and excitement outside the walls. The fact that they were running the same risks and sharing in the same work was an added bond of union among the students; and, although, when they met, as they very frequently did in each other's lodgings, there was less uproarious fun than before; there was a healthier atmosphere, and more pleasant and earnest talk.

Arnold Dampierre was the only exception to the general rule. When in the field he evinced no want of spirit, and upon the contrary was always ready to volunteer when a few men were required to crawl forward at night to ascertain the precise position of the Prussian outposts or to endeavor to find out the meaning of any stir or movement that might be heard towards their front. At other times his fits of moodiness seemed to increase. He was seldom present at any of the gatherings of his companions, but went off after work at the studio was over, and it was generally late at night before he returned to his rooms.

Cuthbert felt that the American avoided all opportunities of conversation with him alone. He replied cordially enough to his greeting when they met, but they no longer dropped in to smoke a pipe in each other's apartments as they formerly had done. Cuthbert had no great difficulty in guessing at the reasons for this change in their relations. He himself when he first noticed that Arnold was taking the first place with Minette had spoken to him half-jestingly, half-seriously, on the subject. He had never made any secret of his own distrust of the model, and in the early days of their intercourse had spoken freely to Arnold on the subject. He could understand that if the American, as it appeared, had become really attached to her, he would shrink from the risk of any expostulations on the course he had adopted.

Cuthbert believed that his comrade was at present in a state of indecision, and that, although deeply in love, he had not as yet been able to bring himself to the idea of taking Minette back as his wife to his home in Louisiana.

"It would be sheer madness," he said to himself, "and yet I have no doubt it will end in his doing so, but as he must know it is a piece of stupendous folly, I can understand his reluctance to risk my speaking to him on the subject. I am awfully sorry for him, but I know it is one of those cases in which, now that it has gone as far as it has, it would be worse than useless to try to interfere, and would only make him more bent upon going through with it. I don't see that one can do anything but trust to the chapter of accidents. Minette, dazzled as she might be by the prospect of marrying a gentleman and a man of property, might still hesitate to do so if it would entail her having to leave Paris and live abroad.

"I have no doubt that she is very fond of Dampierre, but she may change her mind. He may be killed before this business is over. He may decide to return to America directly the siege ends, with the idea of coming over to fetch her afterwards, and either he may get over his infatuation, or on his return may find that some one else has supplanted him in her affections. I should not fancy that constancy would be one of her strong points; at any rate I do not see that I can do any good by meddling in the matter, though if Dampierre spoke to me about it, I should certainly express my opinion frankly. It is much the best that things should go on between us as they are now doing. He is a hot-headed beggar, and the probabilities are strong in the favor of our having a serious quarrel if the subject were ever broached between us."

One evening Cuthbert had taken up a book after his return from the studio, and sat reading until it was long past his usual dinner hour before he went out. He passed through several badly lighted streets on his way to the restaurant in the Palais Royal, where he intended to dine. There were but few people about, for the evening was wet. He was vaguely conscious that some one was going in the same direction as himself, for he heard footsteps following him a short distance behind. In one of the worst lighted and most silent streets the steps suddenly quickened. Cuthbert turned sharply round. He was but just in time, for a man who had been following him was on the point of springing upon him with uplifted arm.

Cuthbert felt rather than saw that there was a knife in his hand, and struck straight from the shoulder at his face; the fellow was in the act of striking when he received the blow. He fell as if shot, the knife, flying from his hand, clattering on the pavement several yards away. Cuthbert stood for a moment prepared to strike again if the man rose, but as he made no movement he turned on his heel and walked on.

"It would serve him right if I were to give the scoundrel in charge for attempted murder," he said, "but it would give me no end of bother. It would not be worth the trouble, and he has been pretty well punished. I have cut my knuckles, and I imagine that when he comes to be will find himself minus some of his teeth. I wonder what his object was robbery, I suppose and yet it is hardly likely that the fellow would have singled me out and decided to kill me on the off chance of finding something worth taking. He could not have seen that I have a watch on, for my greatcoat is buttoned. It is more like an act of private revenge, but I have never given anyone of that class any reason to dislike me. Cartainly the man followed me for some distance, for I have heard the steps behind me ever since I turned off into these quiet streets.

"By the way," he exclaimed, suddenly, "I should not be at all surprised if he took me for Dampierre. We are about the same height, and although I am a good many inches wider than he is, that might not be noticed in the dark. If the fellow was watching outside the door, and had known nothing of there being another man of the same height in the house, he might very well have taken me for Arnold. He spends half his time up at Montmartre, and may likely enough have given offence to some of the ruffians up there; when he is not in a pleasant temper he does not mind what he says. Possibly, too, the fellow may be an admirer of Minette, and the thing may be this outcome of jealousy. At any rate I will tell him in the morning about the affair and let him take warning by it if he chooses."

Accordingly, next morning he waited outside in the street for Arnold, who was generally the last to arrive at the studio.

"Rather an unpleasant thing happened yesterday evening, Dampierre. I was followed from here and attacked suddenly in one of the back streets leading up to the Boulevards. I had heard footsteps behind me for a little time and had a vague sort of idea that I was being followed. The fellow ran up suddenly and I had just time to turn and hit out. He was in the act of striking with a knife, and if I had been a second later he would probably have settled me. As it was I knocked him down and I fancy I stunned him. At any rate he did not move, so I walked on. Of course it may have been a mere vulgar attempt at murder and robbery, but from the fact that this man followed me for some considerable distance I should say it was not so, but a question of revenge. I don't know that anyone in Paris has any cause of quarrel with me, but the idea afterwards occurred to me that it might be that he took me for you. We are about the same height, and if he was watching the house he might, when I came out, mistake one for the other. Of course I have not a shadow of reason for supposing that you have an enemy, but at any rate I thought it as well to tell you about it, so that you might be on your guard, as I shall certainly be, in the future."

Arnold was silent for a minute.

"I should not be surprised if you are right, Hartington; they are a rough lot at Montmartre, and it is possible that I may, without knowing it, have rubbed some of them the wrong way. I suppose you did not notice what he was like?"

"No, it was too dark, and the whole affair too sudden for me to see anything of the features. He was in a blouse with the low cap workmen generally wear. I should say he stood four or five inches shorter than we do -- about five feet eight or so. He was a square-built fellow. If you happen to come across him I fancy you may recognize him, not from my description but from my handiwork. You see," and he pointed to his right hand, which was wrapped up in an handkerchief, "I hit him hard and have cut two of my knuckles pretty badly -- I fancy against his teeth. If so, I think it likely that two or three of them will be missing, and as a man of that sort is hardly likely to go at once to a dentist to have the gap filled up, it may prove a guide to you.

"For the next day or two his lips are sure to be swollen pretty badly. Of course if you have no one in your mind's eye as being specially likely to make an attempt upon your life these little things will afford you no clue whatever, but if you have any sort of suspicion that one of three or four men might be likely to have a grudge against you, they may enable you to pick out the fellow who attempted my life. Of course I may be mistaken altogether and the fellow may have been only an ordinary street ruffian. Personally it won't make much difference to me, for I am pretty handy with my fists, but as I know you have had no practice that way, I recommend you always to carry a pistol when you go out at night."

"I always do, Hartington; I always have one in each pocket of my coat."

"Well, they may be useful, but I should recommend you to be careful, and to walk in the middle of the street when you are in doubtful neighborhoods. A pistol is very good in its way, but it takes time to get it out, and cock it, while one's fist is always ready for service at an instant's notice."

By this time they had arrived at the door of the studio. Arnold made no allusion to the subject for some days, and then meeting Cuthbert at the door of his house, said -- 

"By the way, Hartington, I have reason to believe that you were right that that blow you luckily escaped was meant for me. However, I don't think there will be any recurrence of the matter; in fact, I may say that I am sure there won't."

"That is all right then, Dampierre. Of course I don't want the matter followed up in any way, and should not have spoken about it had I not thought that I ought to give you warning."

"I feel very much indebted to you anyhow, Hartington. Probably had I been in your place the matter would have gone altogether differently."

Arnold had in fact learnt with absolute certainty who had been Cuthbert's assailant. When he went up to Montmartre he told Minette what had happened, and added: "He suspects that the scoundrel took him in the dark for me."

"Why should any one bear ill-will to you?" Minette asked.

"That I can't say, but I do think that very likely he is right. He keeps himself to himself, never attends meetings of any kind, and can hardly have made an enemy, while it is possible that I may have done so."

Minette was thoughtful for some time, and when her father joined them and said that it was time to be off to a meeting, she asked him abruptly -- 

"Have you seen Jean Diantre to-day?"

"Ay, I have seen him, and a pretty sight he is."

"How is that, father?"

"He took more liquor than was good for him and got a bad fall as he was going upstairs to his room, and as luck would have it, his mouth caught the edge of the stone step. His lips were all cut and swollen to four times their usual size and three of his teeth are out. Mon Dieu, what a crash he must have got! He has been drinking a great deal lately, and I have warned him over and over again that he would get himself into trouble; but as a rule liquor does not affect him that way, he gets sulky and bad-tempered, but he can generally walk steadily enough."

"Father, you must come with us to his lodgings," Minette exclaimed. "I have something to say to him. I suppose he is up?"

"But it is time to be at the meeting Minette. What do you want to see him for?"

"Never mind the meeting," she said, impatiently. "We shall be there before it is done. It is more important that I should see Jean."

"Well, if it must be, it must," Dufaure grumbled, shrugging his shoulders. "When you take a thing into your head I know it is of no use talking."

Jean Diantre was sitting with two or three of his mates in his attic over a small brazier of charcoal. They rose in surprise at the entrance of Minette and her father, followed by the American. The girl, without speaking, walked straight up to Jean.

"I knew you were a miserable," she said, bitterly, "a drunken, worthless scamp, but until now I did not know you were a murderer. Yes, comrades, this man with whom you sit and smoke is a miserable assassin. Yesterday evening he tried to take the life of Arnold Dampierre here, whom you all know as a friend of freedom and a hater of tyranny. This brave companion of yours had not the courage to meet him face to face, but stole up behind him in the dark, and in another moment would have slain the man he was following, when the tables were turned. The man he had followed was not Arnold Dampierre but another; and before this wretch could strike with his knife, he knocked him down, stunned him, and left him like a dog that he is on the pavement. No doubt he has told you the lie that he told my father, that he fell while going upstairs drunk. It was a blow of the fist that has marked him as you see. The man he had tried to murder did not even care to give him in charge. He despised this cur too much, and yet the fellow may think himself fortunate. Had it been Monsieur Dampierre it would not have been a fist but a bullet through his head that would have punished him. Now mark me, Jean Diantre," and she moved a pace forward, so suddenly that the man started back, "you are a known assassin and poltroon. If at any time harm befalls Monsieur Dampierre I will stab you with my own hand. If you ever dare to speak to me again I will hold you up to the scorn of the women of the quarter. As it is, your comrades have heard how mean and cowardly a scoundrel you are. You had best move from Montmartre at once, for when this is known no honest man will give you his hand, no man who respects himself will work beside you. Hide yourself elsewhere, for if you stay here I will hound you down, I will see that you have not an hour's peace of your life. We reds have our ideas, but we are not assassins. We do not sneak after a man to stab him in the dark, and when we have arms in our hands we are not to be beaten like curs by an unarmed man."

The other men had shrunk back from him as she spoke. Jean quailed beneath her torrent of contemptuous words and from the fury in her eyes. There was no doubting the fact that her charges were true.

"Who drove me to it?" he said sullenly through his swollen lips.

"Who drove you! Drink and your evil temper drove you to it. You wanted to marry me -- me who never gave you a word of encouragement; who knew you au fond, who knew that you were at the best an idle, worthless scamp, and would never have married you had there been no other living man in the universe. But enough. I have said what I came to say, and you had best take warning. Come, father, you have stood this fellow's friend, and you have been wrong, but you know him now."

Minette passed out through the door Arnold held open for her; her father and Arnold followed, and the four other men, without a word to Jean Diantre, went down the stairs after them, leaving him to himself.



Chapter IX.


"It is hardly worth while, Minette," Arnold said, when they reached the street, "the man has had his lesson."

"I could not help it, dear," she said, in a voice so changed from that in which she had spoken to Jean Diantre, that no one would have recognized it as the same; "he had tried to kill you, to take you from me. He thought it was you who had struck him and hated you worse than ever. It is not because he has failed once that he might fail another time. I should never have had a moment's peace when you were away from me, but I think now you will be safe; he will remove his quarters and go to Villette or to the South side; he will not dare to show his face in Montmartre again. You are sure you always carry your pistol, Arnold?"

"Yes, I promised you I would and I have done so. I have a small revolver in each pocket."

"Then in future, when you are out at night promise me always to walk with one hand in your pocket, holding the butt of your pistol, so that you can draw and fire instantly. He knows you have pistols and will not dare to attack you singly, and even should he find two or three villains as bad as himself you would be a match for them."

"I will take care of myself, Minette, but I do not think it likely that he will renew the attempt. I could see that the man was a coward. He was as pale as a sheet, partly with rage that he had been discovered and exposed, but partly, I am sure, from fear too. I know you meant well, dear, but I would rather that you had not done it. I love you best when you are gentle and womanly. You almost frighten me when you blaze out like that."

"I am sorry," she said, penitently; "but I felt for the time mad that your life should have been attempted. I scarcely knew what I was saying. Do you think that anyone could be gentle and mild when she had just heard that her lover, her all, had been almost taken from her by a cowardly blow. Still I know I am wrong. Do not be angry with me, Arnold."

"I am not angry, dear," he said, and truly, for no man can feel really angry with a woman for over-zeal in his own cause. "Do not let us say any more about it; the fellow is not worth a thought. We shall probably never hear of him again."

"I hope not, Arnold, but after what he tried to do I shall never feel quite free from anxiety so long as you are in Paris. I wish your English friend had handed him over to the police."

"I have no doubt he would have done so, but, as he told me, the idea that the fellow was anything else than a street-ruffian did not come to him till afterwards. You know what a business it is bringing a charge of any kind here, and Hartington having himself punished him pretty severely did not care for the trouble of carrying it further."

The news was rapidly spread in the cabarets by the men who had been present at Minette's denunciation that Jean Diantre had endeavored to assassinate the American, and much indignation was excited. Had he drawn a knife upon a fellow-workman over their wine, the matter would have excited but slight reprobation, but that he should have crept up in the dark to attempt to assassinate one who was a denouncer of tyrants, a representative of the great Republic, was voted to be infamous.

Various punishments were suggested as appropriate for such a crime, but Jean did not appear at his accustomed haunts in the morning, and inquiry showed that he had paid his rent the evening before, had sold his furniture for a few francs to one of the other lodgers in the house, and had left the quarter altogether. Resolutions were passed at the next meeting denouncing him as a traitor to the sacred cause of humanity, and then the matter was forgotten altogether save by Minette.

As time went on, the luxuries of life altogether disappeared from the shop-windows, but there was still no lack of the absolute necessaries. The stores of corn and rice turned out to be vastly larger than had been supposed. The herds of cattle gathered under shelter of the guns of the forts had disappeared, but horseflesh was still fairly abundant. Vegetables were not dear, for numbers of people went out every morning to the gardens and fields surrounding Paris and returned laden with them.

The animals in the public collection were all killed and the carcasses of all the eatable creatures sold at high prices, and for a time elephant steak, camel hump, venison, and other meats could be purchased at restaurants, although no doubt the horse furnished the foundation of the greater portion of these dishes.

The swans and other aquatic birds fetched fabulous prices, and their purchase was the occasion of many banquets in houses where such entertainments had become rare. Still there were no signs that the time when Paris was to make its attempt to burst its bonds was at hand. Among the National Guard complaints at the long inaction were incessant, but there was good reason for doubt whether the discontent was as general as it seemed.

It was one thing to talk of sweeping the Prussians before them, quite another to take a part in the performance. Still the steady drilling that went on had its effect. If the National Guard did not learn discipline they at least gained the power to make a respectable appearance and to go through simple manoeuvres fairly.

They walked more erect and even assumed a military swagger and spoke somewhat contemptuously of the line and mobiles, whose discipline was as lax as their own, and among whom drunkenness was rife, for whatever else failed, the supply of wine and spirits appeared inexhaustible. Cuthbert went not unfrequently to dine at the English restaurant of Phipson, where the utter and outspoken contempt of the proprietor for the French in general, and the Parisians in particular, amused him greatly.

"To see these fellows giving themselves military airs when they take care never to get within gunshot of the enemy, it is enough to make one's blood boil, Mr. Hartington. I believe that a couple of score of stable-boys with pitchforks would lick a battalion of them, and it is worse still when one goes out on the Boulevards and sees them sitting at the cafés drinking their absinthe as if there was no enemy within a hundred yards of the place. I have never liked them, sir, but I am downright sickened by them now. I shall sell out as soon as this is over."

"I don't think they are as bad as they seem, Phipson. If the Prussians ever do force a way into Paris, I think you will see that these fellows can fight and fight desperately."

"So will a rat, Mr. Hartington, if you corner him, but he will run as long as he gets the chance. I think it will do them a world of good, and take down some of their cockyness, if the Prussians did come in. I could not stand it, and as you see I have put my shutters up, and only let in English customers I know. I tell you I can't bring myself to serving horseflesh. I have got a few first-rate hams still hanging in the cellar. As long as they last and I can pick up anything fit for a human being to sit down to, I shall go on, but I ain't going to give my customers grub that is only fit for hounds. I have not come down to be a cat's-meat man yet. As to drink, I have got as you know a goodish supply of as fine whisky as ever was brewed, but it won't be long before that will be the only thing I shall have to sell. I see you still stick to your soldiering, Mr. Hartington."

"Oh, yes, now I have begun, I shall go through with it, though it is not so pleasant as it was a month ago, for the nights are getting cold; still there is plenty of excitement about it, and we manage to keep the Prussians awake as well as ourselves. Whatever it may be with the National Guard there is plenty of pluck among the students. I could not wish to have better comrades."

"Well, there is one advantage, sir, in that uniform. You can go about without being suspected of, for being a foreigner is just the same in the eyes of these chaps as being a spy. It is rum now that while this place is pretty nigh kept up by the money the English and Americans spend here, they don't like us not one bit."

"How do you make that out, Phipson?"

"I don't know that I can make it out at all. I take it it is because we have always licked them, sir, and always shall do. There was the old days when the Black Prince thrashed them. I am a Canterbury boy and have seen his armor hanging up in the Cathedral many a time; that is how I came to know about him, and then I have heard that Marlborough used to crumple them up whenever he met them; and then there was Wellington again. Why, they have never had so much as a chance with us, and on sea we have licked them worse than on land. Well, it ain't in nature men should like that."

"Those are old stories, Phipson, and I don't think they have much to do with the dislike the French have of us. I think it is more because they cannot help seeing for themselves that they are no longer the first power in the world, and that England has passed them in the race."

"That may have something to do with it, sir, but from what I have heard them say and from what I have seen myself, I think it is partly because Frenchmen find themselves but poor sort of creatures by the side of most Englishmen. I have heard them say that Englishmen walked about the streets of Paris just as if the place belonged to them, and there ain't no doubt that an Englishman does somehow or other put his foot down and square his shoulders in a way you never see a Frenchman do. I have noticed it myself many a time, and then, if he does get into a row with a Frenchman, the fellow hasn't a chance with him. I expect that galls him a bit. Anyhow they don't like it. They don't hate the Americans so much as they do us, though why they shouldn't is more than I can see, for there ain't much difference between us, except that there are very few of them who know how to use their hands. Well, anyhow, I shall be glad to have done with the French, though I will say for them that the lot that uses my place is a good deal better than the generality. For the most part they dress as English; that is to say they get their clothes made by English tailors, but lor' bless you, it ain't no use. They can't wear them when they have got them, not to look easy and comfortable in them. I have scores of times wondered what the difference is and I could not tell you to save my life, but for all that I can tell a Frenchman the moment he comes in, no matter how he's got up. There ain't no occasion for them to open their mouths. I can spot them as easy as one could tell the difference between a thorough-bred and a common roadster."

As a rule the Franc-tireurs des Ecoles went out on the southern or western sides of Paris, but one morning they marched out to St. Denis.

"There has been some pretty hot skirmishing on that side," the colonel said to his officers before starting, "and I have been asked to march you out in that direction, and to take up the outpost duties on a portion of the line there. The troops have been having a pretty hard time of it, and have been pushed backward once or twice, though they have always ended by winning back the ground they had lost. We have a reputation of keeping our eyes open, and the General told me this morning that I might consider it as a compliment we were sent there."

They were marched to a small cluster of houses and relieved two companies of the line who had been on duty there during the night. It was the first time a specific post had been assigned to them, and the men were in high spirits at what they considered an honor. The authorities treated the Franc-tireurs as being valueless for any real fighting: as being useful to a certain extent for harassing the enemies' outposts, but not to be counted upon for any regular work, and so omitted them altogether in the orders assigning the positions to be occupied. The corps therefore considered it a feather in their caps to be assigned a position by the side of the regulars. The fires of the troops were still burning, and the men were soon at work cooking their breakfast, one company being thrown out in the front of the village.

The houses all bore signs of the strife. Some were almost unroofed, others had yawning holes in the walls, the work of shell from the Prussian field-guns, while all were pitted with scars of bullets on the side facing the enemy. Scarce a pane of glass remained intact. The floors had been torn up for firing and the furniture had shared the same fate. A breastwork had been thrown up some fifty yards in front of the village and the houses had been connected by earthen walls, so that if the outwork were taken the place could be defended until reinforcements came up.

A hundred yards to the left there was a battery of six guns, and another on a mound four or five hundred yards to the right. In the daytime their fire covered the village, and there was little chance of the Germans attempting an attack until after nightfall. The enemy occupied in force a village of some size five hundred yards away, and had covered it with strong earthworks. Their outposts faced those of the French with an interval of some two hundred yards between them. The sentries on duty were stationed at distances varying from ten to twenty paces apart, behind walls or banks of earth. The enemies' outposts were similarly protected.

Shots were exchanged at intervals throughout the day between French batteries on the right and left and a redoubt the Germans had thrown up on a rise four or five hundred yards behind their village; the gunners on both sides occasionally directing their fire upon the houses; the outposts were for the most part silent, as it was seldom indeed that even a momentary glimpse was obtained of helmet or kepi, and the orders were that there was to be no useless firing.

During the day the companies took turn at outpost duty, but when night fell the line was strengthened, half the men being under rifles, while the rest lay down with their arms by their side, ready to fall in at a moment's notice. A dropping fire was kept up on both sides, but this was rather for the purpose of showing that they were on the alert than with any idea of harming the invisible foe.

At ten o'clock Cuthbert went out with the half-company to which he belonged, to relieve their comrades who had been for the last three hours in the front line. They had been some little time on duty when Pierre Leroux, who was in charge of the half-company, said to Des Valles, who commanded the whole of the outposts -- 

"It seems to me that I can hear a deep sound; it comes in pulsations, and I think it is a considerable body of men marching."

The captain listened with bent head for a short time.

"You are right, Pierre, there is certainly a movement of some sort going on in front, but I fancy it is some distance away; if they were marching on the village in front we should hear it more plainly. You had better send out three or four men from your right let them go some distance along before they attempt to creep forward. The Prussian sentries are too thick along there facing us, but the men might possibly crawl pretty close up to their outposts farther along, they won't be so thick there. Pick four good men, it is a dangerous service. Tell them to get as near as they can to their sentries without being observed, and then to lie and listen attentively. They will have a better chance of hearing there than we have. There is no getting the men to lie perfectly quiet here."

"Can I take three men and go myself with them, Des Valles?"

"Yes, if you like. I will stop with the company until you return."

The lieutenant went along the line, stopping at each man to ask his name. He chose Cuthbert and two men, one from each of the principal art schools, as he thought it might look like favoritism if he took all from among his own comrades. The sentries became more and more scattered as he went along, the main body being posted in front of the village. The last few men were warned that he was going forward, and that they were not to fire until he returned. He sent the last man on the line to communicate with the outposts, furnished by the corps occupying the ground farther to the right, that some men were going out to reconnoitre. Then he and his companions cautiously crawled forward.

They were rather more than half-way across the ground, when Cuthbert uttered an exclamation as he came in sudden contact with a figure advancing with similar caution in the opposite direction. It needed not a guttural oath in German to inform him that it was an enemy. Touching as they were, neither could use their arms, and instinctively they grappled with each other as they lay on the ground.

"Look out, Leroux, I have got hold of a German," Cuthbert said in a low voice, while at the same moment his antagonist said something to the same effect in German.

The lieutenant and the other two men leapt to their feet, and as they did so, four or five men sprang up close in front of them.

"Fire!" Leroux exclaimed, and the two men discharged their pieces! Some shots flashed out in front of them but in the darkness none were hit, and in a moment they were engaged in a hand-to-hand fight with their foes.

In the meantime Cuthbert and his antagonist were rolling over and over, locked closely in each other's arms. Seizing a moment when he came uppermost, Cuthbert steadied himself, relaxed his hold of his opponent, and, half-kneeling, managed to free himself from his embrace, and gripped him by the throat.

The fight between the others was a short one. The lieutenant had run one of his opponents through the body, but a German had equalized matters by bringing the butt of his musket down on the head of one of the Franc-tireurs, and being now but two against four, Pierre called to the other to retreat. The Germans followed a few yards and then halted. As they passed him Cuthbert gave a final squeeze to his antagonist's throat, and, feeling sure that he would not be able to speak for some time, he crept away for a few yards and lay still among the cabbages that covered the field.

"Where is the sergeant?" one of the Germans said, in a low voice, as they retraced their steps; "he must have been somewhere here when he called."

After two or three minutes' search they came upon him.

"He is alive," one of them said, stooping over him, "he is gasping for breath. I think he is dying, but, anyhow, we may as well carry him in."

They lifted the man, and as they did so several shots rang out from the French outposts. As soon as they had gone on Cuthbert sat up to listen. He could hear now the heavy tread of men who were, it seemed to him, crossing from the right towards the German village. He listened for a minute or two to assure himself that he was not mistaken, and then crawled back towards his own outposts.

"Don't fire," he said, when he knew that he must be near to them, "I am one of those who went out just now."

"Don't fire," he heard a voice he knew to be the lieutenant's repeat, "It is Hartington. I was afraid he was done for." A minute later he joined him.

At this moment a sharp fire broke out from the German lines, showing that their party had also returned to their outposts.

"You will find Des Valles farther along, Hartington; if you have anything to report you had better go to him at once, you can tell me afterwards how you escaped. I had quite given you up."

"I suppose I had better go to him," Cuthbert said, "but I have not much to report except that there is no doubt the noise we heard was caused by a heavy column of men marching into the village over there."

Cuthbert found the captain and made his report.

"Thank you, Hartington. We were pretty well convinced it was so, for even before the firing between your party and the Germans began, the sound was loud enough to be clearly distinguished. I suppose you can give no guess at their numbers?"

"They were a strong body, but how strong I could not tell. A hundred Prussians marching will make as much noise as five hundred Frenchmen, but even allowing for that I should think there will be at least one strong battalion, perhaps more."

"If that is the case we must be on the lookout. Of course they may fancy we mean to attack them, but on the other hand they may intend to push forward. I will go with you to the colonel; he ought to know what you think about it. He was along here a few minutes ago, but the noise was not so plain then, and we did not estimate the force to be anything like as strong as it is in your opinion."

Cuthbert made his report to the colonel, and the latter at once went forward with Des Valles to the outposts, after giving orders for the men in the houses to fall in at once and be ready either to advance to support the front line, or to man the barricades and houses and cover their retreat. Reaching the outposts the sound of marching was no longer heard, but there was a faint continuous murmur which could be plainly made out in the intervals of the fire kept up by the enemy.

"What do you think it is, Des Valles?" the colonel asked, after listening some time.

"I should say, sir, that the column has broken up in the village, and the men are making their way to the front in open order. If I were to suggest, Colonel, I should say it would be as well to send off men to the two batteries to tell them that the enemy are mustering in force in the village opposite to us and that we expect to be attacked, and also to the officers commanding the troops on either side of us."

Four men were at once despatched, and ten minutes later the batteries almost simultaneously opened fire on the village. As if it had been a signal a crashing volley was fired from the line held by the German outposts.

"Here they come!" the colonel shouted, "steady, men, wait till you see them; then open fire upon them as quickly as you can load, but aim steadily. Captain Des Valles, will you warn the line to the left that they are, when the word is given, to retreat at the double, bearing away first to the left so as to clear the ground for the fire from the houses. As soon as they are abreast of them they are to enter at the rear and aid in the defence. Captain Rainault, will you take similar orders away to the right? Ah, here they are."

As he spoke a storm of musketry broke out all along the line as a dark mass could be seen approaching. But the enemy were too strong to be resisted, and in a few seconds the colonel shouted the orders to retreat. Then at the top of their speed the Franc-tireurs ran back, and the instant they cleared off from the front of the houses the colonel shouted to the officer in command there to open fire.

In half a minute the Franc-tireurs were in the enclosure. Each company had already had its position in case of attack assigned to it. For a short time only those on the side facing the enemy were engaged, but the Prussians speedily overlapped the position and attacked it on all sides. Several times they rushed up close to the barricades, but the fire was so hot that they were compelled to fall back again. The circle of fire afforded the gunners in the battery sufficient indication as to the position of the defenders, and their shell fell rapidly both in front and behind it.

The fight had lasted but a few minutes when a crashing volley was fired from the left. The attack on the houses at once slackened, as the Prussians turned to oppose the reinforcements that had come up; but when, shortly afterwards, the regiment from the other side also reached the scene of action their commander felt the surprise had failed, and the Prussians retired to their former position, and the affair was over. Four companies of the line were left to strengthen the position should the enemy try another attack before daybreak, and then, after congratulating the colonel of the Franc-tireurs on the vigilance that had prevented his being taken by surprise, and the sturdy defence he had made, the officers of the line withdrew their men to the positions they had before occupied.

The loss of the Franc-tireurs was small. The volley that had preceded the attack had done no execution whatever, and as they had fought in shelter they had lost but eight men killed and a score wounded. It was the sharpest affair in which they had as yet been engaged, and the old colonel was highly pleased with the result. After the outpost had resumed their former position Cuthbert related to his comrades the particulars of his struggle with the Prussian sergeant.

"We were pretty well matched," he said, "and I suppose were equally surprised when we found each other grappling in the dark. Of course neither of us knew how many supporters the other had close at hand, but the first thought that struck me was that I must silence him if possible before his comrades came to his assistance. I was only afraid that I should not be able to shake myself free from his grip so as to get to his throat, but fortunately he relaxed his hold the moment he felt that I had loosened mine, and as I was on the top of him the rest was easy."

"Well, you got well out of it anyhow, Hartington," Pierre said. "You did not see anything of the man who was knocked down by a musket, did you?"

"No, it did not occur to me to look for him, but if you like I will go out with you and bring him in."

"That is a very good idea, Hartington, probably he was only stunned. I will go and get leave for us to do so."

However, just as he turned to go a call was heard in front, and a minute later the man came in.

"He had," he said, when he recovered consciousness, "heard a tremendous fire going on, and as soon as he could collect his thoughts became assured that the enemy must be attacking the village. He therefore concluded that the best thing was to lie still, which he did until the fire ceased and he could hear the Prussians retreating. Then he had crawled in until close to the line of outposts."

"I am heartily glad to see you back again," Pierre said, shaking him by the hand. "It would always have been a subject of regret to me if the expedition that I proposed had lost you your life. As to those who fell in defence of the village I have no personal responsibility, but I should certainly have felt that your death always lay at my door."



Chapter X.


Another month and a great change had come over Paris. The spirit of empty gasconnade had been succeeded by one more befitting the time and circumstances. As the hopes of assistance from without lessened, the spirit of resistance grew stronger and firmer. There was no longer any talk of sweeping the Prussians out of France, no longer was it an article of faith that Paris would be saved; but the thought of surrender was farther than ever from men's minds. Paris would resist to the last. She would give time to France to reorganize herself, and would set such an example of devotion and patience under suffering, that when at last famine forced her to surrender, the world should at least say that Paris had proved herself worthy of her reputation.

The defences had been strengthened to an enormous extent; the outlying forts which, when the siege began, could have been carried without much difficulty by a resolute attack, had now been rendered practically impregnable, their approaches had been thickly mined, obstacles of all sorts erected round them, and the casements, barracks, and magazines protected by coverings of trunks of trees and so great a depth of earth as to be able to defy the heaviest shell.

The walls of the enciente had been repaired and greatly strengthened, and covered by bastions and other works, so that even were one of the forts taken the work of the enemy would but be begun. The theatres had been closed from the first. The café's chantants, and the open-air concerts had long since followed the example, partly because of the increasing seriousness of the temper of the people, partly because of the failure of the gas. The café's themselves were no longer crowded until midnight; the dim lights of the lamps that had taken the place of gas gave a sombre air to these establishments, and by eight o'clock in the evening most of them put up their shutters.

The National Guard were being reorganized. From each battalion, three or four hundred of the most able-bodied, for the most part unmarried, men, had by order of the Government, been selected and formed into companies for service in the field, and these promised in a short time to develop into troops equal in physique and spirit to the mobiles, and vastly superior to the line.

Ladies no longer appeared in the streets in rich dresses. It was felt that these were out of place now, and all adornments had been rigidly given up, and the women of the better class set the example of dressing in the simplest of costumes and the quietest of colors. Great numbers had devoted themselves to the services of the hospitals and ambulances, and spent the whole of their time in ministering to the sick and wounded.

As yet there was little real suffering in Paris, and the privations and inconveniences were borne uncomplainingly, and even cheerfully. Beef had become almost unobtainable, but it was agreed that horse-flesh was not a bad substitute; cats and dogs were fast disappearing from the streets, and their flesh, prepared in a variety of ways, took the place on the cards of the restaurants of hares and game, and the change was hardly noticed.

Cuthbert was working hard. The school was now definitely closed, but those who liked to do so were free to work there when they chose. M. Goudé had taken advantage of the cessation of lessons to paint on his own account, and was engaged upon a large canvas which he announced was intended for the Salon.

"All this," he said, "has wiped away old quarrels. If I were fit for it I would do as so many of the artists of Paris have done -- take my place in the ranks -- but I am past the age for marching and sleeping in ditches; but I can entertain no further anger against men who are fighting for France. It is the duty of those who cannot fight to paint. When the Salon opens we must show the world that, in spite of these barbarians, France still holds her head high, and is at the head of civilization."

Cuthbert, however, was not among the number of those who used the painting-room. He had chosen his lodging so as to have a north light, and kept his door closed from early morning until the light faded. An ardor for work had seized him, and it was with reluctance that he put aside his brush when the day's work was over. He was engaged upon two pictures, and worked upon them alternately as the mood seized him. When he had done for the day the canvas was always covered up and the easels placed behind a screen in the corner of the room and the doors opened to his friends.

Once a week for two days, when the corps marched out to take its turn at outpost work, the work was laid by. Between the regular troops on either side there was but an occasional exchange of shots, except when one or the other side attempted to advance its position, but this was seldom, for every post of advantage and every village was now so strongly fortified as to defy capture except by a large force.

The Germans had recognized already that Paris was not to be taken by force, at the cost except of a tremendous expenditure of life, therefore, they were content to close every avenue of escape and to leave it to famine to do the work for them. The French on their side felt that minor operations to enlarge their boundary somewhat, were but a vain effort, and reserved themselves for a great attempt to break through the line. The Franc-tireurs, however, were ever active. They kept up an increasing fusilade upon the Prussian outposts night and day, keeping them in a state of perpetual irritation and watchfulness.

Except when on this service, Cuthbert saw but little of Arnold Dampierre. The latter had entirely given up painting and was seldom at his lodgings; nor when at home did he join in the smoking-parties at one or other of the students rooms. Other luxuries had given out, but tobacco was still fairly cheap and its solace made up for many privations. Nor was Arnold's absence regretted. He had never been popular, and on the few occasions when he appeared among them, he was so moody and taciturn that his absence was felt as a relief. When on duty with the corps, however, he was always in good spirits. He seemed to delight in action and was ever ready to volunteer for any dangerous work, such as crawling up close to the German outposts to ascertain their precise positions. He had so many narrow escapes that his comrades declared that he held a charmed life against Prussian bullets.

"The American would be a pleasant fellow if we were always under arms," Pierre Leroux said one evening; "he is not the same man directly we get outside the walls -- he is cheerful, good-tempered, and full of ardor -- here he is a bear. He will get into trouble if he does not mind. I was this afternoon opposite the Hôtel de Ville. There were many of the unwashed denouncing the Government and its ways to all who would listen to them. Dampierre was standing in one of the groups where a man, whom I knew to be Minette's father, for he came to the studio one day to say that she was unwell and could not come, was addressing them. He was pouring out threats against the bourgeois, against the Government, against every one in fact. He said that at present the true patriots, the working-men of Paris, were disarmed, but even had they arms, they would not imperil the defence of Paris by civil war; but that as soon as the accursed Germans had turned their backs, their day would come, and the true principles of the Republic, the principles of '79, would then be triumphant, and France would be free of the incubus of the selfish capitalists who ground down the people. I could see that Dampierre thoroughly sympathized with the fellow, and I believe that if there is trouble he is capable of putting on a red cap and marching with the scum of Belleville.

"It is not Minette's father, but Minette, who has converted him. I saw her marching at the head of one of the Belleville battalions the other day, dressed as a cantinière, and carrying herself with the air of a young Amazon."

"That girl is capable of anything," Cuthbert said; "I have always said that she was a small sleeping volcano, and if there are barricades I can fancy her standing on the top of one of them and waving a red flag, however thickly the bullets might be whistling around. I went as far as I could in the way of warning Dampierre in the early days, but I soon saw that if we were to continue on terms of amity I must drop it. It is an infatuation and a most unfortunate one, but it must run its course. Dampierre is a gentleman, and although at present he may be carried away by the enthusiasm of these people, I fancy that if they should happen, which, God forbid, to get the upper hand, he would soon be shocked when they proceeded to carry their theories into execution. As to Minette, if he is ever mad enough to marry her, the best thing would be to do so as soon as Paris is open and to take her straight away to New Orleans.

"She is a born actress, and is as clever as she is pretty, and I have no doubt she would have the good sense to play the part of a grande dame admirably, and would soon become a leader of French society there; but I should be sorry to predict how long it would last and what would come after it, and I believe in my heart that the best thing that could happen for him would be to be knocked over by a Prussian bullet. But after all the thing may never come off. A girl like Minette must have lovers in her own class. I have no doubt she is fond of Dampierre at present, but no one can say how long it will last. I can imagine that she is proud of her conquest. He is good-looking, a gentleman, and rich. No doubt she is envied in her quarter, and besides it must be a gratification to her to have induced or fascinated him into casting in his lot with the reds, but all that will pall in time. If I were in his place I should never feel sure of her until I had placed the ring on her finger."

"That is the time when I should begin not to feel sure of her," René laughed, "my anxieties would begin then. She is as changeable as an April sky. She could love passionately for a time, but for how long I should be sorry to guess. You see her in the studio, she is delighted with every fresh dress and fresh pose. Never was there so good a model for a few days, then she gets tired of it, and wants something fresh. She is like a child with a new doll; for a bit she will be wild over it; she cannot sleep without it, she takes it with her everywhere, she adores it, but will it soon be thrown by, and perhaps she will be battering its head with a stick. When Minette first came to the studio I was mad about her, now I would as soon have a tiger-cat for a mistress."

"That is too severe, René," a young man who had joined the studio but three months before, expostulated. "She seemed to me a charming young woman. I cannot understand what you and Cuthbert are talking of her in this way for."

René laughed.

"Ah, you haven't got over the first stage yet, and many of the others will agree with you. We all like her, you know, we are all glad to have her with us; she is like a glass of champagne, and we cannot say anything against her in that quality. It is only when one comes to talk about her as a wife that one is frightened."

"I believe all this is on account of her standing last month as Judith about to kill Holofernes."

"Perhaps you are right, Clement. I admit that was a revelation to me. I used to laugh at Cuthbert, who declared she frightened him, but I felt then he was right. Good heavens, what a Judith she was; it was enough to make one shiver to see the look of hate, of triumph and of vengeance in her face. One knew that one blow would do it; that his head would be severed by that heavy knife she held as surely as a Maître d'Armes would cut a dead sheep in two."

"It was only a piece of acting, René. You might as well say that a tragedienne would be capable of carrying out a tragedy in her own family."

"Perhaps so, Clement, but then you see it would never occur to me to marry a tragedienne. I should imagine that she would ask for the salt in the same tone that she would demand poison. I grant it was acting, but there was a terrific truth about it that showed that she was at least able to picture the position and feel it. I tried to sketch her, but I gave it up as hopeless. It was beyond me altogether. I observed that all the others failed, too, except Cuthbert here. He dashed it off in his note-book, and if he ever paints it, I would not have it hung up in my bedroom for a thousand francs, for I should never dare to go to sleep with it looking at me. But, indeed, of late, Minette has changed a good deal; the little fool is carried away by all this talk up at Belleville, and takes it quite seriously. You remember she has refused our last three invitations, and she said quite superbly when I asked her the last time, 'This is no time for feasting and enjoyment, M. René, when Paris is besieged and thousands are starving.'"

"Then I don't know where they are," Pierre said. "Belleville was never so well off as it is to-day; every man gets a franc and a half a day for wearing a kepi and going for a few hours once a week on duty on the wall. His wife gets something, and they have so much for each child. They have no work to do, and I am told that, although six francs a day are offered by the Government for laborers, they cannot get enough men. The fellows enjoy smoking, lounging, talking, and doing nothing too much to be tempted by any offer. There may be starvation before we have done; but at any rate there is none at present, for every man, woman, and child draws their ration of meat, not a large one, but enough to get on with; beside bread is not very dear, and there is no lack of vegetables, brought in every day from beyond the forts."

"I said as much to Minette, Pierre, but she only muttered that working-men would not always exist on charity, and the time would come when there would be plenty for all. We shall have trouble with them before we have done I expect, what do you think, Henri?"

The lieutenant took his pipe out of his mouth and nodded.

"There will be trouble," he said. "I have been up to Belleville several times. This spell of idleness is doing much harm. As soon as we have done with the Prussians we shall have the reds on our hands."

"We are seven to one against them," René said, contemptuously. "The voting the other day showed that."

"Ah, but the seventh know what they want. They want to be masters. They want money enough to keep them without work. They want to set the streets flowing with blood. The other six only want to be left alone. They have no idea of risking their lives, and you will see, when it begins, they will hold the butts of their muskets up; they will say, 'Don't let us irritate these demons,' and each man will hope that, even if others are robbed, he will somehow escape.

"You cannot rely on the National Guard, it is no use to count them in, and the mobiles only want to be off to their villages. If the troops had a leader they might fight, but who is to lead them? Trochu is an imbecile, the real fighting army is in the prisons of Germany, and when it is released will not care to embark in another war. I think things look bad."

"What should we do?" Pierre asked.

"We should paint," Henri said, "that is to say we should paint if things go as I think they will, and the National Guard refuse to fight. If the men who have something to lose won't lift an arm to defend it, why should we who have nothing at stake?"

"You might paint, but who is going to buy your pictures, Henri?" Cuthbert said, quietly. "As soon as the reds get the upper hand we shall have the guillotine at work, and the first heads to fall will be those of your best customers. You don't suppose the ruffians of Belleville are going to become patrons of art. For my part I would rather fight against the savages than level my rifle against the honest German lads who are led here against us. I should think no more of shooting one of these roughs than of killing a tiger -- indeed, I regard the tiger as the more honest beast of the two. Still, if you Frenchmen like to be ruled over by King Mob, it is no business of mine. Thank God, such a thing is never likely to happen in England -- at any rate in my time. In the first place, we can trust our troops, and in the second, we could trust ourselves. Were there not a soldier in the land, such a thing will never happen. Our workmen have sense enough to know that a mob-rule would be ruin to them as well as to the rich, and, were it needed, in twenty-four hours half a million men could be sworn in as constables, and these would sweep the rabble into the Thames."

"Your rabble would be unarmed; ours have at present all got muskets."

"More fools they who gave them to them, but what can one expect from such a Government. There is not among them a single practical man except Gambetta, and he is away at Tours. It is a Government of lawyers and spouters; of words they give us plenty, of government nothing. I would rather, infinitely rather, that the women at the Halles should chose a dozen of the most capable women among them and establish them as the Government. I will guarantee you would see a change for the better before twenty-four hours were over. I doubt if you could see a change for the worse. Jules Fauvre with his ridiculous phrase, not one foot of our territory, not one stone of our fortresses, is no better than a mountebank, and the others are as bad. Would that either Ducrot or Vinoy had the firmness and half the talent of a Napoleon. They would march the troops in, sweep away this gathering of imbeciles, establish martial law, disarm Belleville and Montmartre, shoot Floureus, Pyat, Blanqui, and a hundred of the most noxious of these vermin; forbid all assemblages, turn the National Guards into soldiers, and after rendering Paris impotent for mischief turn their attention to the Germans. The one thing that can save Paris to my mind is a military dictator, but I see no sign of such a man being forthcoming."

"Bravo! bravo!" several of the students shouted, "what a pity it is that you are an Englishman, Cuthbert. You would be just the man for us otherwise."

"At any rate, I should do something and not let everything drift," Cuthbert retorted, joining in the laugh at his own unaccustomed vehemence; "but there, we have broken our agreement, now let us revert to art;" but the effort was vain, the talk soon drifted back again to the siege, and many were the conjectures as to what Trochu's famous plan could be and which point offered the most hopeful chance for the army to pierce the German cordon.

Mary Brander had a fortnight before enrolling herself among the nurses at the American ambulance, which was doing admirable work, and was admitted by the French themselves to be a model which could be followed with great advantage in their own hospitals. Here everything was neat, clean, and well arranged. The wounded were lodged in tents which were well ventilated and yet warm. The surgeons and some of the nurses were also under canvas, while others, among whom was Mary Brander, went back to their homes when their turn of duty was over. They had, like the ladies who worked in the French hospitals, adopted a sort of uniform and wore the white badge with the red cross on their arms. With this they could go unquestioned, and free from impertinent remarks through the thickest crowds, everyone making way for them with respectful civility.

"It is terrible," she said to Cuthbert, upon his calling one evening when she was off duty, "and yet I do not feel it so trying as listening to the silly talk and seeing the follies of the people in the streets. The poor fellows bear their sufferings so patiently, they are so grateful for every little thing done for them, that one cannot but feel how much there is likable among the French in spite of their follies. I talk to them a good deal and it is almost always about their homes and their families, especially their mothers. Sometimes it is their sweethearts or their sisters. With mobiles and linesmen it is just the same. Sometimes I write letters for them -- such simple, touching letters as they are, it is difficult not to cry as they dictate, what are, in many cases, last farewells. They always want those at home to know that they have died doing their duty, but beyond that they don't say much of themselves. It is of those to whom they are writing that they think. They tell them to cheer up. They bid younger brothers take their place. Besides the letters which will be photographed and sent off by pigeon post, I have a pile of little packets to be despatched when Paris is open -- locks of hair, photographs, Bibles, and keepsakes of all kinds."

"I think at any rate, Mary, you have at present discovered one branch at least of woman's mission upon which we cannot quarrel. We grant not only your equality but your superiority to us as nurses."

Mary Brander smiled faintly, but ignored the opening for argument.

"Some of them are dreadfully wounded," she went on, her thoughts reverting to the hospital. "It is terrible to think that when the great battle everyone seems looking forward to takes place, there may be thousands of wounded to be cared for. When do you think it will be?"

"Soon; of course no one can say when, but I don't see anything to gain from waiting longer. The mobiles are as good as they are likely to be made. One can't call the line disciplined, according to the English ideas of discipline, but they are better than they were, and at any rate all are anxious for something to be done."

"Do you think they will get through?"

He shook his head.

"If they could fall suddenly upon the Germans they might do so, but it is no easy matter to move large bodies of men quickly, and to be successful they ought to be able to hurl themselves against the Germans before they have time to concentrate. I have no doubt whichever side we issue out on, we shall get on fairly enough as long as we have the assistance of the guns of the forts; but beyond that I don't think we shall get. The Germans must by this time know the country vastly better than we do. They are immensely better trained in making extensive movements. They have excellent generals and good officers. I fancy it will be the same thing that it has been before. We shall make an advance, we shall push the enemy back for a bit, we shall occupy positions, and the next day the Germans will retake them. We have no method and no commissariat. Even now bodies of troops are outside the walls frequently four-and-twenty hours without food. In the confusion consequent on a battle matters will be ten times worse. In the morning the troops will be half-starved and half-frozen, and there will be very little fight left in them."

"What would you do if you were commander-in-chief, Cuthbert?"

"I am altogether unfit to make a plan, and still more unfit to carry it out," he said, "but my idea would certainly be to attack somewhere with half my force, to force the enemy back, and to hold positions at the end of the day, so that the Germans would concentrate to attack in the morning. At night I would withdraw the greater portion of them, march them straight across Paris; the other half of the army would attack there at daybreak, and would be reinforced soon after the fighting began by those who had fought the day before. I think in that way they ought to be able to cut their way out, but what they would do when they once get out is more than I can tell you. They have no cavalry to speak of, while the Germans have a splendid cavalry force who would harass them continually. The infantry would pursue and would march infinitely better than we should do. We should scatter to get food, whole regiments would break up and become masses of fugitives, and finally we should be surrounded, either cut to pieces or forced to surrender. Of two things, I am not sure that it would not be best for us to be handsomely thrashed on the first day of our sortie."

"You take a very gloomy view of things," she said, almost angrily.

"Why, I should have thought you would be pleased. I am prophesying success for your friends, the Germans."

"I don't know why you should always insist that they are my friends. I was of opinion that they were right at first, and am so still, but I think they now are behaving hardly and cruelly; at least I think Bismarck is. It was heartless for him to insist, as a condition of the armistice, that Paris should not be re-victualled while it lasted. Of course they could not agree to that, though they would have agreed to anything like fair conditions. Everyone really wanted peace, and if the Germans hadn't insisted on those terms, peace would have been made. So things have changed altogether, and it is clear that not the Germans, but their leaders, want to injure and humiliate France to the utmost. They were not content with their pound of flesh, but they want to destroy France altogether. I despised these people at first, but I don't despise them now. At least they are wonderfully patient, and though they know what they will have to suffer when everything is eaten up, no one has said a word in favor of surrender, since Bismarck showed how determined he was to humiliate them."

"I think I shall win my bet after all, Mary."

"I am not so sure as I was that you won't. I didn't think I could ever have eaten horse-flesh, but it is really not so bad. Monsieur Michaud told us, yesterday, that he dined out with some friends and had had both cat and rat. Of course they were disguised with sauces, but the people made no secret of what they were, and he said they were really very nice. I don't think I could try them, but I don't feel as certain as I did; anyhow, we haven't begun to touch our stores, and there is no talk of confiscating everything yet."



Chapter XI.


Two men were sitting in a cabaret near the Halles. One was dressed in the uniform of a sergeant of the National Guard. He was a powerfully-built man, with a black beard and a mustache, and a rough crop of hair that stuck out aggressively beneath his kepi. The other was some fifteen years younger; beyond the cap he wore no military uniform. He had a mustache only, and was a good-looking young fellow of the Ouvrier class.

"I tell you it is too bad, Père Dufaure. A year ago she pretended she liked me, and the fact that she wore good dresses and was earning lots of money did not seem to make any difference in her. But now all that is changed. That foreigner has turned her head. She thinks now she is going to be a lady and has thrown me over as if I were dirt, but I won't have it," and he struck his fist upon the table, "those cursed aristocrats are not to have everything their own way."

"Patience, Jean. Women will be women, and the right way to win her back is to have patience and wait. I don't say that just at present her head is not turned with this American, who by the way is a good Republican, and though he has money, has good notions, and holds with us that we have too long been ground down by the bourgeois, still she may tire of him after a while. He is not amusing, this American, and though Minette may like being adored, she likes being amused also. Pooh, pooh, this matter will come all right. Besides, although she likes the American at present, she thinks more of the Commune than of any lover. Have patience and do not quarrel with her. You know that I am on your side. But Minette is a good deal like what her mother was. Ah, these women! A man can do nothing with them when they make up their minds to have their own way. What can I say to her? I can not threaten to turn her out of the house for everything in it is hers. It is she who earns the money. She is too old to be beaten, and if it comes to scolding, her tongue runs faster than mine does, and you know besides she has a temper."

Jean nodded.

"She is worse than a wild-cat when her back is up," he said. "Why, when this thing first began, and I told her to beware how she went on with this American, for that I would kill him if he came in my way, she caught up a knife, and if I had not run like a rabbit, she would have stuck me, and you know how she went on, and drove me out of Montmartre. After that affair I have not dared see her."

"Why not let her go? and take to someone else, Jean? There are plenty of pretty girls in the quarter who would not say no to the best rising worker in his trade."

"It is no use, Père Dufaure, I have told myself the same a hundred times, but I cannot do it. She has her tempers, what woman has not; but at other times who is so bright and gay as she is?"

"Well, well, Jean, we shall see what we shall see. You don't suppose that if things do not turn out well, as we hope they will do, I should let her carry out this whim of hers, and go off with the American, and leave me to shift for myself. Not such a fool. At present I say nothing. It is always better to hold your tongue as long as you can. I make him welcome when he comes to our house; we go together to the meetings, and sometimes he speaks, and speaks well, though he does not go far enough for us. Well, no one can say what may happen -- he may be shot by the Germans, or he may be shot at the barricades, who knows. At any rate it is best to hold my peace. If I leave things alone, Minette is as likely as not to change her mind again, but if I were to say anything against him -- first, we should have a scene; secondly, she would be more than ever determined on this whim. You must be patient, Jean, and all will come well in the end."

"I am not so sure of that," Jean said, sullenly. "I was as patient as I could be, but no good came of it; then, as you know, I tried to get rid of him, but failed, and had to move away, but one thing is certain, if I don't marry her he never shall. However, I can wait."

"That is all right, Jean; wait till our little affairs come off and the bourgeois are under our feet. There will be good posts for true citizens then, and I will see that you have one, and it will be time to talk about marriages when everything is going on well. When we once get the Germans out of the way, we shall see what we shall see, Sapristie! we will make short work of the capitalists, and as for the troops, they will have had enough fighting and will be ready enough to march off and leave us alone."

At the time they were talking, the couple they were speaking of were standing leaning on the parapet of the wall by the river. They met there every evening when there was no assembly of importance to attend.

"I wish it was all over, Minette," he said, "and that we could leave the city and be off. It would be a different life for you, dear, but I hope a pleasanter one. There would be no cold weather like this, but you can sit all the year round in the veranda without needing wraps. There will be servants to wait on you, and carriages, and everything you can wish for, and when you are disposed there will be society; and as all of our friends speak French, you will soon be quite at home with them. And, what one thinks of a good deal at present, there will be fruits and flowers, and plenty to eat, and no sound of cannon, and no talk of wars. We fought out our war ten years ago."

"It sounds nice, Arnold, very nice, but it will be strange not to work."

"You won't want to work there," he said; "in the day it is so hot that you will be glad to sit indoors in a darkened room and do nothing. I shall paint a good deal, and when you have the fancy, you can sit as my model again."

"And is it a large city, Arnold? It seems to me now that I could not live in the country, I should soon get dreadfully tired of it."

"It is a large city," he said, "though, of course, not so large as Paris. There are theatres there and amusements of all sorts."

"I should be content with you, Arnold. It does not seem to me that I could want anything else, but after all this excitement it will seem strange to have nothing to do."

"I shall be glad to be out of it," he said. "Your father and the others are quite right -- the rich have too much and the poor too little. The manufacturers gain fortunes, and the men whose work enriches them remain poor all their lives. Still I fear that they will go too far, and that troubles me."

She made a quick movement as if about to speak, but checked herself for a moment, and then said, quietly -- 

"You know the proverb, Arnold, 'One cannot make an omelette without breaking eggs.'"

"That is true," he said, "as to an omelette, but a change of Government can be carried out without costing life, that is unless there is resistance, and I hope there will be none here. The incapables over there will slink away. Why, Flourens and a few hundred men were enough to snatch the government out of their feeble hands. If the people declare that they will govern themselves, who is to withstand them. I hope to see the triumph and then to go. You know I am not a coward, Minette; our corps have shown that they can fight, but I long for my quiet home again, with its gardens and flowers, and balmy air, and I like handling a paint-brush much better than a rifle, and above all to see you mistress of my home, but I know there is a good deal to go through first. Trochu's plans may be carried out any day."

"Ah! Those Prussians!" she exclaimed, in a tone of the deepest hate, with a gesture of defiance towards Versailles. "They will dare to fire at you!"

"Yes, I imagine they will do that, Minette," he said with a laugh, "and pretty hotly, too."

"Well, if they kill you," she said, passionately, "I will avenge you. I will go out through the outposts and will find my way to Versailles, and I will kill William or Bismarck. They may kill me afterwards, I care nothing for that. Charlotte Corday was a reactionist, but she slew Marat and died calmly and bravely. I could do as much and would to revenge you."

"I hope you would not attempt anything so mad, Minette. Of course, I must take my chance as everyone else will do, and the Prussians will be no more to blame if one of their bullets killed me than if it had struck anyone else. Everyone who goes into a battle has to run his chances. I had an elder brother killed in the civil war we had in the States. I have no great love for the North, but I do not blame them especially for the death of my brother. There were a great number killed on both sides, and that he should be among them was the fortune of war. But it is bitterly cold, Minette; let us be walking. I am glad we are not on outpost duty to-night. I put on so many flannel shirts that I can hardly button my tunic over them, but in spite of that it is cold work standing with one's hands on one's trigger looking out into the darkness. It is quite a relief when a rifle rings out either from our side or the other. Then for a bit everyone is alive and active, we think the Prussians are advancing, and they think we are, and we both blaze away merrily for a bit. Then there is a lull again, and perhaps an hour or two of dreary waiting till there is a fresh alarm. As soon as we are relieved, we hurry off to our quarter, where there is sure to be a fire blazing. Then we heat up the coffee in our canteens, pouring in a little spirits, and are soon warm again."

"I cannot see why they don't form corps of women, Arnold; we have just as much at stake as the men have, and I am sure we should be quite as brave as the most of them, a great deal braver than the National Guard."

"I have no doubt you would, dear, but it will be quite time for you to fight when all the men are used up. What the women ought to do is to drive the men outside the walls. If the women were to arm themselves with mops soaked in dirty water, and were to attack every man under forty they found lurking in the streets, they would soon make a change in things. You should begin in your own quarter first, for although they are always denouncing the bourgeois for not fighting, I cannot see that there is any more eagerness to go out at Montmartre than there is in the quarter of the Bank -- in fact, a great deal less."

"Why should the ouvriers fight with the Germans, Arnold -- to them it matters little whether Paris is taken by the Germans or not -- it is not they whose houses will be sacked, it is not they who will have to pay the indemnity."

"No, but at least they are Frenchmen. They can talk enough about the honor of France, but it is little they do to preserve it. They shout, 'the Prussians must be destroyed,' and then go off quietly to their cabarets to smoke and drink. I do not admire the bourgeois, but I do not see anything more admirable among the ouvriers. They talk grandly but they do nothing. There is no difficulty in getting volunteers for the war companies among the National Guard of the centre, though to them the extra pay is nothing; but at Belleville and Montmartre the war companies don't fill up. They rail at the bourgeois but when it comes to fighting outside the walls I will wager that the shopkeepers show the most courage."

"They will fight when there is anything to fight for," she said, confidently, "but they don't care to waste their time on the walls when there is nothing to do, and the Germans are miles away."

"Well, we shall see," he replied, grimly. "Anyhow, I wish it were all over, and that we were on our way home. You have never seen a ship yet, Minette. You will be astonished when you go on board one of the great liners," and as they walked along the Boulevards he told her of the floating palaces, in one of which they were to cross the ocean, and forgetting for a time the questions that absorbed her, she listened with the interest of a child hearing a fairy-tale. When they neared Montmartre they separated, for Minette would never walk with him in her own quarter.

The next morning, November 28th, the order was issued that the gates were to be closed and that no one was to be allowed to pass out under any pretext whatever. No one doubted that the long-expected sally was to be carried out. Bodies of troops marched through the streets, trains of wagons with munitions of war moved in the same direction, and in an hour all Paris knew that the sortie was to take place somewhere across the loop formed by the Marne.

"It is for to-morrow," Pierre Leroux exclaimed, running into Cuthbert's room, "we are to parade at daybreak. The gates are shut, and troops are moving about everywhere."

"All right, Pierre; we have been looking for it for so long, that it comes almost as a surprise at last."

Cuthbert got up, made himself a cup of coffee, drank it with a piece of dry bread, and then sallied out. Mary would be on duty at ten o'clock. He knew the road she took on her way to the hospital and should meet her. In half an hour he saw the trim figure in the dark dress, and the white band round the arm.

"I suppose you have heard that we are going to stir up the German nest to-morrow," he said gayly.

"Yes, I have heard," she said, sadly, "it is very dreadful."

"It is what we have been waiting for and longing for for the last two months. We are to be under arms at daybreak, and as you will be at the ambulance for the next twenty-four hours I thought I would make an effort to catch you on the way. I want you to come round to my lodgings."

She looked surprised.

"Of course I will come," she said frankly, "but what do you want me to do that for?"

"Well, there is no saying as to who will come back again tomorrow, Mary, and I want you to see my two pictures. I have been working at them for the last two months steadily. They are not quite finished yet, but another week would have been enough for the finishing touches, but I don't suppose you will miss them. Nobody has seen them yet, and nobody would have seen them till they were quite ready, but as it is possible they never may be finished I should like you to see them now. I am not taking you up under any false pretences," he said, lightly, "nor to try again to get you to change your mission. I only want you to see that I have been working honestly. I could see when I have spoken of my painting there was always a little incredulity in the way in which you listened to me. You had so completely made up your mind that I should never be earnest about anything that you could not bring yourself to believe that I wasn't amusing myself with art here, just as I did in London. I had intended to have brought them triumphantly in a fiacre to your place, when they were finished, and I can't deny myself the pleasure of disabusing your mind. It is not far out of your way, and if we walk fast you can still arrive at your ambulance in time. If there were any fiacres about I would call one, but they have quite disappeared. In the first place, because no one is rich enough to be able to pay for such luxuries, and in the second, because most of the horses have been turned to other uses."

She did not seem to pay very much attention to what he was saying, but broke in with the question -- 

"Do you think there will be much fighting?"

"It would be folly to try to persuade you that there won't," he said. "When there are so many thousand men with guns and cannon who are determined to get out of a place, and an equal number of men with guns and cannon just as determined to keep them in, the chances are that, as the Irish say, there will be wigs on the green. I do not suppose the loss will be great in comparison to the number engaged, because certainly a good many of the French will reconsider their determination to get out, and will be seized with a burning desire to get back as soon as the German shells begin to fall among them, still I do hope that they will make a decent fight of it. I know there are some tremendously strong batteries on the ground enclosed by the loop of the Marne, which is where they say it is going to be, and the forts will be able to help, so that certainly for a time we shall fight with great advantages. I do wish that it was not so cold, fighting is bad enough in summer; but the possibility of lying out all night on the snow wounded is one I very strongly object to."

He continued to talk in the same light strain, until they reached his lodgings, in order to put the girl at her ease.

"So this is your sitting-room," she said, with a laugh that had a tremor in it, "it is just what I supposed it would be, very untidy, very dusty, and yet in its way, comfortable. Where are the pictures?"

"Behind that screen; I keep them in strict seclusion there. Now if you will sit down by the window I will bring the easels out."

She did as he told her. The pictures were covered when he brought them out. He placed them where the light would fall best on them, and then removed the cloths.

"They have not arrived at the glories of frames yet," he said, "but you must make allowances for that. I can assure you they will look much larger and more important when they are in their settings."

The girl sat for a minute without speaking. They were reproductions on a larger scale and with all the improvements that his added skill and experience could introduce of the two he had exhibited to M. Goudé, when he entered the studio.

"I had intended to do battle-pieces," he said, "and have made innumerable sketches, but somehow or other the inspiration did not come in that direction, so I fell back on these which are taken from smaller ones I painted before I left London. Do you like them? You see I hang upon your verdict. You at present represent the public to me."

There were tears standing in the girl's eyes.

"They are beautiful," she said, softly, "very beautiful. I am not a judge of painting, though I have been a good deal in the galleries of Dresden, and I was at Munich too; and I know enough to see they are painted by a real artist. I like the bright one best, the other almost frightens me, it is so sad and hopeless, I think -- " and she hesitated, "that girl in the veranda is something like me, though I am sure I never look a bit like that, and I am nothing -- nothing like so pretty."

"You never look like that, Miss Brander, because you have never felt as that girl is supposed to be feeling; some day when the time comes that you feel as she does you will look so. That is a woman, a woman who loves. At present that side of your nature has not woke up. The intellectual side of you, if I may so speak, has been forced, and your soul is still asleep. Some day you will admit that the portrait, for I own it to be a portrait, is a life-like one. Now -- " he broke off abruptly, "we had better be going or you will be late at your post."

She said no more until they were in the street.

"I have been very wrong," she said suddenly, after walking for some time in silence. "You must have worked hard indeed. I own I never thought that you would. I used to consider your sketches very pretty, but I never thought that you would come to be a great artist."

"I have not come to that yet," he said, "but I do hope that I may come to be a fair one some day -- that is if the Germans don't forcibly interfere -- but I have worked very hard, and I may tell you that Goudé, who is one of the best judges in Paris, thinks well of me. I will ask you to take care of this," he said, and he took out a blank envelope. "This is my will. A man is a fool who goes into a battle without making provision for what may happen. When I return you can hand it to me again. If I should not come back please inclose it to your father. He will see that its provisions are carried out. I may say that I have left you the two pictures. You have a right to them, for if it had not been for you I don't suppose they would ever have been painted. I only wish that they had been quite finished."

Mary took the paper without a word, nor did she speak again until they arrived at the ambulance, then she turned and laid her hand in his.

"Good-bye, Mary, I hope I shall ask you for that envelope back again in a couple of days."

"God grant that it may be so," she said, "I shall suffer so till you do."

"Yes, we have always been good friends, haven't we? Now, child, you always used to give me a kiss before I left you then. Mayn't I have one now?"

She held up her face, he kissed her twice, and then turned and strode away.

"I wonder whether she will ever grow to be a woman," he said to himself, bitterly, "and discover that there is a heart as well as brains in her composition. There was no more of doubt or hesitation in the way in which she held up her face to be kissed, than when she did so as a child. Indeed, as a child, I do think she would have cried if I told her at parting that I was going away for good. Well, it is of no use blaming her. She can't help it if she is deficient in the one quality that is of all the most important. Of course she has got it and will know it some day, but at present it is latent and it is evident that I am not the man who has the key of it. She was pleased at my pictures. It was one of her ideas that I ought to do something, and she is pleased to find that I have buckled to work in earnest, just as she would be pleased if Parliament would pass a law giving to women some of the rights which she has taken it into her head they are deprived of. However, perhaps it is better as it is. If anything happens to me to-morrow, she will be sorry for a week or two just as she would if she lost any other friend, while if Arnold Dampierre goes down Minette will for a time be like a mad woman. At any rate my five thousand will help her to carry out her crusade. I should imagine that she won't get much aid in that direction from her father.

"Halloa, I know that man's face," he broke off as he noticed a well-dressed man turn in at the door of a quiet-looking residence he was just approaching, "I know his face well; he is an Englishman, too, but I can't think where I have seen him." He could not have told himself why he should have given the question a second thought, but the face kept haunting him in spite of the graver matters in his mind, and as he reached the door of his lodgings he stopped suddenly.

"I have it," he exclaimed, "it is Cumming, the manager of the bank, the fellow that ruined it and then absconded. I saw they were looking for him in Spain and South America and a dozen other places, and here he is. By Jove, he is a clever fellow. I suppose he came here as soon as the war broke out, knowing very well that the police would have plenty of other things to think of besides inquiring as to the antecedents of Englishmen who took up their residence here. Of course he has been absolutely safe since the fall of the Empire. The fellow has grown a beard and mustache; that is why I did not recognize him at first. Of course he has taken another name. Well, I don't know that it is any business of mine. He got off with some money, but I don't suppose it was any great sum. At any rate it would not be enough to make any material difference to the creditors of the bank. However, I will think it over later on. There is no hurry about the matter. He is here till the siege is over, and I should certainly like to have a talk with him. I have never been able to get it quite out of my mind that there has been something mysterious about the whole affair as far as my father was concerned, though where the mystery comes in is more than I can imagine. I expect it is simply because I have never liked Brander, and have always had a strong idea that our popular townsman was at bottom a knave as well as a humbug."

Mary Brander went about her work very quietly all day, and more than one of the wounded patients remarked the change in her manner.

"Mademoiselle is suffering to-day," one of them said to her, as he missed the ring of hopefulness and cheeriness with which she generally spoke to him.

"I am not feeling well, I have a bad headache; and moreover I have friends in the sortie that is to be made to-night."

"Ah, yes, mademoiselle, there must be many sad hearts in Paris. As for me, my spirits have risen since I heard it. At last we are going to begin in earnest and it is time. I only wish I could have been well enough to have taken my share in it. It is tiresome to think that I have been wounded in a trifling skirmish. I should not have minded if it had been tomorrow, so that, when I am an old man, I might tell my grandchildren that I got that scar on the day when we drove the Prussians from the front of Paris. That would have been something to say. Courage, mademoiselle, after all there are twenty who get through these things safely, to every one that is hit, and your friends will be covered with glory."

"I hope that it will be as you think," she said, "but it may be the other way, and that the sortie will fail."

"You must not think that," he said. "We have not had a fair chance before, now we have got one. But even should we not win the first time, we will the second or the third. What, are Frenchmen always to be beaten by these Prussians? They have beaten us of late, because we have been badly led; but there must come another Jena to us one of these days."

Mary nodded and then passed on to the next patient. In the evening the news came that things were not all in readiness, and that the sortie was deferred at least for twenty-four hours.

"You are not well, Miss Brander," the chief surgeon of the hospital said to her soon afterwards, "I have noticed all day that you have been looking fagged and worn out. As it is certain now that we shall have no unusual pressure upon our resources for another thirty-six hours at any rate, I think you had better go home."

"I have a bad headache," she said.

"Yes, I can see that, and your hand is as cold as ice. Go home, child, and have a long night's rest. This sort of work is very trying until one gets hardened to it. Fortunately I have no lack of assistance. If you do not feel better to-morrow morning take another twenty-four hours off duty. You are likely to want all your strength and nerve on Monday if this affair comes off in earnest, which I own I am inclined to doubt, for, so far, there has been no shadow of earnestness about anything since the siege began."



Chapter XII.


The Franc-tireurs des Ecoles had marched out beyond the walls when the order came that the affair was postponed, and that they would not be required till the following day, when they were to parade at daybreak. There was much indignation at the change and all sorts of causes were suggested for it. One rumor was to the effect that the pontoon bridges for crossing the river were of insufficient length. Others said that the train of provisions that was to accompany the force after it had cut its way through the Prussians was not ready. One rumor was to the effect that the Prussians had been apprised by spies of Trochu's intentions and had massed heavy bodies of men at the threatened point. The most generally received opinion was that Trochu's object had been only to make a demonstration on this side of Paris, with the object of deceiving the Prussians and inducing them to weaken their lines at other points, and that the real attack would be made in another direction altogether.

"It is a nuisance whichever way it is," Cuthbert said, as, after the corps was dismissed, he walked back with a group of his friends, "it is a mistake too. We had all got ourselves up to boiling heat, and had made up our minds to go through with it, and this delay is like a dash of cold water. Of course it is the same with the rest of the force. One hates being humbugged, and it makes one doubt whether our generals know their business. Well, there is one thing, the delay won't be a long one; it is eight o'clock now, and as we must be up by six, I shall turn in at once and get a good sleep. Be sure and don't forget your flasks in the morning. The weather gets colder and colder."

The next morning, however, the men were again dismissed after parade, and told they were to fall in again at daybreak next day. There was a feeling of restlessness and disquiet throughout Paris. The town was placarded with proclamations of Trochu and Ducrot. The latter was a sort of valedictory letter to Paris, saying that he was going out to conquer or to die, and that if defeated, he would never return to Paris alive. It was evident by their tone that at the time the proclamations were penned it was intended that the battle should take place on that day, and that the delay was consequent upon a breakdown in the arrangements and was not the result of any fixed plan.

Paris for once was serious. Special services were held in all the churches and these were thronged by citizens and soldiers. Cuthbert went to the building where a few of the English residents attended service throughout the siege. Mary Brander was not present, but as she had said the day before that she would be on duty for twenty-four hours, he had not expected to see her.

In the afternoon he went to a restaurant and dined fairly well, indulging himself in all the luxuries obtainable, and then returned and spent the evening with René and Pierre. The next morning, when he dressed himself for parade, he took the precaution of putting on as many articles of underclothing as he could button his tunic over. This time there was no mistake in the orders, as not a few of those who fell in had hoped in their hearts might be the case. As soon as the corps was formed up and their arms and ammunition-pouches examined, the word was given and they marched away towards the gate of Charenton and issued out. Many bodies of troops were converging upon it and the other gates on that side of the city, with trains of ammunition and supply wagons, and there was a delay of an hour before they could pass out. The greater part of the force had left the city on the two previous days, and a hundred thousand men under Ducrot were massed in the Bois de Vincennes and between that point and the neck of the loop formed by the Marne.

The Franc-tireurs were halted near Charenton, and learning that the attack would not take place till night, the colonel took possession of an empty barn near the village. The men piled their arms outside and made themselves as comfortable as they could. Now that there was no longer any doubt that an engagement would take place in a few hours the natural light-heartedness of the students revived. All had brought with them a good store of provisions in their haversacks, and each man carried a thick blanket besides his military cloak. Many of them had, in addition to their flasks, slipped a bottle of wine into their haversacks, and a meal was joyously partaken of, after which pipes were lighted, and with their blankets wrapt round their legs, all were inclined to agree that campaigning even in winter had its pleasures.

"We are a deal better off than most of the troops," Cuthbert said to Arnold Dampierre, "it must be bitter in the snow out in the woods, and it will be worse when it gets dark."

"It is better for all than it was for our fellows in the South," Dampierre said. "We have warm clothes and plenty to eat. They were in rags and often well-nigh starving."

"Yes, that must have been a very rough business. It is a great advantage that we are Franc-tireurs and therefore free, to a great extent, to follow our own devices. I heard the colonel say that when he had applied for orders he was told that none would be given to detached corps like his, but that now, as at other times, they must make themselves useful when they saw an opportunity. The line are to cross first, then the mobile, and then the active battalions of the National Guards. If I judge the colonel rightly he will manage to put us somewhere in front. We stand well after that affair at Bourget, so I have no doubt he will get us across one of the bridges as soon as the line are over."

Soon after four o'clock it began to get dusk.

The colonel, who had been away endeavoring to find out what was the general plan of operations, returned soon after. The officers gathered round him.

"Pontoon bridges will be thrown across the river on both sides of the loop. The pontonners will set to work on them when it is dark. I fancy the real attack will be through Champigny, and that on the other side will be more of the nature of a false alarm; so we will go with the main force. There are some strong batteries erected in the loop which will prepare the way for us and a big train of field-guns. The troops will begin to cross at early daylight, so we can't do better than remain where we are until five o'clock. Then we will go and take our place near one of the bridges and slip across as soon as we see an opportunity. With such a mass of troops to move, there are sure to be delays in bringing the regiments up, and the first that occurs, we will slip in and get over. The men may as well lie down at once and get a good night."

It needed somewhat close packing for the men to rest themselves, but the crowding was more than counter balanced by the warmth, and it was not long before all were asleep. At one o'clock in the morning, they were awakened by a tremendous cannonade. All the forts round Paris had suddenly opened fire upon the German positions. Believing that the enemy must have obtained a knowledge of the approaching sortie and were anticipating it by assaulting the forts, the colonel ordered the men to stand to their arms. In an hour the firing ceased and all was quiet again. The men, with a little grumbling at being taken out and chilled in the night air, returned to the barn. At four o'clock they were again aroused by the fire being resumed.

"We may as well be off, lads," the colonel said, "we have some distance to march, and it is not worth while to turn in again."

Between the reports of the guns a dull rumbling sound could be heard.

"The artillery and train are on the move," Cuthbert said to René, who was next to him in the ranks, "so we shall not be too soon if we are to take our share in the early part of the fighting."

They left the main road and followed the fields, as many of them were well acquainted with the country, and they had no difficulty in keeping in the right direction. The men marched at ease, each picking his way as best he could across the ground, which was broken up into small enclosures and gardens. They halted outside a village on the banks of the Marne where one of the pontoon bridges had been thrown across. Here they piled arms and endeavored to keep themselves warm by stamping their feet and swinging their arms.

Soon after morning dawned, heavy firing broke out suddenly behind them. The colonel had learnt at Charenton that General Vinoy, with 15,000 men, was to advance from between the southern forts to attack Ville Juif and the heights of Mesly, so as to induce a concentration of the enemy in that direction, and so to diminish the difficulties of the main advance.

For a time there was a sound of cannon only, then came a crackle of musketry telling that the advance had begun. The battery on the commanding position of St. Maur opened in earnest, and was aided by several batteries of field artillery, the din being now incessant. Gradually the rattle of musketry became fainter, showing that the French were driving the enemy back, and a mounted officer riding past told them that Montmesly was taken. The news raised the spirits of the soldiers to the highest point, and their impatience was becoming almost uncontrollable, when the order arrived for them to advance, and the troops at once began to cross the six pontoon bridges that had been thrown at different points across the Marne.

"There is no hurry, mes braves," the colonel said, as the Franc-tireurs stamped with impatience as they saw the columns crossing the river, while they remained in enforced inactivity. "At first the troops will carry all before them as Vinoy's men have done. The fighting will only commence in earnest when the Prussians bring up their supports. We shall be in time for that, never fear. We ought to have begun at daybreak," he growled, in a low voice, to the major, "four precious hours have been wasted. By this time we ought to have gained at least three or four miles of ground; in that case we might have been through the Prussian lines before sunset. Every hour in these short days is of importance."

Presently the roll of musketry showed that the French skirmishers were engaged with the German outposts. The Franc-tireurs had by this time moved down close to the bridge; but it was not until midday that they were able to cross; then the colonel, taking advantage of a short delay on the part of one of the regiments to come up to the bridge, pushed the men across, and leaving the road took them forward at the double. By this time the roar of battle was unbroken. The batteries along the heights behind them, the forts, and the field-guns in advance were all hard at work, the shell flying over the heads of the advancing troops and bursting in the villages held by the Germans. In front, the rattle of musketry was deafening. Champigny, they learned from a wounded soldier who was making his way to the rear, had been carried, and the troops there had pushed some distance forward, but on the left Villiers-la-Desert was found to be too strongly fortified to be taken. The French batteries were, however, raining shell upon it.

As the Franc-tireurs approached Champigny they saw that the place had not been taken without a severe struggle. The bodies of French soldiers strewed the ground thickly, and as they passed through the streets, the Saxon uniforms were mingled with those of their assailants. The corps pushed forward until they ascended the low hills behind the village. Here they found the French troops halted. It was evident Ducrot did not intend to advance further until joined by the whole of his command.

"This is pure madness," the colonel said; "by to-morrow we shall have fifty thousand Germans in front of us. If Ducrot hasn't got his whole force, and his train and ambulances up, he might at least carry Villiers by assault. Of course it could not be done without loss, but what have we come out for but to fight. We cannot advance as long as they hold that place, for when their supports come up, as you may be sure they will do ere long, they can pour out from there and take us in the rear. However, we may as well go forward to the skirmishing line. We will work down by the right. If the German supports come up they are likely to advance that way, and as I hear no firing in that quarter, we may find some spot unoccupied by the line."

The order was given, and the corps marched off, and presently took up their position between the river and the French regiment forming the extreme right flank of the advance. In extended order and taking advantage of every inequality of the ground, they pushed on, and after advancing a quarter of a mile, were brought to a standstill by a sudden outbreak of musketry fire at various points along the crest of a slight rise some six hundred yards in front of them. Taking cover behind a low wall running at right angles to the river, they opened a dropping fire in return. This, however, was at once stopped by the colonel, who himself went along the line.

"Don't throw away a shot, lads," he said, "you may want every cartridge before you have done. It will be time enough to begin when they show in force over that crest."

There was no more for the men to do than there had been when they were waiting for their turn to cross the bridge, but they were satisfied, now they were in the front line, and within shot of the enemy. The march had set their blood in circulation, and while two or three of each company kept a keen lookout over the top of the wall, the others laughed and joked, after first employing themselves in knocking holes through the wall, a few inches above the ground, so that they could lie and fire through if the enemy advanced. The musketry fire had almost ceased away to their right, and they hoped that Vinoy had established himself well out in that direction. Various were the conjectures as to why the advance had ceased on their own side. Some conjectured that Trochu's plan consisted only in crossing the river and then marching back again in order to accustom the troops to stand fire. One suggested that the general had come out without ink or paper with which to write his grandiose proclamations to the Parisians, and they were waiting until it had been fetched from his office.

"What do you think, Henri?" René asked the lieutenant.

"I should say," he said, gravely, "that when our advance came upon the real Prussian line of defence, they found it too strong to be carried. They must have known that they could never hold Champigny under the fire of our guns and forts, and used it only as an outpost. Of course it is from this side they would think it likely that we should try to break out, and they would certainly erect batteries to command all the roads. They have had nothing else to do for the last ten weeks."

"I have no doubt that is partly the reason, Henri," Cuthbert said, "but I think it may be principally due to the fact that Ducrot can't get his troops across the river. Even with a well-organized army and a good staff, and commanding officers who all know their duty, it is a big job to get a hundred thousand men, with artillery, ambulances, and trains across a river. Here, with the exception of Ducrot himself and a few of the line officers, nobody knows anything about the matter. By what we saw, I should think there are not more than twenty thousand men across the river, and the confusion on the other side must be frightful. We ourselves saw that the street of that village was absolutely choked up with wagons, and I have no doubt all the roads are the same. Of course they never ought to have moved forward at all till all the troops were over. If Trochu really meant to break out, the north is the side where he should have tried. The whole force could have been massed between the walls and St. Denis and have been marched in regular order against the Prussians, with the field-batteries at intervals and the trains following at a proper distance on the various lines of roads.

"I hope that is his plan still, and that this attack from the South is only a feint to draw as many of the Germans as possible over to this side. We have a tremendous advantage in having this short line to march across. If Trochu were to send the train off at once, while we recrossed and followed as soon as it was dark, the whole army might be outside the northern wall before morning. To-morrow we might get into position for attack, make all the arrangements, and advance far enough to dash forward at their lines as soon as it is light next day, and with Ducrot's and Vinoy's force united, we ought to go right through them. We should have 115,000 men, and I don't suppose they could oppose us with a third of that number. However strong their positions, we ought to be able to carry them if we went at them with a rush. Besides, we should have the guns at the northern forts to help us. At any rate, after this delay here, I consider the idea of any further advance in this direction to be out of the question. By to-morrow morning they may have a hundred thousand men facing us, and if we don't recross to-night, we may find it very difficult business to do so to-morrow."

"We have got the batteries and forts to cover us," Henri Vaucour said. "The Germans could never advance against us in force under their fire."

"I hope we are going to cross this evening, if we are going to cross at all," Pierre Leroux said. "It is cold enough now, but if we are going to pass the night here, it will be bitter."

"There are those houses by the river, we are a good deal nearer to them than any other troops," Arnold Dampierre said; "they will hold us if we pack in pretty closely."

As the afternoon wore on, the colonel sent two officers to inspect the houses, which were all found to be empty. As soon as he received the report, he sent twenty men off with orders to cut down hedges and form fagots, and then to light fires in each room. There was no further movement. A heavy musketry fire was kept up far away to the left, and the batteries occasionally fired heavily; but all idea of movement was evidently abandoned for the day, and the enemy were not in sufficient force to take the offensive.

As soon as it became dark, therefore, half a company were left on guard at the wall, and the rest of the corps marched off to the houses. Roaring fires were blazing in every room, for some fruit trees had been cut down and split up into logs. The party on guard were to be relieved every two hours. As soon as the men were bestowed in their quarters, the major went off to discover, if possible, what had been the result of the fighting on the other side of the loop. It was two hours before he returned, and the news he brought was dispiriting.

"I have been up to Creteil," he said, "and have learnt from the people there who saw the whole affair what has happened. The advance was good. We swept the Germans at first before us, and for a time our fellows made a stand on the crest of Montmesly. But the enemy were reinforced and drove us down the hill again. Then came a disgraceful panic. The soldiers who had fought fairly at first, became a mob; the mobile, who had not done as well as had been expected, were worse. There was a battalion of the National Guard of Belleville, and the scoundrels ran without firing a shot. At Creteil the men absolutely fought to get through the street. It was disgraceful. I hear that further to the right the line did better, and that we still hold Ville Juif and other villages well in advance of our old position. That is all I could learn. They say our losses have been pretty heavy; at any rate Creteil is full of wounded, and the ambulances are taking them into Paris. There is great confusion on the other side of the river. The roads are all choked with the wagon-trains. Nobody has got any orders, nobody knows what is going to be done, no one knows where Ducrot or Trochu are. It is enough to make one tear one's hair to see such confusion and mismanagement."

The night passed off quietly. The next day, to the surprise of everyone, things remained unchanged. No effort was made to pass the baggage-train over the bridges. A portion of the troops had been put under canvas the first evening, and save for the dead still lying about, the broken arms, the stains of blood, and the parties engaged in carrying the wounded across the river to the ambulance wagons, and others burying the dead, the scene differed little from an ordinary encampment. The troops laughed and jested round the camp-fires, and occupied themselves with their cooking; the horses that had been killed were already but skeletons, the flesh having been cut off for food. The advance parties had been called in, and a barricade thrown up just beyond Champigny, where the advance guard occasionally exchanged shots with the Prussians a few hundred yards away. Strong parties were at work erecting a series of earthworks on the hill.

The Franc-tireurs fell back from the position they had held the night before, and established themselves in a few houses, half roofless and shattered by shell, between Champigny and the river. Most of the houses in the long straggling street of Champigny bore marks of the conflict that had raged there before the Saxons had been driven out. Fortunately large stores of straw were found in the village, and these added much to the comfort of the troops, and the Franc-tireurs carried off a good many trusses to their quarters. Considerable amounts of other stores were also discovered there, and were thoroughly appreciated by the soldiers after their restricted rations.

They smoked their pipes that evening feeling thankful that as they lay behind Champigny there was no occasion for them to turn out on outpost duty.

"They say we shall fight again to-morrow for certain," René said.

"I think it likely we shall, René, but I should be inclined to bet ten to one, that it is the Prussians who will attack. They will have had forty-eight hours to mass their forces here, and will be fools if they don't take advantage of the opportunity we have been good enough to give them."

Day was just breaking when a sharp rattle of musketry broke out. The Franc-tireurs sprang to their feet.

"I should have won my bet, René, if you had taken it," Cuthbert exclaimed, as he slung his cartridge-box over his shoulder. "They are on us all along the line."

In less than a minute the rattle of musketry swelled into a continuous roar, above which came the boom of cannon and the explosion of shells in and around Champigny. Just as the corps was formed up, the heavy guns in the battery of St. Maur behind them opened fire, their deep roar sounding loud above the sharp explosion of the Prussian field-guns. As they advanced at the double towards the village, they could see a mob of panic-stricken men rushing from the front.

"The cowards, the vile cowards!" broke from the lips of the men, and as some of the fugitives ran past them, they saluted them with yells and cries of contempt. Fully five thousand panic-stricken men were in wild flight, all rushing towards the bridge.

"If I were the commander of St. Maur," René said, "I would turn my guns upon these cowards. They are greater enemies to France than are the Prussians."

"Forward, my children," shouted the old colonel, "let us show them that there are still some Frenchmen ready to fight and die for their country."

The officer in command of St. Maur, and the general on the spot, were equal to the situation. Seventy or eighty field-pieces were massed round the redoubt, and a tremendous fire opened upon the Prussian batteries out on the plain, while a strong guard was sent down to the end of the bridge to bar the way to the mob of fugitives. The Germans had already obtained possession of the other end of the village when the Franc-tireurs entered it, but a small body of troops were standing firm. Some barricades thrown up across the street were manned, and from these and from every house they replied to the fire of the advancing Prussians. But the latter were still pushing on, wresting house by house from their hands, while a hail of shell from the German batteries fell upon the part of the village still held by the French. As the Franc-tireurs advanced the colonel ordered one company to wheel off on either hand to occupy the gardens behind the houses, and so prevent the enemy from taking the defenders in the rear. He himself pressed forward down the street to aid the soldiers at the barricades.

The sun had by this time risen, and its light, glinting on the Prussian helmets, showed strong bodies advancing down the slopes into the village. The woods on either hand were still held by the French, but the irregular fire showed that they were not in strong force. The din was terrific, three or four of the French mitrailleuses were adding to the roar, and sending streams of bullets into the advancing Germans. Nerved by the desperation of the situation, and fiercely angered at the cowardice of their countrymen, the young artists of Cuthbert's company dashed forward, climbing walls, bursting through hedges, burning with eagerness to meet the foe.

The Prussian shells were bursting all round, bullets sang above and around them, the rattle of musketry grew louder and fiercer, but there was not a moment's check until François des Valles shouted to them to halt behind a low wall. The enemy were but a hundred yards away, pressing forward through the gardens.

"Steady men, steady," he shouted. "Lie down for a minute to get breath, then let every other man open fire, but don't throw away a shot. Let the others try and get some stones out of the wall and make loop-holes."

As yet they had not been seen by the Germans, and these were but fifty yards away in a thick line of skirmishers, when Des Valles gave the word, and the Franc-tireurs, rising on one knee and resting their muskets on the wall, opened a steady fire upon them. Many fell, and taken by surprise the rest ran back to a wall some thirty yards in rear and thence opened a heavy fire.

"Lie down, lads," Des Valles shouted, and all set to work to loop-hole the wall. "Don't show your heads above it, unless they advance again. All we have got to do is to hold our ground."



Chapter XIII.


By the aid of their sword-bayonets the Franc-tireurs soon pierced the wall, and lying at full length a yard apart, replied to the enemy's fire. Through the smoke they could just make out the upper line of the wall, and as the Prussians stood up to fire picked them off. Henri Vaucour crept along the line urging the men to fire slowly.

"They will advance presently," he said. "You can tell by the fire that they are getting thicker and thicker. We must check their rush."

Five minutes later there was a deep cheer and a crowd of dark figures leaped over the wall. A flash of fire ran along the line of defenders, and then as fast as the Chassepots could be reloaded a rolling fire broke out. So heavy was it that before crossing a third of the intervening space the Germans wavered, hesitated, and then ran back to their shelter.

"Bravo! bravo!" Des Valles shouted, springing to his feet in his excitement, but as he spoke the enemy's fire broke out again, "Vive la France!" he shouted, and then fell heavily backwards.

His fall was noticed only by those nearest to him, for the Franc-tireurs were all busy. The rattle of musketry in the houses to their right showed that the French were still holding their own.

The Germans were apparently waiting for reinforcements before they attempted another rush against the position held by their invisible foes. They in turn loop-holed the wall they held and the musketry duel continued. Between the walls were two lines of low hedges, but the leaves had fallen and each party could see the loopholes through which their opponents fired. Henri Vaucour, who was now in command, ordered half the men to crawl back to the next wall some fifty paces in the rear and to loop-hole that.

"The next time they come," he said, "they will be too strong for us and we must fall back." The remainder of the men he placed near the two ends of the wall, so that as they fell back their comrades behind could open their fire and so cover their retreat. It was another quarter of an hour before the Germans made a move. Then a great body of men sprang over the wall. Forty rifles were discharged simultaneously, then Henri's whistle rang out. The men leaped to their feet, and at the top of their speed ran to the wall behind them, from which their comrades were pouring a stream of fire into the Germans. Several fell as they ran, the rest on gaining the wall threw themselves over, and as soon as they had reloaded joined its defenders. The Germans, however, were still pressing on, when they were taken in flank by a heavy fire from the back of the houses held by the French, and they got no farther than the wall that had just been vacated. Then the musketry duel recommenced under the same conditions as before. The company had already lost thirty men, ten lay by the wall they had defended, killed by bullets that had passed through the loop-holes; eight more were stretched on the ground that they had just traversed. The rest had made their way to the rear, wounded. Cuthbert had had a finger of the left hand carried away as he was in the act of firing. He had felt a stinging blow but had thought little of it until he had taken his position behind the second wall.

"Tie my handkerchief over this, René," he said, "fortunately it is only the left hand, and a finger more or less makes little odds. Where is Dampierre? I don't see him."

"I am afraid he is lying under that wall there," Rend said; "at any rate I don't see him here; he ought to be the third man from me. Minette will go out of her mind if he is killed," but they had no further time for talking, and as soon as his hand was bandaged, Cuthbert took his place at a loophole.

"I think things are better," he said, after a few minutes, to Rend. "The shells are not falling round us as they did. The heavy guns at St. Maur must have silenced the German batteries, and I fancy, by the heavy firing from the other end of the village, that we have been reinforced."

This was indeed the case. For some time the Prussians continued to make obstinate efforts to advance, but gradually the number of defenders of the village increased, as the French officers managed to rally small parties of the fugitives at the bridge and led them forward again, their efforts being aided by the mounted gendarmes, who, riding among the soldiers, beat them with the flat of their swords, and literally drove them forward again.

By eleven o'clock the line of the Franc-tireurs had been thickened by the fresh arrivals, and the roar of rifles along the wall was continuous. The French, who had hitherto fought silently, now began to cheer, and when a regiment came up in something like fair order through the gardens, its colonel shouted, "Forward men, and drive the Germans out."

With a cheer of anticipated triumph those who had so stubbornly defended the position sprang up, and the whole rushed forward against the enemy. A tremendous volley flashed from the wall in front of them. Cuthbert felt that he was falling. The thought flashed through his mind that his foot had caught in something, and then he knew nothing more. When he recovered consciousness he was lying with a score of others on the floor of a kitchen. There was a gaping hole in the roof and loop-holes in the walls, but of this at present he saw nothing. A man with a lantern was standing beside him? while another was doing something, he didn't know what, to him.

"What is it?" he muttered.

"You are wounded, mon brave, and seriously I am afraid, but not fatally -- at least I hope not."

"Is this Champigny?"

"Yes."

"Then we have held the village?"

"Yes, we beat the Prussians back all along the line, they could not stand our artillery-fire. There, I have bandaged you up for the present, to-morrow morning you will be taken into Paris."

"I should like to go to the American ambulance, if you can manage it, Doctor," Cuthbert said. "I am an Englishman and have friends there."

"I will manage it if I can for you, lad. Your corps has done splendidly to-day. Everyone says if it had not been for you, Champigny would have been lost. So you well deserve anything I can do for you."

The desperate defence of Champigny had indeed saved that portion of the French army across the river from destruction. It had given time for the fugitives to rally, and as if ashamed of the panic to which they had given way, they had afterwards fought steadily and well, and had driven the Germans back beyond the line they had occupied the night before, Brie-sur-Marne being now in the possession of the French, having been carried by a desperate assault, in which General Ducrot led the way at the head of the troops. During the various operations they had lost about 1,000 killed and 5,000 wounded.

The four days that had elapsed since Mary Brander had said good-bye to Cuthbert at the entrance to the ambulance, had effected a marked change in her appearance. She had returned to her work on the Monday morning, but no fresh cases had come in, for there had been a lull in the skirmishes at the outposts. During the last few days the beds had been cleared out as much as possible to make room for the expected influx, and there was but little for her to do. After going round the tent of which she had charge, the American surgeon put his hand upon her shoulder.

"You are no better, Miss Brander," he said. "This is too much for you. I did not expect to see you break down, for I have noticed that your nerves were as steady as those of an old hospital nurse. Though you naturally lost your color, when standing by with the sponge at some of those operations, there was no flinching or hesitation; but I see that, though you did not show it at the time, it has told upon you. I shall be sorry to lose your services, especially at the present moment; but I think you had better give it up for a time. We have plenty of volunteers, you know."

"I will stay on, if you please, Dr. Swinburne. It is not the work, but the suspense, that has upset me. One has been expecting this dreadful battle to begin for the last three days, and to know that at any moment now 200,000 men may fly at each other, and that thousands upon thousands may be killed is almost too awful to think about. The silence seems so oppressive, one knows that they are gathering and preparing, and that while all seems so still, we may suddenly hear the roar of the cannon all round. I think when it once begins I shall be myself again. It is the waiting that is so oppressive."

"I can understand that," he said, kindly. "It is the same thing with the troops themselves. It is the pause before a great battle that shakes the nerves of the men. As soon as the work begins the feeling passes off and the man who, a few minutes before, was as weak as a child, feels the blood rushing hotly through his veins, and the burning desire to get at his enemy overpowers all sense of danger. Well, as there is really nothing for you to do to-day, for there are three of you in this tent and only four beds occupied, you had better put your bonnet on again, child; a brisk walk will be the best thing for you; try and interest yourself in what you see passing round you. From what I hear the fighting will not begin until to-morrow morning, and it must be later in the day before the wounded begin to come in. So, though you can return and take charge again to-night if you like, there will be really no occasion for you to do so until to-morrow, say at twelve o'clock; but mind, unless you are looking a good deal better, I shall send you off again; my assistants will need all their nerve for the work we are likely to have on hand. Indeed, I must beg you to do so, Miss Brander, nothing is so trying as sitting in idleness. I shall really want your services to-morrow, and for my own sake, as well as yours, I must insist upon my orders being obeyed."

Mary Brander conscientiously tried to carry out the doctor's instructions, walked briskly along the Boulevards, and then going up the Champs Elysées, and turning to the left, went to the edge of the plateau above the river, and there sat down on a bench and looked over the country to the south. There were many groups of people gathered at this point; most of them, doubtless, like herself, had friends in the army gathered outside the walls, and were too anxious and restless to remain indoors; but although her eyes were fixed on the country beyond the forts, Mary Brander did not take in the scene. She was thinking, as she had been for the last two days, and was full of regrets for the past. She had not altogether admitted this to herself, but she knew now that it was so, although she had fought hard and angrily with herself before she owned it.

"He was right," she said to herself bitterly, "when he said that I had not yet discovered that I had a heart as well as a head. We are miserable creatures, we women. A man can go straight on his way through life -- he can love, he can marry, but it makes no change in his course. I know I read somewhere that love is but an incident in a man's life, while it is a woman's all, or something of that sort. I laughed at the idea then as absurd -- now that it is too late I see it is true. He loved me, or, at least he liked me so much that he thought it was love. I laughed at him, I told him he was not worthy of a woman's love. He went away. Here was an end of it, as far as he was concerned. He lost his property and took to work nobly, and when we met he was just the same as he had been before, and treated me as if I had been a cousin, and has no doubt laughed many a time at the thought of that morning in the garden at Newquay, and indeed thought so little of it that he did not mind my seeing all those sketches of that woman in his note-books.

"There were three or four of them, too, stuck up on the walls of his room. Of course she goes there. He said she was a model. Of course he is fond of her. I should not have thought it of him, but men are wicked and women are fools," she added, after a pause, "and I do think that I am one of the most foolish of them. I am like a child who throws away a toy one minute and cries for it the next. It is horrid, and I am ashamed of myself, downright ashamed. I hate myself to think that just because a man is nice to me, and leaves me two pictures if he is killed, that I am to make myself miserable about him, and to feel that I could give up all my plans in life for his sake. I understand now how it is that women are content to remain what they are. It is because nature made them so. We are like weathercocks, and have no fixed point, but can be turned by a passing breath.

"We have no rights because we are content to remain slaves. Here is my life spoilt. A week ago I was my own mistress and felt as free and independent as any man; now a thrill runs through me at ever cannon-shot. The things that had seemed so important to me then do not occupy a thought now. However, I hope I am not quite a fool. I shall shake it off in time perhaps," and she smiled pitifully, "it will even do me good. I shall understand things better. Anna used to tell me I was intolerant and made no allowance for human nature. I laughed then, but she was right. When this is all over I shall go away. I don't suppose I shall ever see him again, and I will make up my mind not to think of him any more. I wonder what he is doing now, whether his corps went out last night or will go to-day. I hope they won't be in front. They have no right to put volunteers in front when they have got regular soldiers. It is downright wicked that he should have enlisted when it was no business of his. I wonder she let him do it."

Then she broke off, rose to her feet suddenly, and with an angry exclamation, "Mary Brander, you are a weak fool," she started back at a quick pace and with head erect. Again she walked round the Boulevards, and having thoroughly tired herself, made her way home, drank a cup of bouillon made from horse-flesh, went straight to bed and sobbed herself to sleep. She woke up with a start. The house shook with the explosion of heavy guns. She sprang up and went to her window, threw it open, and looked out.

She could see Forts Issy and Vanvres. Both were firing heavily, while between the booms of their guns she could hear the reports of others. No flashes came back from Meudon or any of the Prussian positions. Nor, though she held her breath to listen, could she hear the sound of musketry. She struck a match and looked at her watch. It was but one o'clock. She closed her window and wrapping herself up in her dressing-gown sat there for some time looking out. Presently the fire slackened and she crept back into bed, but again rose when the forts re-opened fire. Then feeling that sleep was impossible she lighted a candle and forced herself to read until daylight. She was dressing when the roar again broke out. This time it was away to the left. She threw on her things, put on her bonnet and cloak, and went out of her room just as M. Michaud issued from his.

"You are going out, mademoiselle. So am I. I will walk with you if you will allow me. I think the real thing has begun. The firing last night was only, I fancy, to rouse the Germans and make them pass as bad a night as our men were doing, but I think this is the real thing."

Mary was glad of his escort, it seemed to make it more bearable to have someone to speak to. In a few minutes they reached the spot where she had sat the day before. A crowd were already collected.

"Where is it?" M. Michaud asked, as they joined a group who were gathered near the edge of the plateau.

"It is from the southern forts that they are firing," the man said; "look at the smoke rolling up from them; they are clearing the way for our men. There, do you see that puff of smoke away on the right? That is from a battery up at Creteil, and now the Prussian guns on Montmesly, and all the way round Ville Juif, are answering. The affair is becoming hot. Listen, the Chassepots are at work."

Indeed, between the sounds of the cannon a continuous murmur could be heard. It sounded like a railway train passing over a distant viaduct.

"Is there any place where we can see better from?"

"You would see better from the wall over on that side, but no one is allowed there; half the National Guard are under arms, and have taken the places on the walls of the mobiles, who have gone out."

"It is wretched seeing nothing here," she said, feverishly. "Do you think we could get up to the top of the tower of Notre Dame?"

"It is a long way off," M. Michaud said, "and if people are permitted there you may be sure by this time there is not standing room. Besides, even from there the distance would be too great to make out the movements of the troops."

Mary felt that he was right, and with a little shiver said, "I will hurry back now and will then go down to the ambulance."

She swallowed a cup of coffee in which two eggs from the hidden store had been beaten up; ate a piece of bread, and then started off. As she went along she gathered from the talk in the streets that things were believed to be going on well. The musketry was certainly a good deal further off, and a light smoke was rising fur out upon the plain. "They say that we have captured Montmesly, and on this side cannot be far from Ville Juif."

"Ah, these Prussians have begun to learn what Paris can do."

"I expect William and Bismarck are by this time packing up at Versailles," another said. "They will know that their day has come to an end; everyone says they will both be hung if we catch them."

Mary hurried on. She knew that hours must elapse before the wounded could be brought in, but felt a feverish anxiety to be at the ambulance and to hear what was said there. Just before she reached it the roar of the distant combat suddenly increased, but it seemed to her further away to the left. Dr. Swinburne was standing outside the tents when she came up.

"Do you know what is going on, sir?" she asked, breathlessly, as she came up to him.

"I believe that the first firing you heard was the advance of Vinoy, who moved out under cover of the guns of the southern forts. From all I hear he has advanced a considerable distance across the plain. I believe that the firing that has just begun away to the west, is the real battle. Ducrot is out there with 100,000 men, and Vinoy's attack is but a feint to draw the Prussians to the south, and so clear the way for Ducrot, who crosses the Marne and advances through Champigny. I heard the plan last night from one of Trochu's staff. It seems a good one, and if it is carried out with spirit I see no reason why it should not succeed. Your rest has done you good, Miss Brander; your eyes are brighter and you look more like yourself."

"I feel better, Doctor. I have been rating myself soundly and it has done me good. I feel quite ready for work again."

The doctor detected a little pathetic ring beneath the almost defiant tone in which she uttered the words, but he only said -- 

"We all have need of a scolding occasionally, it acts as a tonic. I should rather like to be braced up myself for to-night's work."

"It is too bad," Mary said, almost indignantly. "You are always insisting on our resting ourselves and you have all the work on your shoulders. There are eight or ten of us, and you are all by yourself."

"Not quite by myself. Mr. Wingfield is of great assistance to me, and his aid will be invaluable when the rush comes. Besides, a surgeon, after the first operation or treatment, has little more to do than to watch his patient, if he has nurses that he can rely upon. As he goes his rounds he gets their reports, he knows how the patients have passed the night, and if there is any change in their condition, and if the wounds require rebandaging you are at hand with all that is necessary. It is the responsibility rather than the work which tries one. Still, if one knows that one is doing one's best, and that at any rate the wounded are very much better cared for, and have much better chances of recovery here than in the city hospitals, one must be content. Worry does no good either to one's patients or to oneself. That is a maxim that does for both of us, Miss Brander. Now you had better go in and get everything ready. It is probable that some of those wounded early this morning may soon be brought in."

Mary went in to her marque.

"The child is herself on the list of wounded," the surgeon said, as he looked after her. "She has been fighting a battle of some sort and has been hit pretty hard. Her expression has changed altogether. There was a brisk alertness about her before and she went about her work in a resolute business sort of way that was almost amusing in a girl of nineteen or twenty. It was easy to see that she had good health, plenty of sense, and an abundant confidence in herself. At one moment she would be lecturing her patients with the gravity of a middle-aged woman, and five minutes later chattering away with them like a young girl. I should have put her down as absolutely heartwhole and as never having experienced the slightest real care or trouble, as never having quite recognized that she had grown into womanhood. Well, something has occurred to alter all that. She has received a blow of some sort, and though she may soon get over it she will never be quite the same as she was before. If one wasn't so weighed down with work, and had so many serious matters to think of, she would be an interesting study. I never quite understood what on earth she is in Paris for by herself at such a time as this. But there is something that will give me other matters to think of."

The something was an ambulance wagon which, a minute later, drew up in front of the hospital, and from that moment there was, indeed, no time for doctor or nurses to give a thought to anything save the wounded men who continued to pour in until fully half the 200 beds were occupied. All these men belonged to Vinoy's division. Dr. Swinburne would take no more. There was already more work to do than he could get through before next morning, and none of the wounded who came in later from beyond the Marne were received there, but were distributed among the other hospitals and ambulances, at all of which preparations on a very large scale had been made.

By morning the most pressing part of the work had been done. The wounded had been made as far as possible comfortable. Some of the bullets had been extracted, some of the most urgent amputations made. A fresh batch of nurses arrived to take the places of the white-faced women who had nobly and steadily-borne their part in the trying work of the night.

"I thank you all, ladies," the doctor said, as they gathered outside the tents before going away. "Your assistance has been invaluable; no trained nurses could have shown more nerve and pluck than you have done. I have just learned that it is not likely that there will be a renewal of the fighting to-day, and you can therefore go home with the conviction that you can take your twenty-four hours off duty without fear that there will be any pressure in your absence. I am going to lie down myself for three hours. Even a surgeon has nerves, and I must keep mine steady. There are several operations that must be performed this afternoon and some bullets to hunt up. I beg you all to force yourselves to take something as soon as you get to your homes, and then to go to bed and sleep as long as you can."

It did not seem to Mary Brander when she started that she would be able to walk home, but the keen air revived her and she kept on until she entered Madame Michaud's flat.

"Mon Dieu, my child, how white you look," the French lady exclaimed, as the girl entered the room where she was taking her morning coffee. "What a night you must have had!"

The need for strength was past now, and Mary sank into a chair and burst into a fit of hysterical sobbing. Madame Michaud caressed and soothed her as if she had been an over-tired child.

"There," she said, when Mary recovered a little, "take this cup of coffee and drink it. I have not touched it and there are two eggs beaten up in it. Margot will make me some more in a few minutes. Here is a fresh roll. She made a batch this morning in the oven; try and eat it, my child, and drink the coffee, and then I will help you into bed."

Mary, with a great effort, ate a mouthful of bread, and drank the coffee, and in a quarter of an hour was asleep. It was growing dark when she woke, and remembering the doctor's orders she got up and went into the sitting-room. Madame Michaud kissed her affectionately.

"Now, you are looking more like yourself, my child; truly you looked like a ghost when you came in. It is the husband's turn for duty on the walls so we can sit and have a cosy chat together. Well," she went on, when Mary had taken a seat that she had placed for her by the stove, "all is going on famously. We have pushed the Germans back everywhere and Trochu's proclamation says the plans have been carried out exactly as arranged. There has not been much fighting to-day, we have hardly had a gun fired. Everyone is rejoicing, and all the world agrees that now the Prussians have seen how we can fight they will speedily take themselves off altogether."

"I hope it is so, Madame Michaud; certainly the wounded said that they had advanced a long way on the south side, but I have not heard at all what was done on the other side of the Marne. None of the wounded from there were brought to our hospital.

"Champigny was taken. They say that there was a hard fight there and we pushed the Prussians back beyond it ever so far," and Madame Michaud's arms expressed illimitable distance.

"I suppose there are no reports as to what regiments were engaged," Mary asked.

"Oh, no, but everyone says that the soldiers fought like lions and that the National Guard was splendid."

"There were none of the National Guards brought in wounded to our ambulance," Mary said. "They were all linesmen and mobiles."

"Perhaps there were no National Guards engaged on that side, my dear."

"Perhaps not," Mary agreed. "No, I think they all went out by the east gates."

"Yes, that was where Ducrot commanded and that was where the great fight was to be," Madame Michaud said, complacently; "no doubt he wanted to have the National Guards there."

Mary, having, as the result of her own observations and from imbibing the very pronunced opinions of Cuthbert as to the efficiency of the National Guard, formed an estimate the reverse of favorable to that body, made no reply, but indeed derived some little comfort from a point of view diametrically opposed to that of Madame Michaud, saying to herself that Trochu probably sent the National Guard with Ducrot because it was not likely that they would be called upon to do any serious fighting there.

"Won't you let the boys in, Madame Michaud?" she said, changing the subject. "I think their chatter would do me good, my brain seems stupid still."

The boys were brought in from the next room, where they were doing their lessons. They were full of the reports they had gathered from their school-fellows, and if but half of these had been true it was evident that the remnant of the German army were in full flight towards the frontier, and that the bravest deeds of antiquity faded into insignificance by the side of the heroism displayed by the French soldiers. Their talk and excitement had the effect of rousing Mary and preventing her thoughts reverting to the scene in the ambulance, and at half-past nine she again went off to bed feeling more like herself than she had done for some days.



Chapter XIV.


Mary Brander was, as usual, called before daylight by Margot, and was dressing when a sound like the rumbling of a heavy wagon, caused her to pause suddenly, and then hurry to the window and throw it open.

"They have begun again," she exclaimed, "and the firing is heavier than it was before. It comes from the east. It must be Trochu's force engaged again."

She hastily completed her toilet, drank off the coffee Margot had got ready for her, and then started on her way to the ambulance.

"It is louder than ever," she exclaimed. "It must be a terrible battle."

The roar of the cannon never ceased. The windows and doors were all open as she went along, and women in various states of dishabille were talking excitedly to each other from the former across the street; while the men, equally excited, were discussing the battle in groups. All agreed that the forts in the loop of the Marne were engaged. This caused some disappointment.

"We can't be so far out as we thought," one said, "or we should be beyond range of the guns."

"Perhaps the Germans are attacking us," an old man suggested, but the idea was received with derision, and Mary caught no more of the conversation as she hurried along.

It was an absolute relief to her when she entered the ambulance, for the continued roar of the guns and the thought of what was going on were well nigh intolerable to her nerves, and her hands were shaking as she removed her bonnet and cloak. Even the quiet hospital tents shared in the excitement outside. The patients whose hurts were comparatively slight were sitting up in their beds discussing the battle eagerly. Others more seriously hurt raised their heads to listen, while some lying apparently unconscious moaned and moved uneasily, muttering occasionally incoherent words, the quiver in earth and air arousing a dim sense of battle and danger.

"More work for us," Dr. Swinburne said, as he passed her, while she was trying to soothe a restless patient into quiet again.

"I am afraid so, Doctor, and by the sound it will be even worse than the last."

"The loss is not always proportionate to the noise," he said, cheerfully, "the forts may be merely preparing a way for a general advance. They said it was to begin this morning."

As before it was not until evening that the wounded began to come in. Those who were first brought were sombre and depressed. It was the Germans who were attacking; the French had been surprised and badly beaten. But later on the news was better. Champigny had been nobly defended, the French had rallied, and, after hard fighting, the Prussians were driven back and all the ground lost recovered. Some of the wounded had been among those who had defended Champigny. To these Mary put the question she had asked of others who were not too severely wounded to be able to talk. "Who had taken part in the fight?" The mobiles and the line had all been engaged.

"But there were no National Guards, Nurse."

"Had they seen any Franc-tireurs?"

Hitherto the answer to the question had been, no; but the men from Champigny gave a different answer.

Yes, a corps had fought there; they did not know who they were. They were dressed in gray. Whoever they were they fought like tigers. It was they, they all agreed, who saved Champigny.

"The Prussians were advancing," one said, "and we could not have held out much longer. They were advancing by the road, and through the gardens; it was all over with us, when the men in gray came up."

"I was at the barricade," one said, "there were not twenty of us left there when a company arrived. If they had fought in a hundred battles they could not have done better. They had their colonel with them. A fine old militaire. He was killed by my side. The Prussians never got a foot further, for though we were hard pressed again and again we held our ground till the cowards, who had run, began to come back again. It was hot, mademoiselle. I can tell you it was a rain-storm of bullets, and their shell fell every moment among us, and it would have been all up with them if the batteries had not silenced their guns."

"I was in one of the houses," his comrade put in; "we were doing our best to prevent the Prussians coming up through the gardens behind, but there were but few of us, and they were some hundreds strong. If they had gone on they would have caught us all in a trap, and we were just going to warn the others to fall back when we saw the Franc-tireurs come running up. They were smart fellows as well as brave ones. They knocked loopholes through a wall in no time and clung to it for an hour, at least. Then the Prussians were reinforced heavily. The Franc-tireurs fell back to the next wall, and when the Prussians rushed forward, they gave it them hotly while we took them in flank from the houses; they must have a hundred and fifty men left behind them when they rushed back to the wall they had advanced from.

"And did the Franc-tireurs suffer much?" Mary asked.

"I should say they lost more than half their number. When they formed up after the fighting was over and the Prussians driven back, we gave them a hearty cheer. I believe there were three companies of them when they came up, and altogether there were not more than a strong company paraded. You must not think that all the others were killed, mad'moiselle," seeing by Mary's face that the news was terrible to her. "Of those who didn't parade you may reckon that two-thirds were only wounded."

"Not so many as that," the other, who had not observed Mary's face, said, "they were not the fellows to fall out for a slight wound. Why, the best part of those who paraded had hurts, and I fancy some of them were serious, though they did their best to make light of it, and waved their caps when we cheered them. You may be sure that those who were missing must have been hard hit indeed."

"Imbecile beast," his comrade growled, as Mary moved silently away, "could you not see by her face that the girl had friends in that corps? Didn't you notice how pleased she looked when we praised their bravery and how white her face came, when I said what their losses were. I tried to comfort her by making out that most of the missing might be only wounded, and then, imbecile that you are, you break in with your talk and as good as tell her that if they ain't all dead, they are likely to be so before long."

"I would have bit my tongue out before I would have said so," the other said, penitently, "but I did not notice her looks. Do you think I would have said it if I had, just as she had been bandaging our wounds, too, like a little mother."

The Franc-tireurs remained in the village all night, and as soon as they fell out had scattered over the whole ground, collected the dead and laid them together and brought the wounded into the houses.

The soldier's estimate was not far wrong; the number of the dead exceeded that of the wounded and most of these were very seriously hurt. Of those found lying behind the walls many had been killed outright, being struck on the head by bullets through the loopholes, behind which they were firing; but of those hit during the retreat, or when at last they took the offensive, many of the wounds, though of a disabling, were not of a fatal nature. The company on the other side of the village had not been pressed so severely, but the Prussian shell had fallen thickly there, and a large proportion of the wounds were caused by fragments of shell or stone. The company which held the barricade had comparatively few wounded, but had lost half their number by bullets through the head as they fired over its crest.

It was hard work, indeed, for the surgeons and nurses that night. For many nothing could be done, they were beyond the reach of surgical aid; but not only was there the work of bandaging wounds, but of giving drink and soup to all that could take them, of writing down last messages to friends from those among the dying who retained their consciousness, or in aiding Dr. Swinburne and his assistant in their work, and in temporarily bandaging the wounds of those for whom nothing else could be done till daylight. At eight o'clock next morning an ambulance wagon drew up to the door and an orderly came in to the doctor with a message.

"I have six wounded here. The surgeon told me to tell you that one of them had particularly wished to be brought up to your ambulance, and as the others all belonged to the same corps I was to leave them here."

"I will see if there is room," the doctor said, and calling one of the gentlemen who aided in the service of the ambulance, asked him, "Do you know, Wilson, how many have died in the night?"

"Eight or ten, Doctor."

"Well, get Phillips and Grant to help you to carry out six of them; lay them in that empty tent for the present. As soon as you have done that bring the six wounded in from the wagon outside."

In a few minutes the injured men were brought in.

"Ah, they are Franc-tireurs," the doctor said.

"They are Franc-tireurs des Ecoles," the orderly, who had accompanied them, said; "the surgeon said they were all students. They deserve good treatment, Doctor, for no men could have fought better than they did. Everyone says that they saved Champigny."

"Put them together, Wilson, if you can, or at any rate in pairs. They are students of the University, the art schools, and so on. If there are not two empty beds together put them anywhere for the present; we can shift the beds about in a day or two when we get breathing-time."

"There are two vacant beds in No. 2 marque, Doctor."

The doctor stepped to the litter that had just been carried in. Its occupant was sensible.

"Is there any one of your comrades you would prefer to be placed in the bed next to you?" he asked in French.

"Yes, Doctor," he replied in English. "The tall fellow who was next to me in the wagon. I am a countryman of yours, and he is an Englishman, and we are in the same art school."

"An American?" Dr. Swinburne replied. "I am glad, indeed, they brought you here. You may be sure that we will do everything we can to make you comfortable. I will attend to you directly I have seen the others brought in."

Mary Brander's heart gave a bound as she saw the wounded man brought in, for she recognized the uniform at once. A glance, however, at the dark head reassured her. As soon as the stretcher was laid down by the bed which-was the last in the line, and the wounded man was lifted on to it she went as usual with a glass of weak spirits and water to his side.

"Will you drink, monsieur," she asked, in French.

"I am an American," he said, with a faint smile, "as I suppose you are."

"No, I am English, which is nearly the same thing."

"I must trouble you to hold it to my lips," he said, "for as you see my right arm is useless, my collar-bone is broken, I believe, and my shoulder-blade smashed. However, it might be worse."

She held a glass to his lips. As he drank a sudden thought struck her.

"Are you Arnold Dampierre?" she asked.

"That is certainly my name," he said, "though I cannot think how you guess it."

"I have heard of you from a friend of mine, Cuthbert Harrington. Can you tell me, sir, if he is hurt?"

"Then you must be Miss Brander. Yes, I am sorry to say he is hurt. I don't know how badly," he went on hurriedly, as he saw the look of pain in her face. "I did not see him until we were put in the wagon next to each other, and he was not much up to talking, and in fact its motion was too much for him and he fainted, but no doubt he will soon come round. They are bringing him into the next bed. Perhaps it will be better for you if you were to let one of the other nurses attend to him until he comes round a bit."

But Mary shook her head silently. She had been trembling as she asked the question, but she stood stiff and rigid as Cuthbert was brought up. She gave one short gasp when she saw his face as they lowered the litter to the ground. Then she hurried to the table on which the glasses were standing, poured some brandy into a tumbler, and was turning when the surgeon entered the tent. She put down the glass, hurried up to him, and laid a fluttering hand on his arm.

"Come, Doctor; please come quickly."

A momentary flash of surprise crossed his face. However, he said nothing but quickened his steps and stood by the pallet on to which Cuthbert had just been lifted. A shade passed over his face; he put his hand on Cuthbert's wrist, then knelt down and placed his ear over his heart.

"Is he dead?" Mary asked in a whisper, as he rose to his feet again.

"No, no, my dear, I hope he is worth many dead men yet; he has fainted from the jolting of the wagon just as many others that you have seen have done. Fetch that brandy you have just poured out. He is hard hit," and he pointed to a bloodstained patch in his shirt just above the waistband of his trousers. "There is no doubt about that, but we shall know more about it presently."

As she hurried off to fetch the brandy the doctor's lips tightened.

"It is fifty to one against him," he muttered, "still, I have seen men live with similar wounds."

He took the glass from Mary's hands as she returned and poured a little between Cuthbert's lips. Then he listened to the heart's beating again.

"It is stronger already," he said, encouragingly to Mary. "Now, my dear, you had better go out for a few minutes and get a little fresh air. Ask Mrs. Stanmore to come here. I must try and find out where the bullet has gone." As she moved away he went on, "Wait here a minute, Wilson, I shall want to turn him over directly. Now for the wound. Ah! I thought so!" as he removed a lightly fastened bandage and lifted a pad of lint beneath it.

"There has been no bleeding since he was taken up. No doubt he fell forward at first. Now turn him over. Ah, the bullet has gone right through! He must have been hit by a shot fired at close quarters. Well, that will save us trouble and the chances of complications. It is now a simple question of how much damage it did as it passed through. Ah, Mrs. Stanmore," he went on as the nurse came up with a tray of bandages and other necessaries, "I find that there is not much to do here."

He took two small pieces of lint and rolled them up, poured a few drops of carbolic acid on to them, placed one in each orifice, put pads of lint over them, and passed a bandage twice round the body to keep them in place.

"Thank you, Wilson, that will do for the present. Please pour a little strong brandy and water down his throat, Mrs. Stanmore. Now I will see to the next man. How are you hurt? In the shoulder, I see, by your bandages."

"I was lying down behind a wall, Doctor, and raised myself slightly to fire through a loophole when a bullet came through. I heard the surgeon say that it had smashed the collar-bone, and had gone out through the bone behind. I don't know what he called it, but it is what I should call the shoulder-bone."

"Well, in that case you are in luck," the surgeon said, "if it had glanced more downwards you would have been a dead man five minutes after you were hit. Do you feel comfortable at present?"

"As comfortable as I can expect."

"Then in that case I won't disturb the bandages. They are all tight now, and the man who bandaged you evidently knew what he was about, which is more than I can say for some of those who have sent me in specimens of their handiwork. For the present there is nothing for you to do but to lie quiet. I will have a look at you again later, there are so many cases that must be attended to at once."

"I am in no hurry, I can assure you, Doctor. I suffered too much when they bandaged me to want a repetition of it until it is absolutely necessary."

The doctor nodded and then hurried off to visit the men who had been carried off into the other marquees. As he pushed aside the flaps at the entrance he stopped abruptly, for a few yards away Mary Brander was lying insensible on the ground, now covered with a light sprinkle of snow that had fallen in the morning.

"Poor little girl!" he said, as he raised her in his arms, and carried her into his own tent and placed her in a rocking-chair, "this affair coming on the top of the work last night has been too much for her." He went into the next marque.

"Miss Betham," he said to one of the nurses, "Miss Brander has just broken down; she has fainted. You will find her in a chair in my tent. Take a bottle of salts and a little brandy. When she comes round make her lie down on the bed there, tell her that my orders are absolute, that she is to keep quiet for a time. She is not to go to work in the wards again and she is not to leave my tent until I have seen her. There is no getting a conveyance, and she won't be fit to walk home for some time."

An hour later Dr. Swinburne snatched a moment from his work and looked in at his tent. Mary sprang up from the bed as he entered.

"That is right, my dear," he said, "I see you are active again. I am sure you will be glad to hear that the patient you called me to has recovered consciousness. The bullet passed right through him, which is a good sign. So that trouble is disposed of. As to the future I can say nothing as yet. Of course it depends upon what damage the ball did on its way through. However, I am inclined to view the case favorably. I can only judge by his face, and, although it is, of course, white and drawn, there is not that ashen sort of pallor which is almost a sure sign of injury to vital parts."

"Then you think there is some hope, Doctor," she asked, with her hands lightly clasped before her.

"Honestly, I think there is. He must, of course, be kept absolutely free from anything like agitation, and if you think your presence is likely to agitate him in the slightest degree, I should say that when you come to work again you had better exchange into one of the other wards."

"It will not agitate him in the least, Doctor," she said, after a moment's pause, "I can answer for that. We are old friends, for he has known me since I was a little child; we are more like cousins than anything else, and if he knows which ambulance he is in, I am sure he will be surprised if I do not come to him."

"I think it is likely he will guess," Dr. Swinburne said, "when he hears the nurses speaking English; and, indeed, it seems that either he or one of the others particularly asked to be sent here. If it is as you say, your presence may do him good rather than harm, and you can go to him for a short time; but remember that you are not fit for nursing and that the sooner you are able to get home again the better. You have been on duty more than twenty-four hours and it has been a terribly trying time for you all."

Mary nodded.

"I really feel better now, Doctor. I have been very anxious about Mr. Hartington ever since I knew that his corps had gone out, and I think suspense is harder to bear than anything. You will see I shan't break down again."

"If you do, Miss Brander, remember I shall have to take your name off the list of nurses. We have enough to do and think about here without having fainting young ladies on our hands." He spoke gravely, but Mary saw he was not really in earnest.

"I never thought," she said, "that I should come under the category of a fainting young lady, and I feel humiliated. Then I may go in, Doctor?"

"Yes, if you are sure of yourself and are certain that it won't agitate him."

A minute later she stood by Cuthbert's side. He was lying on his back with his eyes open. A hospital rug had been thrown over him. As she bent over him his eyes fell on her face and he smiled faintly.

"I was wondering whether you had heard I was here," he said, in a voice so low that she could scarce hear it. "Well, you see, I brought my eggs to a bad market, and your friends, the Prussians, have given me a lesson I would not learn from you. But we beat them fairly and squarely, there is a satisfaction in that."

"There does not seem much consolation in it, Cuthbert," she said, quietly.

"There is to me," he said, "that shows you are not a soldier. To a soldier it makes all the difference as he lies wounded, whether he has shared in a victory or suffered in a defeat."

"Then I am very glad that you have won if it makes any difference to you, Cuthbert. Now you know you have to lie very still, and I am sure talking is very bad for you."

"I don't suppose it makes any difference one way or the other, Mary. A few hours, perhaps, but whether it is to-day or to-morrow is immaterial."

"You must not talk like that, Cuthbert, and you must not think so. The doctor says that although, of course, you are badly wounded, he thinks there is every hope for you."

"So the surgeon said who dressed my wounds last night, Mary, but I knew that he did not really think so."

"But I am sure Dr. Swinburne does think so, Cuthbert. I am certain that he was not trying to deceive me."

"Well, I hope that he is right," Cuthbert replied, but with the indifference common to men in extreme weakness. "I should certainly like to give the finishing touches to those two pictures. There is nothing else to show for my life. Yes, I should like to finish them. You are looking bad yourself," he added, suddenly, "all this is too much for you."

"I am only tired," she said, "and of course it has been trying work for the last twenty-four hours."

"Well, you must go home and get some rest. If I had been going soon I should have liked you to have stopped with me till I went, but if, as you say, the doctor thinks I may last for a time it does not matter, and I would rather know that you were getting a rest than that you were wearing yourself out here. What o'clock is it now?"

"It is just two. Please don't worry about me. If I were to break down there are plenty to take my place, but I am not going to. Anyhow I shall wait to hear what Dr. Swinburne says when he next comes round, and then if the report is favorable I shall go home for the night and be here again the first thing in the morning. Are you in much pain, Cuthbert?"

"No, I am in no pain at all. I just feel numbed and a little drowsy, and my feet are cold."

Mary went away, filled a tin bottle with hot water and placed it at his feet, and then covered them over with another rug.

"Now you must not talk any more, Cuthbert. Your hands are cold, let me put the rug over them. There, you look more comfortable. Now shut your eyes and try to get to sleep until the doctor comes round."

Cuthbert closed his eyes at once. Mary went about the ward doing her work for the next two hours, returning at frequent intervals to the bedside, and seeing with satisfaction that he was sleeping quietly. At four o'clock the surgeon came in. She was occupied in serving out some soup to the patients and did not go round with him. She had finished her work when he returned to where she was standing near the entrance.

"I did not wake him," he said, in answer to her look, "but his pulse is stronger, and the action of his heart regular. There is certainly a good chance for him. My hopes that there is no vital injury are strengthened. He will, I hope, sleep for hours, perhaps till morning. By that time I may be able to give a more decided opinion. Now, I think you had better be off at once. I can see you have recovered your nerve, but there will be a dozen fresh nurses here in a few minutes, and I shall clear you all out. Do you feel strong enough to walk home?"

"Oh, yes, Doctor, I may come in the first thing in the morning, mayn't I?"

"Yes, if you feel equal to it. It is possible," he thought to himself, as he went to the next marquee, "that the poor fellow only regards her as a cousin, but I am greatly mistaken if she has not very much warmer feelings towards him, though she did so stoutly declare that they were but old friends."

Mary, putting on her bonnet and cloak, went out. As she did so, a man, in the uniform of the Franc-tireurs, and a young woman approached.

"Pardon, mademoiselle," he said, lifting his cap as he came up to her, "is it possible for friends to visit the wounded?"

Mary glanced at the speaker's companion and at once recognized her. It was the face of which she had seen so many drawings in Cuthbert's sketch-book.

"It is not possible to-day," she said, "except in extreme cases. There have been many applicants, but they have all been refused."

"I fear this is an extreme case," René, for it was he, urged. "It is a comrade of mine, and the surgeon told me after examining him that he was hit very seriously. This lady is his fiancée."

"I know who you mean," Mary said, after a moment's silence, "but she could not see him even if she were his wife. He is asleep now and everything depends upon his sleep being unbroken."

"If I could only see him I would not wake him," the woman wailed, while René asked -- 

"Can you tell us if there are any hopes for him?"

"The surgeon says there are some hopes," Mary said, coldly, "but that everything depends upon his being kept perfectly quiet. However, I have no power in the matter. I am off duty now, and you had better apply to Mrs. Stanmore. She is in charge of the ward. It is the farthest of the three marquees."

"What is that woman to him?" Minette exclaimed, passionately, as Mary walked on. "She loves him or she hates him. I saw her look at me as you spoke first, and her face changed. She knew me though I did not know her."

"Oh, that is all fancy, Minette. How can she know Arnold? She is tired and worn out. Parbleu, they must have had terrible work there since the sortie began. It is getting dark, but it is easy to see how pale and worn out she looked. For my part I would rather go through that fight in the garden again than work for twenty-four hours in a hospital."

"She knows him," the girl said, positively.

"Well, let us go on. This woman may give you leave to go in."

But Mrs. Stanmore was also firm in her refusal.

"We cannot allow even the nearest relatives to enter," she said, "we are all taken up by duty and cannot have strangers in the wards; but if the patient is likely to die and wishes to see a friend or relative in the city we send for him or her. If you will give me your name and address I will see that you are sent for should the patient ask for you. The rule I can assure you is absolute, and I have no power whatever to grant permission to anyone except in the case I have named."

Minette went away raving, and it needed indeed all René's remonstrances and entreaties to induce her to leave.

"It is clear," he said, "that he cannot be near death; were he so he would assuredly ask for you. So after all it is good news that you have received, and as I told you all along, though the surgeon said that it was a serious wound, he did not say that it was likely to be fatal, as he did in the case of Cuthbert Hartington. These army surgeons do not mince matters, and there was no reason why he should not have said at once to me that the American was likely to die if he thought it would be so."

"I will go to see him to-morrow," she said, with an angry stamp of her foot. "If the women try to prevent me I will tear their faces. If the men interfere to stop me I will scream so loud that they will be forced to let me in. It is abominable to keep a woman from the bedside of the man she loves."

"It is of no use you talking in that wild way, Minette," René said, sternly; "how do you suppose a hospital is to be managed if every sick man is to have women sitting at his bed. It is childish of you to talk so, and most ungrateful. These foreigners are supporting this ambulance at their own expense. The ladies are working like slaves to succor our wounded and you go on like a passionate child because, busy as they are, they are obliged to adhere to their regulations. At any rate I will come here with you no more. I am not going to see these kind people insulted."



Chapter XV.


Mary Brander made her way wearily home.

"You have had another terrible time, I can see it in your face," Madame Michaud said, as she entered. "They say there have been four thousand wounded and fifteen hundred killed. I cannot understand how you support such scenes."

"It has been a hard time," Mary said; "I will go up to my room at once, madame. I am worn out."

"Do so, my dear. I will send you in a basin of broth."

Without even taking her bonnet off Mary dropped into a chair when she entered her room and sat there till Margot brought in the broth.

"I don't think I can take it, thank you, Margot."

"But you must take it, mademoiselle," the servant said, sturdily; "but wait a moment, let me take off your bonnet and brush your hair. There is nothing like having your hair brushed when you are tired."

Passively Mary submitted to the woman's ministrations, and presently felt soothed, as Margot with, by no means ungentle hands, brushed steadily the long hair she had let down.

"You feel better, mademoiselle?" the woman asked, presently. "That is right, now take a little of this broth. Please try, and then I will take off your cloak and frock and you shall lie down, and I will cover you up."

Mary made an effort to drink the broth, then the servant partly undressed her and covered her up warmly with blankets, drew the curtains across the window and left her with the words. "Sleep well, mademoiselle."

But for a time Mary felt utterly unable to sleep. She was too worn out for that relief. It had been a terrible time for her. For twenty-four hours she had been engaged unceasingly in work of the most trying description. The scent of blood still seemed to hang about her, and she vaguely wondered whether she should ever get rid of it. Then there had been her own special anxiety and suspense, and the agony of seeing Cuthbert brought in apparently wounded to death. The last blow had been dealt by this woman. She said she was his fiancée, but although she had it from her lips, Mary could not believe it. She might be his mistress but surely not the other. Surely he could never make that wild passionate woman his wife. Then she felt she was unjust. This poor creature would naturally be in a passion of grief and agony, at finding that she could not go to the bedside of the man she loved. She should not judge her from that. She remembered how different was her expression in some of the sketches she had seen in Cuthbert's book.

"At any rate," she said to herself with a hard sob, "I have no right to complain. He told me he loved me and I was almost indignant at the idea, and told him he was not worthy of my love. There was an end of it. He was free to do as he liked, and of course put it out of his mind altogether as I did out of mine. How could I tell that the time would come when I should find out what a terrible mistake I had made, how could I dream of such a thing! How could I guess that he would come into my life again and that he would have the power to spoil it! What a fool, I have been. What a conceited, silly fool," and so Mary Brander's thoughts ran on till they become more and more vague, and sleep at last arrested them altogether. She was awakened by Madame Michaud coming into the room with a cup of coffee.

"Well, my child, have you slept well?"

"Have I slept, madame? It cannot have been for more than a minute or two." She looked round in surprise. "Why, it is broad daylight, what time is it?"

"It is eleven o'clock, my dear. I thought it was time to arouse you, and in truth I was getting anxious that you had not made your appearance. It is seventeen hours since you lay down."

"Good gracious!" Mary exclaimed. "And I was due at the ambulance at eight. I must have been asleep hours and hours, madame. I lay awake for a time -- two hours, perhaps, and the last thing I thought was that I should never get to sleep, and then I have slept all this dreadful time."

"Not a dreadful time at all," Madame Michaud said with a smile. "You have not slept a minute too long. I feared for you when you came in yesterday. I said to my husband in the evening, 'That angel is killing herself. She could scarce speak when she came in, and I cry when I think of her face.' You may thank the good God that you have slept so long and so soundly. I can tell you that you look a different being this morning."

"I feel different," Mary said, as she sprang up, "will you ask Margot to bring me my can of water at once."

"Yes, but drink your coffee and eat your bread first. Margot said you only took a few spoonsful of broth last night."

"I must have my bath first and then I will promise you I will drink the coffee and eat the last crumb of bread. You will see I shall be quite blooming by the time I come down."

Madame Michaud was obliged to admit that Mary looked more herself than she had done for days past when, half an hour later, she came downstairs ready to start.

"I shall be scolded dreadfully, madame, when I get to the ambulance four hours after my time."

"You look so much fitter for work, my dear, that if the doctor has eyes in his head, he will be well content that you have taken it out in sleep."

Mary walked with a brisk step down to the hospital.

"I will think no more of it," she said resolutely to herself. "I have chosen to be a nurse and I will go through with it. I think when I get home after this is over I will become a nursing sister -- at any rate I may do some good at that; there is plenty of work in the world, even if it is not in the way I thought of doing it."

But she hesitated when she reached the tents, afraid to go in. One of the other nurses came out presently.

"Which tent is Dr. Swinburne in?" she asked.

"In this," she said, "I was just speaking to him."

"Would you mind going in again and asking him to come out. I am dreadfully late this morning and I should like to see him before I go in."

A minute later the surgeon came out.

"What is it, Miss Brander?" he said, kindly. "I missed you this morning, and hoped you were taking a good sleep."

"That was just it, Doctor, and I do feel so ashamed of myself. They thought I looked tired, when I came in, and were silly enough not to wake me this morning."

"Not silly at all, my dear. They did the very best thing for you, for you had gone through a terrible strain here. I am glad, indeed, it was sleep and not illness that kept you away. You are looking quite a different woman this morning."

"I am so glad that you are not angry. Please tell me how the wounded are getting on?"

"There were ten deaths in the night," he said, "but as a whole they are going on well. You will be glad to hear that the young Englishman who was shot through the body has passed a quiet night, and I have now an almost assured hope that he will recover. Had there been any vital injury its effects would be visible by now. Now run in and take up your work."

With a grateful look Mary entered the tent and was soon engaged at her work. She was some little time before she made her way to the farther end of the tent. Then she went quietly up to Cuthbert's bedside.

"I have just had good news of you, Cuthbert. The doctor says he has the strongest hopes now of your recovery."

"Yes, he has been telling me that I am doing well," he said. "Have you only just come? I have been wondering what had had become of you. You looked so pale, yesterday, that I was afraid you might be ill."

"I have been sleeping like a top," she said, "for I should be ashamed to say how many hours. Of course I ought to have been here at eight, but they did not wake me, and I feel all the better for it."

"I remember not so long ago," he said, "that a certain young lady declared that it was ridiculous for persons to interfere in business which did not concern them. Now here you are knocking yourself up and going through horrible work for people who are nothing to you. That is a little inconsistent."

"I do not argue with people who cannot speak above a whisper," she said. "Another time I shall be able to prove to you that there is nothing inconsistent whatever in it. Well, thank God that you are better, Cuthbert. I should not have gone away yesterday afternoon if Dr. Swinburne had not assured me that there was nothing that I could do for you, and that he really thought you might recover. You believe me, don't you?"

He nodded.

"I do believe you, Mary. I did not think myself that I had a shadow of a chance, but this morning I began to fancy that the doctor may be right, and that I may possibly live to be a shining light among artists."

"Did you sleep at all?" she asked.

"Yes, I have been dozing on and off ever since you went away. I have drunk a good deal of brandy and water and I really think I could take some broth. I told the doctor so this morning, but he said I had better wait another twelve hours, and then I might have two or three spoonsful of arrowroot, but the less the better. I suppose there is no list of killed and wounded published yet. I should like to know who had gone. They were good fellows, every one of them."

"I don't know, Cuthbert, but I should hardly think so. I think Madame Michaud would have told me had there been a list published this morning."

Mary now turned to the next bed, but the patient was lying with his eyes closed.

"I expect he has gone off to sleep," Cuthbert said, "he has been in a lot of pain all night and half an hour ago they took off his bandages and put on fresh ones, and I fancy they must have hurt him amazingly. I could tell that by his quick breathing, for he did not utter a moan. I am glad that he has gone off to sleep. I heard the doctor tell him that he thought he might get the use of his arm again, though it would probably be stiff for some time."

"You must not talk, indeed you mustn't," she said, facing round again. "I am sure the doctor must have told you to keep perfectly quiet. If you are quiet and good, I will come to you very often, but if not I shall hand you over to the charge of another nurse. I blame myself for asking you any questions. Indeed I am quite in earnest; you are not fit to talk; the slightest movement might possibly set your wound off bleeding; besides you are not strong enough; it is an effort to you, and the great thing is for you to be perfectly quiet and tranquil. Now shut your eyes and try to doze off again."

She spoke in a tone of nursely authority, and with a faint smile he obeyed her orders. She stood for a minute looking at him, and as she did so her eyes filled with tears at the change that a few days had made, and yet her experience taught her that it would be far greater before long. As yet weakness and fever, and pain, had scarcely begun their work of hollowing the cheeks and reducing him to a shadow of himself. There was already scarcely a tinge of color in his face, while there was a drawn look round the mouth and a bluish tinge on the lips. The eyes seemed deeper in the head and the expression of the face greatly changed -- indeed, it was rather the lack of any expression that characterized it. It might have been a waxen mask.

From time to time she went back to him, and although the soft clinging material of her dress and her list slippers rendered her movements noiseless, he always seemed conscious of her presence, and opened his eyes with a little welcoming smile, as she stood beside him, sipped a few drops from the glass she held to his lips, and then closed his eyes again without a word. After a few hours the period of pain and fever set in, but the doctor found no reason for anxiety.

"You must expect it, my dear," he said to Mary one day when the fever was at its height. "A man cannot get through such a wound as his without a sharp struggle. Nature cannot be outraged with impunity. It is certain now that there was no vital injury, but pain and fever almost necessarily accompany the efforts of nature to repair damages. I see no reason for uneasiness at present. I should say that he has an excellent constitution, and has never played the fool with it. In a few days in all probability the fever will abate, and as soon as it does so, he will be on the highway to convalescence."

During that ten days Mary seldom left the hospital, only snatching a few hours sleep occasionally in a tent which had now been erected for the use of the nurses on duty. At the end of that time the struggle was over and the victory won, and Cuthbert lay terribly weak and a mere shadow of himself, but free from fever and with perfect consciousness in his eyes.

"How long have I been here?" he asked Mary.

"I think it is a fortnight to-day since you came in, Cuthbert," she answered, quietly. "Thank God you are quite out of danger now, and the doctor says all we have got to do is to build you up."

"You have had a hard time of it, child," he said, "though I knew nothing else, I seemed to be conscious that you were always near me."

"I have had plenty of sleep, Cuthbert, and am perfectly well," she said, cheerfully.

"Then your look belies you," he said, "but I know that it is no use arguing. What has been happening outside?"

"Nothing. The troops were withdrawn the day after the fight when you were wounded, and nothing has been done since."

"How is Dampierre getting on?" he asked.

"He is getting on well, I believe," she replied. "He was delirious and so restless, and talked so loud that the doctor had him carried into another ward so that you should not be disturbed by it. I have not seen him since, but I hear he is going on very well. Your friend René has been here twice -- indeed he has been every day to inquire -- but he was only let in twice. He seems a very kind-hearted fellow and was very cut up about you. I am sure he is very fond of you. He says that Monsieur Goudé and the other students have all been most anxious about you, and that he comes as a sort of deputation from them all."

René had, indeed, quite won Mary's heat by the enthusiastic way in which he had spoken of Cuthbert, and had quite looked forward to the little chat she had with him every morning when he came to the ambulance for news.

"He is a grand fellow, mademoiselle," he would say, with tears in his eyes, "we all love him. He has such talents and such a great heart. It is not till now that we quite know him. When a man is dying men speak of things they would not tell otherwise. There are four or five that he has helped, and who but for him must have given up their studies. The rest of us had no idea of it. But when they knew how bad he was, first one broke down and then another, and each told how generously he had come to their aid and how delicately he had insisted upon helping them, making them promise to say no word of it to others. Ma foi, we all cried together. We have lost six of our number besides the five here. The rest, except Dampierre, are our countrymen, and yet it is of your Englishman that we think and talk most."

All this was very pleasant to Mary. Cuthbert was now of course nothing to her, but it soothed her to hear his praises. He had been wicked in one respect, but in all others he seemed to have been what she had thought of him when he was a child, save that he developed a talent and the power of steady work, for which she had never given him credit, for on this head René was as emphatic as on other points.

"He will be a great artist, mademoiselle, if he lives. You do not know how much the master thought of him and so did we all. He worked harder than any of us, much harder; but it was not that only. He has talent, great talent, while the rest of us are but daubers. You will see his pictures hung on the line and that before long. We are all burning to see those he was painting for the Salon this year. There are only three of us painting for that, the master would not let any others think of it. Pierre Leroux is the third and he would have had little chance of being hung had not the Englishman gone into his room one day, and taking his brush from his hand transformed his picture altogether -- transformed it, mademoiselle -- and even Goudé says now that it is good and will win a place. But Pierre declares that he has not the heart to finish it. If Cuthbert dies he will put it by for another year."

René was admitted to see Cuthbert the day after the fever had left him and sat for an hour by his bedside telling, after his first burst of emotion on seeing the change that had taken place in him, about the fate of his comrades in the studio. Mary did not go near them. There were questions Cuthbert would want to ask. Messages that he would want to send that she ought not to hear. She had wondered that this woman, who had for a time come every day and had as regularly made a scene at the entrance to the ambulance, had, since Cuthbert was at his worst, ceased coming.

She had never asked about her, and was ignorant that for the last four days she had been allowed to sit for a time by the side of a patient in another ward. She thought most likely that she was ill and had broken down under the stress of her grief and anxiety. She had even in thought pitied her. It was she and not herself that ought to be watching Cuthbert's bedside. She might not be good, but she was a woman and she loved, and it must be terrible for her to know how ill he was and never to be allowed even to see him for a moment. It was evident that she had been taken ill, and when on René's leaving she went to her patient she expected to find him downcast and anxious. Sad he certainly was, but he did not seem to her restless or excited as she had expected.

"I have been hearing of the others," he said. "Six of them are gone, all merry lads, taking life easily, as students do, but with plenty of good in them, that would have come to the surface later on. It will make a sad gap in our ranks when the rest of us come together again. The wounded are all going on well, I hear, that of course is a great comfort. I hear the other two companies suffered much more than we did. The walls we fought behind saved us a good deal you see. René says the troops all went out again three days ago, and that there was a talk of a great fight, but there has only been some skirmishing and they have begun to come back into the town again. Our corps did not go out. They think they have done a fair share of the work, and I think so too. René says the old major, who is now in command, is so furious at the cowardice shown last time by the National Guards and some of the troops that he declares he will not take out his brave lads to throw away their lives when the Parisians will not venture within musket-shot of the enemy.

"I think he is quite right. I hope there will be no more sorties, for I am sure it would be useless. If you had seen, as I did, seven or eight thousand men running like a flock of frightened sheep, you would agree with me that it would be hopeless to think of breaking through the Germans with such troops as this. One victory would make all the difference in the world to their morale, but they will never win that one victory, and it will take years before the French soldier regains his old confidence in himself. Have you taken to rats yet, Mary?" he asked, with a flash of his old manner.

"No, sir, and do not mean to. We are still going on very fairly. The meat rations are very small, but we boil them down into broth, and as we have plenty of bread to sop into it we do very well; our store of eggs have held on until now. We have been having them beaten up in our morning coffee instead of milk, but they are just gone, and Madame Michaud says that we must now begin upon the preserved meat. We are a long way from rats yet, though I believe they are really hunted and eaten in great numbers in the poorer quarters."

"And there is no talk of surrender?"

"No talk at all; they say we can hold on for another month yet."

"What is the news from the provinces?"

"Everywhere bad. Bourbaki has been obliged to take refuge in Switzerland and his force has been disarmed there. Chanzy has been beaten badly near New Orleans, and the Prussians have probably by this time entered Tours. Faidherbe has gained some successes in the north, but as the Germans are pushing forward there, as well as everywhere else, that does not make very much difference to us."

"Then what on earth's the use of holding out any longer," he said. "It is sheer stupidity. I suppose the Parisians think that, as they can't fight, they will at least show that they can starve. What is the weather like? I felt very cold last night though I had plenty of blankets on."

"It is terribly cold," she said. "The snow is deep on the ground -- it is one of the coldest winters that has been for years."

"What is the day of the month?"

"The 26th."

"Then yesterday was Christmas Day."

"Yes," she said, "not a merry Christmas this year to any of us -- no roast beef, no plum-pudding, no mince-pies -- and yet, Cuthbert, I had every reason to be thankful, for what a much more unhappy Christmas it might have been to me."

He nodded.

"I know what you mean. Yes, you would have missed me, child, cut off as we are from the world here. I am, as it were, the sole representative of your family. Of course, you have not heard from them."

She shook her head.

"I don't suppose they trouble much about me," she said, a little bitterly, "I am a sort of disappointment, you know. Of course I have been away now for nearly two years, except for the fortnight I was over there, and even before that I scarcely seemed to belong to them. I did not care for the things that they thought a great deal of, and they had no interest in the things I cared for. Somehow I don't think I have got on well with them ever since I went up to Girton. I see now it was entirely my own fault. It does not do for a girl to have tastes differing from those of her family."

"I felt that, Mary. I felt it very much. I have told myself ever since the day of dear old father's death that I have been a brute, and I wish with all my heart I had put aside my own whims and gone in for a country life. It is all very well to say I did not like it, but I ought to have made myself like it; or if I could not do that, I ought to have made a pretence of liking it, and to have stuck to him as long as I lived. I hadn't even the excuse of having any high purpose before me."

"We all make mistakes in our lives, Cuthbert," the girl said, quietly, "and it is of no use bemoaning them -- at any rate you have done your best to retrieve yours, and I mean to do my best to retrieve mine. I have quite made up my mind that when this is over I shall go to London and be regularly trained as a hospital nurse, and then join a nursing sisterhood."

"What! and give up woman in general?" Cuthbert said, with a faint laugh. "Will you abandon your down-trodden sisters? Impossible, Mary."

"It is quite possible," she said, in a business-like manner.

"Become a back-slider! Mary, you absolutely shock me. At present you have got nursing on the brain. I should have thought that this ambulance work would have been enough for a life-time. At any rate I should advise you to think it over very seriously before you commit yourself too deeply to this new fad. Nursing is one of the greatest gifts of women, but after all woman wasn't made only to nurse, any more than she was to devote her life to championing her sex."

Mary did not reply but silently moved off with an air of deeply-offended dignity.

"What an enthusiastic little woman she is," Cuthbert laughed quietly to himself; "anyhow she is a splendid nurse, and I would infinitely rather see her so, than as a female spouter on platforms. I fancied the siege might have had some effect on her. She has seen something of the realities of life and was likely to give up theorizing. She looks older and more womanly, softer a good deal than she was. I think I can improve that picture now. I had never seen her look soft before, and had to trust to my imagination. I am sure I can improve it now."

Another fortnight and Cuthbert was out of bed and able to walk about in the ward and to render little services to other patients.

"Do you know, Mary," he said, one day, when she happened to be idle and was standing talking to him as he sat on the edge of his bed, "a curious thing happened to me the very day before we went out on that sortie. I saw that fellow, Cumming, the rascal that ruined the bank, and then bolted, you know. For a moment I did not recall his face, but it struck me directly afterwards. I saw him go into a house. He has grown a beard, and he is evidently living as a quiet and respected British resident. It was a capital idea of his, for he is as safe here as he would be if he were up in a balloon. I intended to look him up when I got back again into Paris, but you see circumstances prevented my doing so."

"Of course you will get him arrested as soon as the siege is over, Cuthbert. I am very glad that he is found."

"Well, I don't know that I had quite made up my mind about that. I don't suppose that he made off with any great sum. You see the companies he bolstered up with the bank's money, all smashed at the same time. I don't suppose that he intended to rob the bank at the time he helped them. Probably he had sunk all his savings in them, and thought they would pull round with the aid of additional capital. As far as I could make out, from the report of the men who went into the matter, he did not seem to have drawn any money at all on his own account, until the very day he bolted, when he took the eight or ten thousand pounds there was in the safe. No. I don't think I meant to hand him over or indeed to say anything about it. I thought I would give him a good fright, which he richly deserves, and then ask him a few questions. I have never quite understood how it was that dear old dad came to buy those shares. I did inquire so far as to find out it was Cumming himself who transferred them to him, and I should really like to hear what was said at the time. If the man can prove to me that when he sold them he did not know that the bank was going to break, I should have no ill-will against him, but if I were sure he persuaded him to buy, knowing that ruin would follow, I would hunt him down and spare no pains to get him punished."

"Why should he have persuaded your father to buy those shares?"

"That's just what I cannot make out. He could have had no interest in involving him in the smash. Besides they were not on intimate terms in any way. I cannot imagine that my father would have gone to him for advice in reference to business investments. It was, of course, to your father he would have turned in such matters."

"How long had he been a shareholder?"

"He bought the shares only two months before his death, which makes the matter all the more singular."

"What did father say, Cuthbert?" the girl said, after a short pause. "I suppose you spoke to him about it."

"He said that my father had heard some rumors to the effect that the bank was not in a good state, and having no belief whatever in them, he bought the shares, thinking that his doing so would have a good effect upon its credit, in which as a sort of county institution, he felt an interest."

"But did not father, who was solicitor to the bank, and must have known something of its affairs, warn him of the danger that he was running?"

"That is what I asked him myself, but he said that he only attended to its legal business, and outside that knew nothing of its affairs."

"It seems a curious affair altogether," Mary said, gravely, "But it is time for me to be at work again."



Chapter XVI.


While in the ambulance, Mary Brander resolutely put her conversation with Cuthbert aside, but as soon as she started for her walk home, it became uppermost in her thoughts. It was certainly a curious affair. From time to time friends at home with whom she corresponded, sent her local newspapers, and this had especially been the case during the first few months of her stay in Germany, as they naturally supposed she would be greatly interested in the calamity of the bank failure.

She had, at the time it was issued, read the full report of the committee of investigation upon its affairs, and, although she had passed lightly over the accounts, she had noticed that the proceeds of the sale of the Fairclose estates were put down as subject to a deduction of fifteen thousand pounds for a previous mortgage to Jeremiah Brander, Esq. The matter had made no impression upon her mind at this time, but it now came back to her remembrance.

Of course it was perfectly natural that if Mr. Hartington wished to borrow money it was to her father, as his solicitor and friend, that he would have gone. There could be nothing unusual in that, but what Cuthbert had told her about Mr. Hartington buying the shares but two months before his death was certainly singular. Surely her father could have prevented his taking so disastrous a step. Few men are regarded by members of their family in exactly the same light as they are considered by the public, and Jeremiah Brander was certainly no exception. While the suavest of men in the eyes of his fellow-townsmen, his family were well aware that he possessed a temper. When the girls were young his conversation was always guarded in their hearing, but as they grew up he no longer felt the same necessity for prudence of speech, and frequently indulged in criticisms of the colleagues, for whom he professed the most unbounded respect and admiration in public.

Mary had often felt something like remorse at the thought that the first time she read Martin Chuzzlewit, many touches in the delineation of Mr. Pecksniff's character had reminded her of her father. She believed him to be a just and upright man, but she could not help admitting to herself that he was not by a long way the man the public believed him to be. It was a subject on which she rarely permitted herself to think. They had never got on very well together, and she acknowledged to herself that this was as much her fault as his. It was not so much the fact that she had a strong will and was bent on going her own way, regardless of the opinion of others, that had been the cause of the gulf which had grown up between them, as the dissimilarity of their character, the absolute difference between the view which she held of things in general, to that which the rest of her family entertained regarding them, and the outspoken frankness with which she was in the habit of expressing her contempt for things they praised highly.

Thinking over this matter of Mr. Hartington's purchase of the bank shares, she found herself wondering what motive her father could have had in permitting him to buy them, for knowing how the Squire relied upon his opinion in all business matters, she could not doubt that the latter could have prevented this disastrous transaction. That he must have had some motive she felt sure, for her experience of him was amply sufficient for her to be well aware that he never acted without a motive of some sort. So far as she could see, no motive was apparent, but this in no way altered her opinion.

"Cuthbert thinks it a curious affair, and no wonder," she said to herself. "I don't suppose he has a suspicion that anything has been wrong, and I don't suppose there has; but there may have been what they call sharp practice. I don't think Cuthbert likes my father, but he is the very last man to suspect anyone. It was horrid, before, being at Fairclose -- it will be ten times as bad now. The whole thing is disgusting. It is wicked of me to think that my father could possibly do anything that wasn't quite honorable and right -- especially when there is not the slightest reason for suspecting him. It is only, I suppose, because I know he isn't exactly what other people think him to be, that makes me uneasy about it. I know well enough that I should never have gone away from home as I did, if it had not been that I hated so to hear him running down people with whom he seemed to be so friendly, and making fun of all the things in which he seemed so interested. It used to make me quite hateful, and he was just as glad, when I said I should like to go to Girton, to get rid of me as I was to go.

"It is all very well to say, honor your father and mother, but if you can't honor them what are you to do? I have no doubt I am worrying myself for nothing now, but I can't help it. It is dreadful to feel like that towards one's father, but I felt quite a chill run through me when Cuthbert said he should go and see that man Cumming and try to get to the bottom of things. One thing is certain, I will never live at Fairclose -- never. If he leaves it between us, Julia and Clara may live there if they like, and let me have so much a year and go my own way. But I will never put foot in it after father and mother are gone. It is all very miserable, and I do think I am getting to be a most hateful girl. Here am I suspecting my own father of having done something wrong, although of what I have not the least idea, and that without a shadow of reason, then I am almost hating a woman because a man I refused loves her. I have become discouraged and have thrown up all the plans I had laid down for myself, because it does not seem as easy as I thought it would be. No, that is not quite true. It is much more because Cuthbert has laughed me out of them. Anyhow I should be a nice woman to teach other women what they should do, when I am as weak as the weakest of them. I don't think there ever was a more objectionable sort of girl in the world than I have become."

By the time that she had arrived at this conclusion she had nearly reached home. A sudden feeling that she could not in her present mood submit to be petted and fussed over by Madame Michaud struck her, and turning abruptly she walked with brisk steps to the Arc de Triomphe and then down the Champs Elysées and along the Rue Rivoli, and then round the Boulevards, returning home fagged out, but the better for her exertion. One thing she determined during her walk, she would give up her work at the ambulance.

"There are plenty of nurses," she said, "and one more or less will make no difference. I am miserably weak, but at any rate I have sense enough to know that it will be better for me not to be going there every day, now that he is out of danger. He belongs to someone else, and I would rather die than that he should ever dream what a fool I am; and now I know it myself it will be harder and harder as he gets better to be talking to him indifferently." Accordingly the next morning, when she went down, she told Dr. Swinburne that she felt that she must, at any rate for a time, give up nursing.

"You are quite right, Miss Brander," he said, kindly, "you have taxed your strength too much already, and are looking a mere shadow of what you were two months ago. You are quite right to take a rest. I have plenty of assistance, and there is not likely to be such a strain again as that we have lately gone through. Paris cannot hold out many weeks longer, and after the two failures I feel sure that there will be no more attempts at a sortie, especially as all hopes that an army may come to our relief are now at an end."

She found it more difficult to tell Cuthbert, but it was not necessary for her to begin the subject, for he noticed at once that she had not the usual nursing-dress on.

"You are going to take a holiday to-day, I suppose?" he said, as she came up to his bedside.

"I am going to take a holiday for some little time," she said, quietly. "They can do very well without me now. Almost all the patients in this ward are convalescent, and I really feel that I need a rest."

"I am sure you do," he said, earnestly, "it has been an awful time for you to go through, and you have behaved like a heroine. A good many of us owe our lives to you, but the work has told on you sadly. I don't suppose you know yourself how much. We shall all miss you at this end of the ward -- miss you greatly, but I am sure there is not one who will not feel as I do, glad to know that you are taking a rest after all your work. Of course you will look in sometimes to see how your patients are progressing. As for myself I hope I shall be able to come up to see you at the Michauds in another ten days or so. Now that the doctor has taken to feeding me up I can feel that I am gaining strength every day."

"You must not hurry, Cuthbert," she said, gravely. "You must keep quiet and patient."

"You are not in your nursing-dress now, Miss Brander, and I decline altogether to be lectured by you. I have been very good and obedient up to now, but I only bow to lawfully constituted authority, and now I come under the head of convalescent I intend to emancipate myself."

"I shall not come down here to see you unless I hear good accounts of your conduct," she said, with an attempt to speak playfully. "Well, good-bye, Cuthbert. I hope you will not try to do too much."

"Good-bye, dear, thanks for all your goodness to me," he said, earnestly, as he held her hand for a moment in his.

"He had no right to call me dear," Mary thought, almost indignantly, as he left the hospital, "and he does not guess I know why he is longing to be out again. I almost wonder he has never spoken to me about her. He would know very well that I should be interested in anything that concerns him, and I think he might have told me. I suppose he will bring her up some day and introduce her as his wife. Anyhow I am glad I know about it, and shall be able to take it as a matter of course."

Mary did not pay another visit to the ambulance. Now that she had given up her work she felt the reaction, and although she refused to take to her bed she passed her time sitting listless and weak in an easy-chair, paying but slight attention to Madame Michaud's talk, and often passing the greater part of the day in her own room.

Madame Michaud felt so uneasy about her that she went down to the ambulance and brought up Dr. Swinburne, who scolded Mary for not having sent for him before. He prescribed tonics, sent her up a dozen of wine from the hospital, ordered her to wrap herself up and sit at an open window for a time each day, and to make an effort to take a turn round the garden as soon as she felt strong enough to do so.

On his return to the ambulance the surgeon said carelessly to Cuthbert, who had now gained sufficient strength to be of considerable use as an assistant in the ward -- 

"I have been up to see your late nurse, Miss Brander. There is nothing serious the matter with her, but, as I thought likely would be the case, she has collapsed now that her work is over, and will need a good deal of care and attention to build her up again. You will be out in a few days now and I am sure it will do her good if you will go up and have a chat with her and cheer her up a bit. She is not in bed. My visit did her good; but she wants rousing, and remember if you can get her to laugh, and joke her about her laziness, it will do more good than by expressing your pity for her."

"I think I am well enough to be discharged now, Doctor,' Cuthbert said, eagerly.

"Yes, but you will have to be very careful for some time. You will want generous food, and I don't see how you are to get it outside."

"I suppose the restaurants are still open?"

"The common ones are closed, but you can-still get a dinner at some of the best places, although you will have to pay very heavily for it."

"I don't mind that, Doctor; and besides I am very anxious to be at work again. It will be no more tiring standing at an easel than it is doing what I can to help here."

"That is true enough, providing you do not do too much of it. Up to a certain extent it will be a good thing for you, but mind, I distinctly forbid you to attempt any such folly as to try to walk from the Quartier Latin up to Passy. Let me see," he added, thoughtfully. "Yes, I think it can be managed. I will send you home by the ambulance that will be here to-morrow morning at eight o'clock. You are to keep yourself quiet all day, and I will get Madame de Millefleurs to send her carriage round for you at eleven o'clock next day, to take you round by Passy. She has told me many times that it is always at the disposal of any of my patients to whom it would be useful. I will see her some time to-morrow and arrange about it."

"Thank you, indeed, Doctor. I need not say how grateful I am to you for all the kindness I have received here."

"We have done the best we could for you," the doctor said, "and I am sure there is not one of those who have provided funds for this ambulance but feels well rewarded by the knowledge that it has been the means of saving many lives. I think we may say that we have not lost one whom it was humanly possible to save, while in the French hospitals they have lost hundreds from over-crowding, want of ventilation, and proper sanitary arrangements. The mortality there has been fearful, and the percentage of deaths after amputations positively disgraceful."

René came late that afternoon to pay a visit to Cuthbert, and was delighted to find that he was to be out next morning.

"I have kept your rooms in order," he said, "and will have a big fire lighted in them before you arrive. They will give you breakfast before you leave, I hope."

"They will do that, René, but I shall manage very well if there is still anything left of that store of mine in the big cupboard."

"You may be sure that there is," René replied. "I am always most particular in locking up the doors when I come away, and I have not used the key you gave me of the cupboard. I was positively afraid to. I am virtuous, I hope, but there are limits to one's power to resist temptation. I know you told me to take anything I liked but if I had once began I could never have stopped."

"Then we will have a feast to-morrow, René. Ask all the others in to supper, but you must act as cook. Tell them not to come to see me till eight o'clock. If they kept dropping in all day it would be too much for me. I wish Dampierre could be with us, but he has not got on so fast as I have. His wounds were never so serious, but the doctor said the bones were badly smashed and take longer to heal. He says he is not a good patient either, but worries and fidgets. I don't think those visits of Minette were good for him, the doctor had to put a stop to them. He would talk and excite himself so. However, I hear that he is likely to be out in another fortnight."

"By that time it will be all over," Rend said, "negotiations are going on now, and they say that in three or four days we shall surrender."

"The best thing to do, René. Ever since that last sortie failed all hope has been at an end, and there has been no point in going on suffering, for I suppose by this time the suffering has been very severe."

"Not so very severe, Cuthbert. Of course, we have been out of meat for a long time, for the ration is so small it is scarcely worth calling meat, but the flour held out well and so did the wine and most other things. A few hundred have been killed by the Prussian shells, but with that exception the mortality has not been very greatly above the average, except that smallpox has been raging and has carried off a large number. Among young children, too, the mortality has been heavy, owing to the want of milk and things of that sort. I should doubt if there has been a single death from absolute starvation."

To M. Goudé's students that supper at Cuthbert Harrington's was a memorable event. The master himself was there. Two large hams, and dishes prepared from preserved meats were on the table, together with an abundance of good wine. It was the first reunion they had had since the one before the sortie, and it was only the gaps among their number, and the fact that their host and several of their comrades were still weak, and greatly changed in appearance, that restrained their spirits from breaking into hilarity.

The next morning Madame de Millefleurs' carriage came to the door and Cuthbert was driven to the Michauds. For a moment Margot failed to recognize Cuthbert as she opened the door. As she did so she exclaimed -- 

"Mon Dieu, Monsieur Hartington, you look like a ghost."

"I am very far from being a ghost, Margot, though there is not much flesh on my bones. How is Mademoiselle Brander? I hear she has not been well."

"She is as pale as you are, monsieur, but not so thin. She does nothing but sit quiet all day with her eyes wide open -- she who was always so bright and active and had a smile for every one. I go out and cry often after going into her room. She has just gone into the parlor. You will find her alone there," she added, for Margot had always had her ideas as to the cause of Cuthbert's visits.

Mary was sitting at the open window and did not look round as Cuthbert entered.

"Well, Mary, is it actually you, doing nothing?" he said, cheerily.

She turned round with a start, and a flush of color swept across her face.

"How you startled me," she said. "I am glad indeed to see you. I did not think you would be out so soon. Surely it is very foolish of you coming so far."

"Still thinking you are a nurse, Mary," he laughed. "I can assure you I am very prudent, and I have been brought up here in a carriage a carriage -- with live horses. Dr. Swinburne told me you had not got over the effects of your hard work, and that he had had to order you to take tonics, so you see instead of being a nurse you are a patient at present, while I am a free man. I came out of hospital yesterday morning, and we had a grand supper last night out of my hoards, which I found just as I had left them, which says wonders for the honesty of the Parisians in general, and for the self-denial of my friend René Caillard in particular."

"Why, I should have thought --  -- " and she stopped, abruptly.

"What would you have thought, Miss Brander?"

"Oh, nothing."

"No, no, I cannot be put off in that way. You were going to say that you thought I should have distributed my stores long ago, or that I ought to have sent for them for the use of the hospital. I really ought to have done so. It would have been only fair, but in fact the idea never occurred to me. René had the keys of my rooms and I told him to use the stores as he liked, meaning for himself and for our comrades of the studio."

"I should have thought," she began again, and then, as before, hesitated, and then asked, abruptly, "Have you not something to tell me, Cuthbert -- something that an old friend would tell to another? I have been expecting you to tell me all the time you were in the hospital, and have felt hurt you did not."

Cuthbert looked at her in surprise. There was a slight flush on her cheek and it was evident that she was deeply in earnest.

"Tell you something, Mary," he repeated. "I really don't know what you mean -- no, honestly, I have not a notion."

"I don't wish to pry into your secrets," she said, coldly. "I learned them accidentally, but as you don't wish to take me into your confidence we will say no more about it."

"But we must say more about it," he replied. "I repeat I have no idea of what you are talking about. I have no secret whatever on my mind. By your manner it must be something serious, and I think I have a right to know what it is."

She was silent for a moment and then said -- 

"If you wish it I can have no possible objection to tell you. I will finish the question I began twice. I should have thought that you would have wished that your stores should be sent to the lady you are engaged to."

Cuthbert looked at her in silent surprise.

"My dear Mary," he said, gravely, at last, "either you are dreaming or I am. I understood that your reply to my question, the year before last, was as definite and as absolute a refusal as a man could receive. Certainly I have not from that moment had any reason to entertain a moment's doubt that you yourself intended it as a rejection."

"What are you talking about?" she asked, rising to her feet with an energy of which a few minutes before she would have deemed herself altogether incapable. "Are you pretending that I am alluding to myself, are you insulting me by suggesting that I mean that I am engaged to you?"

"All I say is, Mary, that if you do not mean that, I have not the most remote idea in the world what you do mean."

"You say that because you think it is impossible I should know," Mary retorted, indignantly, "but you are mistaken. I have had it from her own lips."

"That she was engaged to me?"

"She came to the hospital to see you the night you were brought in, and she claimed admittance on the ground that she was affianced to you."

Cuthbert's surprise changed to alarm as it flashed across him that the heavy work and strain had been too much for the girl, and that her brain had given way.

"I think that there must be some mistake, Mary," he said, soothingly.

"There is no mistake," she went on, still more indignantly; "she came with your friend, René, and I knew her before she spoke, for I had seen her face in a score of places in your sketch-book, and you told me she was a model in your studio. It is no business of mine, Mr. Hartington, whom you are going to marry. I can understand, perhaps, your wish that the matter should remain for a time a secret, but I did not think when I told you that I knew it, you would have kept up the affectation of ignorance. I have always regarded you as being truthful and honorable beyond all things, and I am bitterly disappointed. I was hurt that you should not have given your confidence to me, but I did think when I told you that I knew your secret you would have manfully owned it, and not descended to a pretence of ignorance."

For a moment Cuthbert's face had expressed bewilderment, but as she went on speaking, a smile stole across his face. Mary noticed it and her voice and manner changed.

"I think, Mr. Hartington," she said, with great dignity, "you must see that it will be pleasanter for us both that this interview shall terminate."

He rose from his seat, took his hat off the table, and said, quietly -- 

"I have but one observation to make before I go. You have discovered, Miss Brander, that you made one mistake in your life. Has it never struck you that you might also have made a mistake this time? I think that our very long acquaintance might have induced you to hesitate a little before you assumed it as a certainty that your old acquaintance was acting in this way, and that for the sake of old times you might have given him the benefit of the doubt."

The strength that Mary's indignation had given her, deserted her suddenly. Her fingers tightened on the back of the chair by her side for support.

"How could there be any mistake," she asked, weakly, her vigorous attack now turned into a defence, more by his manner than his words, "when I heard her say so?"

"Sit down, child," he said, in his old authoritative manner. "You are not fit to stand."

She felt it would be a step towards defeat if she did so, but he brought up the chair in which she had before been sitting and placed it behind her, and quietly assisted her into it.

"Now," he went on, "you say you heard it from her lips. What did she say?"

"She said she insisted on going in to see you, and that as your affianced wife she had a right to do so."

"She said that, did she? That she was the affianced wife of Cuthbert Hartington?"

Mary thought for a moment.

"No, she did not use those words, at least, not that I can remember; but it was not necessary, I knew who she was. I have seen the sketches in your book, and there were several of them on the walls of your room. Of course I knew who she was speaking of, though she did not, so far as I can remember, use your name."

"Did it never occur to you, Miss Brander, that it was a natural thing one should have many sketches of the girl who always stood as a model in the studio, and that every student there would have his sketch-book full of them? Did you not know that there were three or four other wounded men of the same corps as myself in the hospital; that one at least was a fellow-student of mine, and also a foreigner, and that this young woman was just as likely to be asking to see him as to see me?"

An awful feeling of doubt and shame came with overpowering force over Mary Brander.

"No," she said, desperately, "I never thought of such a thing. Naturally I thought it was you, and there was no reason why it shouldn't be. You were perfectly free to please yourself, only I felt hurt that when you got better you did not tell me."

Her voice was so weak that Cuthbert poured some water into a glass and held it to her lips.

"Now, child," he went on in a lighter voice, "I am not going to scold you -- you are too weak to be scolded. Some day I may scold you as you deserve. Not only is Minette -- I told you her name before -- nothing to me, but I dislike her as a passionate, dangerous young woman; capable, perhaps, of good, but certainly capable of evil. However, I regret to say that Arnold Dampierre, the man who was in the next bed to me, you know, does not see her in the same light, and I am very much afraid he will be fool enough to marry her. Actually, she did a few days later obtain permission to see him, and has, I believe, seen him several times since; but as he was moved out of your ward whilst I was battling with the fever, I have not seen her. Now don't cry, child, you have been a goose, but there is no harm done, and you ought to be glad to know that your old friend is not going to make a fool of himself; and he can still be regarded by you as truthful and honorable. Do you think I would have taken you round to my rooms if I had been going to make her their mistress?"

"Don't, don't!" the girl cried. "Don't say anything more, Cuthbert. I cannot bear it."

"I am not going to say any more. Madame de Millefleurs' horses must by this time be half-frozen, and her coachman be out of all patience, and I must be going. I shall come again as soon as I can, and I shall be very angry if I don't find you looking much more like yourself when I next come."



Chapter XVII.


The belief that in a few hours the siege would come to an end was so general the next morning, that Cuthbert determined to lose no time in seeing Cumming. As soon as the way was open the man might take the opportunity to move off to some other hiding-place; and, therefore, instead of bringing out his canvases, as he had intended, Cuthbert decided to call on him at once. Having chartered one of the few remaining fiacres, at an exorbitant rate, he drove to the house where he had seen Cumming enter, and went into the concierge.

"I want some information, my friend," he said, laying a five-franc piece on the table. "You have a foreigner lodging here?"

The man nodded.

"Monsieur Jackson is a good tenant," he said. "He pays well for any little services."

"How long has he been here?"

"He came just after war was declared."

"Has he taken his apartments for a long period?"

"He has taken them for a year, monsieur. I think he will take them permanently. I hope so, for he gives no trouble, and has never been out late once since he came here."

"I want to see him," Cuthbert said, "I believe he is an old acquaintance of mine."

"If you ring his bell he will open himself. He keeps an old woman as servant, but she has just gone out to do his shopping. He always take his meals at home. He is on the second floor -- the door to the left."

Cuthbert went up and rang the bell. Cumming himself opened the door. He looked at his visitor inquiringly.

"You do not remember me, Mr. Cumming?" Cuthbert said, cheerfully. "I am not surprised, for I have but just recovered from a very serious wound. I will come in and sit down, if you don't mind; I want to have a chat with you. My name is Cuthbert Hartington!"

The man had given a violent start when his name was mentioned, and his face turned to an ashy pallor. He hesitated for a moment, and then, as Cuthbert entered, he closed the door behind him, and silently led the way into the sitting-room.

"I happened to see you in the street," Cuthbert went on, pleasantly, as he seated himself. "Of course, your beard has altered you a bit, and I could not at first recall your face, but it soon came back to me. It was a happy idea of yours shutting yourself up here when there was no chance of an extradition warrant being applied for. However, to-morrow or next day that little difficulty will be at an end. I thought I would come and have a conversation with you, and naturally the course that I shall take will depend a good deal on the results. I may mention," he went on, taking a revolver from his pocket and laying it on the table before him, "that I thought it as well to bring this with me, for just at present I don't feel quite up to a personal tussle."

"What do you want to talk about?" the man asked, doggedly. "I may tell you at once that I placed what little money I got where it will never be found, and beyond sending me up for some years, there will be nothing to be gained by denouncing me."

"There might be some satisfaction though in seeing a man who has ruined you punished -- at least there would be to some men. I don't know that there would be to me. It would depend upon circumstances. I am ready to believe that in those transactions of yours that brought the bank to ruin, you honestly believed that the companies you assisted would turn out well, and that things would come out right in the end. I do not suppose you were such a fool as to run the risk of ruin and penal servitude when you had a snug place, unless you had thought so; and, indeed, as the directors were as responsible as yourself for making those advances -- although they were, of course, ignorant of the fact that you held a considerable interest in those companies -- there was nothing actually criminal in those transactions. Therefore, it is only for that matter of your making off with the contents of the safe that you can be actually prosecuted. At any rate, I have no present intention of interfering in the affair, and you can remain here as Mr. Jackson up to the end of your life for what I care, if you will give me the information that I desire."

The look on the man's face relaxed.

"I will give you any information you desire, I have nothing to conceal. Of course, they can obtain a conviction against me for taking the money, but I should save them trouble by pleading guilty at once. Therefore, I don't see that I could harm myself in any way by answering any questions they may choose to ask me."

"I want to get to the bottom of what has all along been a mystery to me, and that is how my father came to take those shares, just at the moment when the bank was so shaky."

"That is more than I can tell you, Mr. Hartington. It has been a puzzle to myself."

"But they were your shares that were transferred to him."

"That is so, and the money came in useful enough, for I knew that the smash must take place soon, and that possibly I might not be able to lay my hands on much ready cash. However, I will tell you exactly how it came about. Brander, the lawyer came to me and said his client, Mr. Hartington, wanted fifty shares. I own I was astounded, for Brander knew perfectly well that things were in a very bad way. By the way he spoke I saw there was something curious about the affair, but as he put the screw on, and as much as hinted that if I did not follow his instructions he would blow the whole thing into the air, I made no objections, especially as he proposed that I should transfer some of my own shares. The transfer was drawn up in regular form. He brought it to me duly signed by your father.

"I noticed that his own clerks witnessed the signature, so I supposed it was done in the office. He made a point that I should get the transfer passed with some others without the attention of the directors being called to the matter. I got the transfer signed and sealed by two of the directors while there was a talk going on about other things, and they signed without looking at names. So far as I am concerned that was the beginning and ending of the matter. Oh, there was another point, the transfer was ante-dated three weeks. Of course, it might have been lying in Brander's office all the time. It was dated on the day after the previous board meeting, so that in the ordinary course it would not be passed until the next meeting, and it might very well have remained in Brander's hands until he knew that the directors were going to meet again. I have often wondered what Brander's game was, and of course I thought all the more of it when I saw that he had bought Fairclose. He was a crafty old fox, Brander, but I have never been able to understand why he permitted your father to ruin himself."

Cuthbert remained silent for some time.

"Your explanation only thickens the mystery," he said. "I can no more understand his motive than you can. Brander's explanation of the affair to me was that my father insisted against his advice in buying the shares, as he did not believe in the rumors to the discredit of the bank. He was a strong county man, as you may know, and thought that when people heard that he had taken shares, it would tend to restore confidence in the concern. Now, as, on the contrary, Brander seems to have taken special pains to prevent the transaction being known even by the directors, it is clear that his explanation was a lie, that for some reasons of his own he wished to defeat my father's intentions. I think I must get you to put the statement you have made to me on paper, and to get it sworn before a public notary -- at least I think that is the way out here."

"I have no objection to do that, but as it is my intention to continue to live here where I am now known as a resident and feel myself pretty safe, except from some chance meeting like that of yours, I would rather that it should be done somewhere else."

"That is reasonable enough," Cuthbert agreed. "I expect the gates will be open in a day or two, and I shall go to England at once and try to get to the bottom of this matter. I should think the Prussians will let Englishmen pass out at once. Would you mind going with me as far as Calais? We can get the document sworn to in legal form and you can then come back here."

"I would rather go to Brussels," the man said.

"No doubt that would be best," Cuthbert agreed. "It might be as well that it should not be done at any place in France. Well, Mr. Cumming, your secret is safe with me. I will call on you again as soon as I find that we can get across to Brussels."

"I shall be ready whenever you are, Mr. Hartington. Of course, I don't quite see what you will do with this document, but I am perfectly ready to sign it."

"I don't see either. I shall want to think the matter over. At present I feel in a complete fog."

"I can quite understand that. I may tell you that Brander puzzled me a good deal the last two or three months before the bank stopped. He spent two or three hours going into the affairs with me. He knew generally how matters stood, but he had never gone thoroughly into them before. When he had done he said, 'I knew you were in a very bad way before but I did not think it was as bad as this. I want to see whether the smash could not be postponed. Things have been bad lately, but I think they are improving, and some of these affairs that you have been bolstering up might pull round if you had time given you."

"I did not see much chance of that. However, I did not say so in fact, I wanted to hear what he was driving at. He went on, after looking through the list of mortgages we held, 'Of course, Cumming, it is to your interest to hold on here as long as possible, and I may have mine for wishing the bank to keep its doors open for some little time yet. It would never do for you to be going into the market to try and transfer any of these mortgages, but I have clients in London who would, I think, take some of them over. Of course, I have taken good care that in no cases did the bank lend more than fifty per cent. of the full value of the lands, and the mortgages are all as safe as if they were on consols. So if you will give me a fortnight's notice when there is anything pressing coming forward, I think I can manage to get twenty thousand pounds' worth of these mortgages taken off our hands altogether. I might repeat the operation three or four times, and could get it done quietly and with no fuss. In that way the bank could be kept going for a good many months, which would give time for things to take a turn. In case of anything like a run taking place, which I think is unlikely, I could let you have fifteen thousand of my own in a few hours. I have it standing at call and could run up to town and bring it down by the next train.'

"Why he should make such an offer as this puzzled me, but his reason for wanting to prop the bank up was no business of mine, and there was no doubt if he could get fifty or sixty thousand pounds' worth of mortgages taken off our hands, it would enable us to hold on for some time. He did, in fact, get one batch of twenty thousand pounds' worth transferred, but about a month before we stopped he came in one morning and said, 'I am sorry to tell you, Cumming, that I have heard from the people in town I had relied on to help us about those mortgages, and they tell me they have undertaken the financing of a contractor for a South American railway, and that, therefore, they are not inclined at present to sink money farther in mortgages, so I am afraid, as far as I am concerned, things here must take their course,' and, as you know, they did take their course. Naturally, I did not believe Brander's story, but it was evident he had, when he made the offer, some reason for wanting the bank to keep its doors open for a time, and that that reason, whatever it was, had ceased to operate when he withdrew the offer."

"I don't see that that part of the business has any bearing upon my affair," Cuthbert said, "beyond helping to show Brander was playing some deep game of his own."

"I don't know, Mr. Hartington. However, I will think the matter over, and we shall have opportunities for discussing it again on our way to Brussels."

"I almost wish I had let the matter alone altogether," Cuthbert said to himself as he drove back to his lodgings. "I wanted to clear up what seemed a mystery, and I find myself plunged much deeper into a fog than ever. Before I only dimly suspected Brander of having for some reason or other permitted my father to take these shares when a word from him would have dissuaded him from doing so. I now find that the whole transaction was carried out in something like secrecy, and that so far from my father's name being used to prop up the bank, it was almost smuggled into the list of shareholders, and that even the directors were kept in ignorance of the transfer of Cumming's shares to him. The whole business has a very ugly look, though what the motive of this secrecy was, or why Brander should be willing to allow, if not to assist, in my father's ruin is more than I can conceive. The worst of the matter is, he is Mary's father. Yes, I wish to goodness that I had left the whole business alone."

Cuthbert had given his address to Cumming, and to his surprise the man called on him that evening.

"You did not expect to see me again to-day, Mr. Hartington," he said, when he entered, "but thinking the matter over a fresh light has struck me, and I felt obliged to come round to tell you. I hope I am not disturbing you."

"No, I have been so worried over the confounded business, that I have given up going to some friends as I had promised, as I didn't feel that I could talk about indifferent matters."

"Well, Mr. Hartington, my idea will surprise you; it will seem incredible to you, and it almost seems so to myself, and yet it all works in so that I can't help thinking it is near the mark. I believe that your father never signed that transfer at all that his signature was in fact a forgery."

"The deuce you do," Cuthbert exclaimed; "what on earth put such an idea into your head? Why, man, the idea is absurd! If it was a forgery it must have been done by Brander, and what possible motive could he have had for such an act?"

"That I don't pretend to say. If I could see that, I should say it was a certainty, but I own the absence of motive is the weak point of my idea. In all other respects the thing works out. In the first place, although your father was not a man of business, it was singular that he should go out of his way to take shares in the bank, when he must have known that in the case of things going wrong his whole property would be involved. No doubt that idea must have occurred to yourself."

"Certainly; it astonished me beyond measure that he should have done such a thing. I wrote to Brander at once hoping for some sort of explanation. I was at the time satisfied with that that he gave me, but it was, as you know, because the matter, on reflection, has since seemed so extraordinary that I came to you to try and get some further information about it."

"You saw your father after this supposed transaction, Mr. Hartington?"

"Yes, I was down there for a fortnight."

"And he did not mention it to you?"

"Not a word!"

"Was it his habit to talk on business matters with you?"

"He never had any business matters except about the estate, and he generally told me if he had any difficulty about his rents, and discussed any improvements he thought of making, but beyond that there was never any question of money. Sometimes he would say 'My balance at the bank is rather larger than usual, Cuthbert, and if you like an extra hundred you can have it,' which I never did."

"Well, of course it is only negative evidence that he made no allusion to his having purchased those shares, still, as he was in the habit of speaking to you about things, he might very naturally have said 'I have been investing some spare cash in the shares of the bank here.'"

"Yes, I should have thought he would have done so!"

"You don't think he would have abstained from telling you, because he might have thought you would have considered it a rash speculation."

"Certainly not," Cuthbert said, warmly, "I should no more have thought of criticising anything he chose to do with his money, than I should of flying."

"Well, at any rate, you may take it that there is no proof whatever that Mr. Hartington was aware of this transaction at the time of your visit, nor that he was aware of it up to the time of his death." Cuthbert nodded. "Now let us suppose that this transfer was a forgery, and was committed by Brander, what course would he naturally pursue? Exactly that which he followed, namely, to get it placed on the register without its being noticed by the directors. These men were all personal friends of your father's. Knowing to some extent, though I admit without realizing the peril, that the bank was seriously involved, they might have refused to register the transfer until they had privately remonstrated with him, especially as I was the vendor, even had they not done this one or other of them would almost certainly have alluded to the subject the first time they met him. Brander might have intended later on to re-transfer the shares to some bogus purchaser, but at any rate, if he knew your father was in bad health he would have wanted to keep the bank from putting up its shutters until after his death. You will remark that he did assist in that way, while your father was alive, and that almost immediately after his death, he declined to support the bank farther. What his motive can have been in all this I own that I cannot imagine, but, given a motive, my supposition appears to be perfectly feasible. That the motive, whatever it was, must have been a very strong one, I admit, for in the first place he was running the risk of being detected of forgery, and in the second must have been three hundred pounds out of pocket, for that was the amount of the check he handed to me."

"It was his own check, then, and not my father's?"

"Yes, he said he had rents in hand and therefore paid it out of them, which seemed natural enough. But how about the signatures of the two clerks?"

"They may be forgeries too, or possibly, knowing your father's signature, they may have signed as a matter of course without actually seeing him affix it. You will admit that all this is possible."

"It seems possible enough," Cuthbert said, "but what motive could there have been on Brander's part? He could never have run such a risk merely to gratify any special fancy he may have had for Fairclose."

"Certainly not, Mr. Hartington. Jeremiah Brander has not a particle of sentiment in his composition. Of course, as he was the solicitor of the company, I made it my business to study the man pretty closely, and I came to the conclusion that he was a rank humbug, but that he was a humbug because it paid him to be one."

"That is quite my own idea of him, but that does not help us in the slightest towards an explanation as to why he should risk everything when he had nothing whatever to gain by it."

"No, I feel that difficulty myself," Cumming said, stroking his chin thoughtfully, "I admit that beats me altogether. By the way," he said, suddenly, "I saw in the official report that he had a mortgage of fifteen thousand on the estate. Do you mind telling me how that came about? It may possibly help us."

"I have not the least idea. I never heard of the existence of the mortgage until Brander wrote to me himself about it at the time he bought the estate; but he gave me an explanation that perfectly satisfied me at the time."

Mr. Cumming looked at him inquiringly.

"It was an explanation," Cuthbert said, after a pause, "that closed my lips altogether on the subject. But in the present strange state of affairs I do not know that I need abstain from mentioning it to you. Brander explained that my father said that he required it to close up a matter that had long been troubling him. I gathered from the way he put it that it was some folly with a woman in his early years, and I need not say that respect for my father's memory prevented me from pursuing the matter further. Brander said that he had himself advanced the money on the mortgage in order that the business should be done privately and without any third person being cognizant of it."

Cumming sat thoughtfully for a minute without speaking and then he leapt suddenly to his feet and put his hand on Cuthbert's shoulder.

"You take my word for it, Mr. Hartington, that mortgage was just as much a bogus affair as the transfer. The one supplies the motive we have been looking for for the other. The failure of the bank brought Fairclose into the market, and not only did Brander purchase it for ten or fifteen thousand below its value at any other time, but he gained another fifteen thousand by this bogus mortgage. There is your motive for the forgery of your father's name on the transfer."

"I cannot believe it," Cuthbert said, slowly. "Brander could never be such a scoundrel as that. Besides, of course, the men who wound up the affairs of the bank would look closely into the mortgage. Whether it was real or whether it was a forgery, Brander would equally have obtained the money at my father's death, so your supposition of a motive fails."

"I do not know. Had the claim been made direct to you, you would naturally have got some sharp lawyer to investigate it, and, it would have been inquired into a good deal more closely than the official liquidator probably took the trouble to do. A mortgage, of which no one knows anything until after the mortgagor's death, would always be looked upon with suspicion, and some collateral proofs would be required. Of course, I may be wrong altogether, but it would be well for you to ascertain whether the official liquidator did take any steps to obtain such evidence."

"That I will certainly do," Cuthbert said. "I did write to him at the time, and I am bound to say his answer seemed entirely satisfactory and straightforward. He said that Mr. Brander had given proof that he did draw a check for the amount of the mortgage on the day on which it was executed, and although he did not show that interest had been specifically paid by checks from my father, there were receipts found among my father's papers for the half-yearly payments of interest. These were, it seemed, settled, when Brander, who collected his rents, made up his accounts with him."

"That all seems straightforward enough, Mr. Hartington, and as long as there was no ground for suspicion would doubtless pass muster, but it is certainly worth while inquiring into."

Cuthbert sat silent for some time.

"After all the whole of this is but the barest suspicion," he said. "The only thread of fact being that the transfer was kept secret from the directors, of which no doubt Brander will be able to give some plausible explanation, and his character stands so high at Abchester that the question, if raised, would be scouted as an atrocious libel upon him. But supposing that we had absolute proof, I don't see how I should stand. If my father was not a shareholder in the bank its creditors had, of course, no claim whatever on his property, but as the property has in fact been sold and the proceeds divided long ago who should I have to go against?"

"That is a matter for the lawyers, Mr. Hartington, but I imagine you would not have to go back on the creditors to the bank. You would simply prove that the bank was not in a position to give a title, and that, therefore, the sale was null and void. It would be argued, of course, that you gave the title, as I suppose you signed the deeds, and your plea would be that the signature was obtained from you by fraud."

"I did not sign the deeds," Cuthbert said. "Brander pointed out that, as I had not received any rents or profits, it would be better that I should stand out of it altogether, and that the will should not be proved, as otherwise the death dues would be charged upon it, and therefore it remained in the hands of the executors of whom he was one, and it was they who gave the titles."

"Whoever gave the titles, I should say that, as the bank had no claim whatever on the property, if the transfer was a forgery, the sale would be declared void and the loss would fall on the purchaser. This would, in the case of anyone but Brander, have been very hard, but would, in his, be in strict accordance with justice. However, this is a matter for which, of course, you will require the best legal opinion, but all that is for after consideration. The great difficulty, and I grant that I don't see how it is to be got over, is to prove that your father's signature to the transfer was a forgery. The first step is to ascertain whether the attesting witnesses were actually present as they should have been when your father's signature was affixed."

"I will clear up that point anyhow," Cuthbert said; "I will go straight from Brussels to England, see the clerks, and hear what they have to say on the matter. If they were present and saw my father sign the transfer there is an end to the whole affair."

The other nodded.

"I would not mind wagering a hundred pounds to one that you find that they were not present."

"Well, that will soon be settled, for I have heard this afternoon that the conditions of surrender were signed this morning and that to-morrow the forts are to be given over, and an armistice will commence. In that case I suppose that foreigners will meet with no difficulty in obtaining passes to leave at once. Well, I am very much obliged to you for the suggestion you have made, Mr. Cumming, though I have, I confess, very little faith indeed that anything will come of it, and just at present it seems to me that I would much rather the matter had remained as it was."



Chapter XVIII.


The next morning Cuthbert drove to Madame Michaud's.

"You are looking better, Mary," he said, as he entered; "why, you have got quite a pretty color in your cheeks."

"Don't talk nonsense, please. I am better, a great deal better, but it is no wonder I have a color, I have been blushing with shame at my own folly ever since you were here."

"If you never do anything more foolish than that, you will get through life well enough. Appearances were against me, and you jumped at conclusions a little too fast. Let us say no more about it."

"You are not looking so well, I think, Cuthbert."

"No. I have been a little bothered."

"Have you seen that man Cumming?" she asked, quickly.

"Yes," he answered, in some surprise, "though what should make you associate him with my being bothered I don't know."

"You said that you were going to see him, and somehow, I don't know why, I have been rather worrying over it. Was the interview satisfactory, did you learn what you wanted?"

"Not altogether," he said, "but it is all a matter of conjecture, Mary, and I own that it has worried me a bit, and, indeed, I am sorry I went to him at all. However, as it is business and ladies are not good at business, suppose we talk of something else."

Mary made no reply, but sat looking at him while she twisted her fingers nervously before her. "May I ask one question, Cuthbert?"

"Yes, if you like, but I don't promise to answer it?"

"Do you think that there is any blame attached to my father?"

Cuthbert was startled. He had certainly not expected this question.

"What on earth should put that idea into your head, Mary?"

"I don't know," she replied, "but it has always struck me as so strange that he should not have prevented Mr. Hartington from buying those shares. I don't know much of business, but I have thought a great deal about it, and it has always seemed a strange affair to me, and I have worried a great deal over it since he bought the house. That is one reason why I hate going there."

"Perhaps your father was not quite so prudent in the matter as he might have been, Mary," Cuthbert said, trying to speak lightly, though he found it difficult to do so with the girl's earnest eyes fixed on him, "but even of that I am not sure. Now, suppose we change the subject again -- it seems that we are to hit on difficult subjects this morning. The gates will probably be opened, at any rate to the foreigners, in a day or two. Are you thinking of going home to prepare yourself for taking up your vocation as a nurse?"

"Not yet," she replied, "there is no hurry for that, and it will be some time before the country is settled."

"You are sure that you have not changed your mind again?"

"No, why should I?"

"I thought perhaps you might have done so, and might possibly be inclined towards the vocation you so scornfully repudiated when I suggested it before. I intended to ask you yesterday, but it would not have been fair when you were so weak and shaken."

The girl had glanced at him and had then flushed hotly.

"I don't know -- I am not sure -- what you mean."

"And I am sure that you know very well, Mary, that I mean the vocation of taking care of me, which you repudiated with scorn -- in fact refused to entertain it seriously at all. Of course there may have been other grounds, but the one you laid stress on was that I was lazy and purposeless, and that if you ever did take up such a vocation it would be to take care of some one you could respect. I don't say for an instant that I approach to that altitude, but at least I may say I am no longer an idler, that I have worked hard, and that I have every hope of success. You see, too, that I want you more than I did then. I am a poor artist and not the heir to a good estate. But as you are fond of sacrificing yourself, that may not be altogether an objection. At any rate, dear, I think I shall be able to keep you comfortably. I am not sure I should ever have mustered up courage enough to have spoken on this subject again, had it not been for yesterday. But that gave me a little hope that you really had come to care about me a little, and that possibly you might be willing to change your plans again in my favor."

"I did not think you really loved me then," she said. "I thought it was just a passing fancy."

"You see it was not, dear. All these months that I have worked hard, it was partly from the love of art and with the hope that I might be a really great artist, but at the bottom of it all along has been the thought of you and the determination that in one respect I would become worthy of you."

"Don't talk like that, Cuthbert. I know now that I was a headstrong, conceited girl, thinking I was strong when I was as weak as water. You were right when you said I was not yet a woman, for I had never found that I had a heart. It is I who am unworthy."

"Well, it is no question of worthiness now. The question is do you love me as I love you."

"Are you sure you do, Cuthbert? I have thought all these months that you had taken me at my word, and that it was but as a friend you regarded me. Are you sure it is not gratitude for what little I did for you in the hospital! Still more that it is not because I showed my feelings so plainly the day before yesterday, and that it is from pity as well as gratitude that you speak now."

"Then you were really a little jealous, Mary?"

"You know I was. It was shameful of me to show it, so shameful that I have hated myself since. I know that after doing so, I ought to say no -- no a thousand times. I love you, Cuthbert, I love you; but I would rather never marry you than feel it was out of pity that you took me. That would be too hard to bear."

They were both standing now.

"You are talking nonsense, child," he said, tenderly, as he took her hand. "You know I love you truly. Surely my pictures must have told you that. Honestly now, did you not feel that it was so?"

"I did not know you loved me then, Cuthbert. There were other things, you know, that made me feel it could not be so, but then that for the first time I really knew --  -- " and she stopped.

"That you loved me, darling?" and he drew her closer to him. "Now, you gave me a straightforward answer before -- I insist on as straightforward a one now."

And this time the answer was not, No.

"Mind," he said a few minutes afterwards, "your vocation is definitely fixed at last, Mary, and there must be no more changing."

"As if you did not know there won't be," she said, saucily. And then suddenly altering her tone she went on, "Now, Cuthbert, you will surely tell me what you would not before. What did you find out? It is something about my father, I am sure."

"Let me think before I answer you," he said, and then sat silent for two or three minutes. "Well," he said, at last, "I think you have a right to know. You may be sure that in any case I should before, for your sake, have done everything in my power towards arranging things amicably with him. Now, of course, that feeling is vastly stronger, and for my own sake as well as yours I should abstain from any action against him. Mind, at present I have only vague suspicions, but if those suspicions turn out true, it will be evident that your father has been pursuing a very tortuous policy, to put it no stronger, in order to gain possession of Fairclose. I cannot say definitely as yet what I shall do, but at present I incline to the opinion that I shall drop the matter altogether."

"Not for my sake, Cuthbert," she said, firmly. "I have always felt uneasy about it. I can scarcely say why, but I am afraid it is so. Of course I know my father better than people in general do. I have known that he was not what he seemed to be. It has always been my sorest trouble, that we have never got on well together. He has never liked me, and I have not been able to respect him. I know that if he has done anything absolutely wrong -- it seems terrible that I should even think such a thing possible -- but if it has been so -- I know you will not expose him."

"We will not talk any more about it, dear," Cuthbert interrupted; "it is all the vaguest suspicion, so let us put it aside altogether now. Just at present I am a great deal too happy to give as much as a thought to unpleasant matters. We have to attend to the business of the hour, and you have the two years of love of which I have been deprived to make up for."

"I am very, very glad, Cuthbert, that I was not in love with you then."

"Why?"

"Because we should have started all wrong. I don't think I should ever have come to look up to you and honor you as I do now. I should never have been cured of my silly ideas, and might even have thought that I had made some sort of sacrifice in giving up my plans. Besides, then you were what people call a good match, and now no one can think that it is not for love only."

"Well, at any rate, Mary, we shall have between us enough to keep us out of the workhouse even if I turn out an absolute failure."

"You know you won't do that."

"I hope not, but at any rate one is liable to illness, to loss of sight, and all sorts of other things, and as we have between us four hundred a year we can manage very comfortably, even if I come to an end of my ardor for work and take to idleness again."

"I am not afraid of that," she smiled, "after painting those two pictures, you could not stop painting. I don't think when anyone can do good work of any sort, he can get tired of it, especially when the work is art. My only fear is that I shan't get my fair share of your time."

"Well, if I see you getting jealous, Mary, I have the means of reducing you to silence by a word."

"Have you, indeed? Will you please tell me what word is that?"

"I shall just say, Minette!"

Mary's color flamed up instantly.

"If you do, sir; if you do --  -- " and then stopped.

"Something terrible will come of it, eh. Well, it was not fair."

"It was quite fair, Cuthbert. It will always be a painful recollection to me, and I hope a lesson too."

"It will not be a painful recollection to me," he laughed. "I think I owe Minette a debt of gratitude. Now, what do you say to taking a drive, Mary? Horse-flesh has gone down five hundred per cent. in the market in the last three days, and I was able to get a fiacre on quite reasonable terms."

"Is it waiting here still? How extravagant, Cuthbert, it must have been here nearly an hour."

"I should say I have been here over two hours and a quarter according to that clock."

"Dear me, what will Madame Michaud think? Shall I tell her, Cuthbert?"

"I don't care a snap what she thinks. You can do just as you like about telling her. Perhaps it will be as well, as I intend to see a good deal of you in the next few days. But if you write home don't say anything about it. There are reasons which we can talk over another time, why it will be best to keep it to ourselves for a time."

Mary nodded. That he wished a thing was quite sufficient for her at the present moment.

"Do you want me to go out with you?" she asked.

"Just as you like. I believe that as a rule a ring has to be purchased at the conclusion of an arrangement such as we have just entered into, and I thought you might just as well chose one yourself."

"Oh, I would much rather not," she exclaimed, "and besides, I think for to-day I would rather sit quiet and think it all over and realize how happy I am."

"Well, for to-day you shall have your own way, Mary, but you have been doing a good deal more thinking than is good for you, and after to-day we must go out for a good walk regularly. You see we have both to get up our strength. I had quite forgotten I had anything the matter with me, and you only wanted rousing, dear. The doctor said as much to me, and you know, after all, happiness is the best tonic."

"Then I must be perfectly cured already, Cuthbert, but remember you must take care of yourself. The best of tonics won't set any one up at once who has had a real illness as you have had. You want something more substantial. Good strong soups and roast beef are the essentials in your case. Remember, sir, I have been your nurse and mean to continue so till your cure is complete. You will come again to-morrow, Cuthbert?"

"Of course, dear. Now about that ring. I have observed you never wear one. Have you one you can lend me, or must I measure with a piece of thread?"

"I will get you one, Cuthbert. I am not without such a possession although I have never worn one. I looked upon it as a female vanity," she added, with a laugh, "in the days when I thought myself above such things. What a little fool you must have thought me, Cuthbert?"

The next morning when Cuthbert came Mary had her things on in readiness to go out with him, and after a short delay to admire and try on the ring, they set out together.

"I did not tell you yesterday, Mary," Cuthbert said, after they had walked a short distance, "that as soon as the arrangements for foreigners to leave the town are settled, I am going to Brussels with Cumming. He is going to make an affidavit, and this he cannot do here, as, if I should have occasion to use the document, it would be the means of enabling the police to trace him here and to demand his extradition. After that I shall go on to England to make some inquiries that are essential. I will give you all particulars if you wish it, but I think it will be very much better that you shall know nothing about the matter; it may turn out to be nothing at all; it may on the other hand be extremely important. It is a painful business anyhow, but in any case I think it will be much the best that you should know nothing about it. You can trust me, can you not?"

"Altogether," she said, "and certainly I would rather know nothing about it. But mind, Cuthbert, you must do what you think is right and best without any question about me. If you have been wronged you must right yourself, and I am sure that in doing so you will do it as gently and kindly as possible."

"I will try to do so," he said. "At present, as I told you, the suspicions are very vague and rest entirely upon the statement Cumming has made. If those suspicions should be verified, a great wrong has been done and that wrong must be righted, but that can no doubt be arranged without publicity or scandal. The reason why I do not wish you to say a word about our engagement is, that were it known it would tie my hands terribly and render it so impossible for me to take any strong ground, that I should be altogether powerless."

"Do entirely as you think best, Cuthbert. Of course, beyond the fact that perhaps something wrong may have been done, I have not an idea what it can be, and I do not want to know, unless it must be told me. How long are you likely to be away and do you think you are fit to travel?"

"There is no great fatigue in travelling," he said. "I can't say how long I shall be, not long I hope. You may be sure that I shall not be longer than I can possibly help."

"I shall miss you dreadfully, but of course if you think it necessary, you must go. Besides," she said, saucily, "if you are in no hurry about me I know you will be anxious to get back to finish your pictures. No, Cuthbert, I really can't have that. There are people in sight."

"I don't care if there are," he laughed.

"I do, very much. Whoever heard of such a thing? What would they think of me?"

"I did not know that you cared what people thought of you, Mary."

"Not about some things, perhaps, but there are limits, you know."

A week later, duly provided with passes, Cuthbert and Cumming made their way in a carriage to the Belgian frontier, and then went on by train to Brussels, where, on the day after their arrival, Cumming drew up and signed a statement with reference to the details of his transference of the shares to Mr. Hartington, and swore to its contents before a Belgian legal official.

"I shall stay here for a few days," he said to Cuthbert, as the latter started the next morning for England. "I am quite safe for the present, and after a long course of horse-flesh I really cannot tear myself away from decent living, until Paris is re-victualled, and one can live there in comfort again. I wish you every success in your search. The more I think of it the more convinced I am that we are not far wrong as to the manner in which Brander has got hold of your estate."

Cuthbert, on arriving in London, took up his quarters at the Charing Cross Hotel. On the morning after his arrival he wrote a letter to Dr. Edwardes, at Abchester.

"MY DEAR DOCTOR, -- I have just returned from Paris, where I have been shut up for the last four months. I do not care about coming down to Abchester at present. I suppose I have not quite got over my soreness over matters in general, but for reasons which I need not enter into, I want to know if Brander's clerks, who were with him when I was last there, are still with him in his office, and, if not, where they are employed. I do not know anyone else to write to on the subject, and I am sure you will not mind taking the trouble in the matter for me."

The answer came back by return of post.

"MY DEAR CUTHBERT -- I was very glad to hear of you again. I have asked Brander from time to time about you, and he always says that he has not heard from you for months, and though your letter says nothing beyond the fact that you are alive, I was glad to get it. I hope next time you write you will give me full details about yourself, and that ere long you will make up your mind to come down. I need not say that we shall be delighted to put you up when you do come. I should imagine you would not care to go to Fairclose. Now as to your question. Harford, the elder of the two clerks, left the office here very shortly after you went away. Levison, the younger, is still here. I put myself in the way of meeting him as he went to the office this morning. I stopped and chatted with him for a minute or two, and asked him carelessly how Mr. Harford was and whether he ever heard from him. He said he heard occasionally and that he was well. 'By the way, where is he working now?' I asked, 'I know he went up to a firm in town.' 'Oh, yes, he is with Barrington and Smiles, of Essex Street. He is getting on very well there, I believe. He is head of their conveyancing branch. I wish I could drop into as good a billet, Doctor. I should be very glad of a change.' So much for that business. Things are getting on pretty much the same up at the old place. Brander still comes up to his office for an hour or so every day. I don't think he cares much for the county gentleman's life. I fancy Mrs. B. is rather a disappointed woman. The fact is there was a good deal of feeling in the county as to Brander's connection with the bank. Almost everyone was let in more or less, you know, for the depositors have only got eight shillings in the pound so far, and I don't suppose they will ever get much more. There is an idea that Brander ought to have found out what was going on, and indeed that he must have known a good deal about it, and that at any rate what he did know should have been ample to have rendered it his duty to warn your father against taking shares so short a time before the smash. His purchase of Fairclose did not improve matters, and so far from their taking your father's place in the county, I may say without being absolutely cut they are much more out of it than they were before. However, when you come down I will give you all the local gossip."

It was late in the afternoon when Cuthbert received the letter and he at once went to Essex Street. Several clerks were writing in the office. A lad came forward to ask him his business.

"I want to speak for a moment to Mr. Harford."

The lad went up to one of the desks and the clerk came forward.

"I don't know whether you remember me," Cuthbert said, "my name is Hartington."

"I remember you very well, Mr. Hartington, though you are changed a good deal."

"I have had a sharp illness, but I am getting over it now. I particularly wished to speak to you about a matter in connection with my father's affairs. I am staying at the Charing Cross Hotel and should feel very much obliged if, when you leave here, you would come round for a few minutes."

"With pleasure, sir, but I shall not get away till seven."

"That will do very well," Cuthbert said. "I would not have troubled you had it not been important."

A few minutes past seven the clerk was shown into Cuthbert's room. After asking him to take a chair Cuthbert said -- 

"As you are aware, Mr. Harford, my loss of the Fairclose estates arose from the unfortunate circumstances of my father having taken a few shares in the Abchester and County Bank. The matter has always been a puzzle to me. I have been abroad for the last eighteen months, and now, having returned, am anxious to get to the bottom of the matter if I can. The transfer of the shares from Cumming, the manager of the bank, to my father, was signed at Mr. Brander's office, I fancy. At any rate, you and Mr. Levison were the attesting witnesses to my father's signature. Have you any memory of the transaction, and would you object to tell what took place?"

"I remember about the transfer, Mr. Hartington, because, when the crash came, everything connected with it was talked over. In point of fact, we did not see Mr. Hartington's signature actually attached. He called at the office one day, and just after he had left Mr. Brander called us in and said, 'Please witness Mr. Hartington's signature.' Of course, we both knew it very well and witnessed it. I did not notice the names on the body of the transfer, though, of course, I knew from the appearance of the document what it was, but Mr. Brander just pointed out where we were to sign and we signed. The only thing I noticed was that as I wrote my eye fell on the top line, and I saw that it was dated ten days earlier."

"Was that unusual?"

"No, documents are often dated at the time they are drawn up, although they may not be signed for some days later. Of course it is not exactly regular, but it often happens. A form is filled up and one or other of the parties may be away or unable to sign. I happened to notice it, but it did not strike me in any way."

"And were you often called upon to attest signatures in this way without seeing them written?"

"There was nothing unusual in it. As a general rule we were called into the room when a signature had to be witnessed, but it occasionally happened, in the case where it was a well-known client and we were perfectly acquainted with the signature, that we did not sign until he had left the office."

"Do you remember if such a thing ever happened any other time in the case of my father!"

"Only once, I think, and that was afterwards. We signed then as witnesses to his signature to a legal document. I don't know what its nature was. It was done in the same manner directly Mr. Hartington had driven away."

"It might have been a mortgage deed."

"It might have been, sir, but as I saw only the last page of it, and as there were but three or four lines of writing at the top of the page, followed by the signatures, I have no idea even of the nature of the document."

"May I ask if you have left the office at Abchester on pleasant terms with Mr. Brander and his partner, for, of course, you know that he still takes an interest in the firm."

"Oh, yes, it is still carried on as Brander and Jackson, and Brander still goes down there for an hour or two every day. Yes, I left on pleasant terms enough, that is to say, I left of my own free will. I had for some time wished to come up to London, and hearing through a friend in this office of a vacancy at Barrington and Smiles, I applied and was fortunate enough to get it."

Cuthbert sat silent for a time. So far the answers he had received tallied precisely with Cumming's theory. He did not see how he could carry the inquiry farther here at present. The clerk, who was watching him closely, was the first to speak.

"I own, Mr. Hartington, that I do not in the slightest degree understand the gist of your questions, but I can well imagine that at the present moment you are wondering whether it would be safe to ask farther. I will, therefore, tell you at once that one of my reasons for leaving Mr. Brander's employment was that I did not like his way of doing business, nor did I like the man himself. The general opinion of him was that he was a public-spirited and kind-hearted man. I can only say that our opinion of him in the office was a very different one. He was a hard man, and frequently when pretending to be most lenient to tenants on the estates to which he was agent, or to men on whose lands he held mortgages, he strained the law to its utmost limits. I will not say more than that, but I could quote cases in which he put on the screw in a way that was to my mind most absolutely unjustifiable, and I had been for a very long time trying to get out of his office before the opportunity came. I may also say, Mr. Hartington, that I had the highest respect for your father. He always had a kind word when he came into the office, and regularly at Christmas he handed Levison and myself a check for ten pounds each, for, as he said, the trouble his business gave us. I tell you this in order that you may feel you can safely repose any confidence in me, and that my advice will be wholly at your service if you should think fit to give me your confidence in this matter, whatever it may be. But at the same time I must say it would be still better if you put yourself in the hands of some respectable firm of solicitors. I do not suggest my own principals more than others, although few men stand higher in the profession."

"There are reasons against my laying the matter before any firm of solicitors, and the chief of these is that my hands are tied in a peculiar manner, and that I am unable to carry it through to its natural sequence, but I will very thankfully accept your offer and will frankly tell you the nature of my suspicions, for they are nothing more than suspicions. I may first say that the news that my father was a shareholder in the Abchester Bank astounded me. For a time, I put it down to one of those sudden impulses that are unaccountable, but I may tell you, and here my confidence begins, that I have come across Cumming, the bank manager, and from him have obtained some curious particulars of this transaction -- particulars that have excited my suspicions.

"You wondered why I asked you those questions. I will tell you. You did not see my father affix his signature to either of those documents. The one being certainly the transfer of some of Cumming's shares to him. The other being, as I believe, the mortgage that, as you doubtless heard, Mr. Brander held over my father's estate. How could you tell those two signatures were not clever forgeries?"

Mr. Harford gave a start of surprise.

"God bless me, sir," he exclaimed, "such an idea never entered my mind."

"That I can quite understand," Cuthbert said, quietly, "but you must admit it is possible."

"But in that case," the clerk said, after a pause, "Brander himself must have been the forger, and surely that is not possible. I fancy I know Mr. Brander pretty well, but I should never have dreamt him capable of forgery. Not because I have a high opinion of his honesty, but because I believe him to be a cautious man, and besides I do not see what possible interest he could have had in ruining your father by putting his name on to the register of shareholders. Even if he had an interest in so doing the risk of detection would be frightful, for not only would the matter be known to the directors, but, as you are aware, any shareholder has a right on the payment of a nominal fee to inspect the list of shareholders."

"Precautions were taken against this," Cuthbert said. "Just glance through this paper, which has been signed and sworn to by Cumming in proper form at Brussels."

Mr. Harford ran his eye over the document and then read it through carefully word by word.

"This is an extraordinary statement," he said, gravely, "do you believe it, Mr. Hartington?"

"I believe it implicitly. I had the man practically at my mercy. As you know, there is a warrant out for his arrest and a word from me would have set the police on his track and led to an application for his extradition. Therefore he had every motive for telling me the truth, and I am as certain as I can be, that he did so."

"If so there can be no question that Mr. Brander had some very strong reason indeed for preventing the knowledge of this transfer having ever been made from being known; but in any case it must have come out when the bank failed and of course he must have had a pretty accurate knowledge of the state of its affairs."

"Yes, but it man be that he had an equally accurate knowledge of the state of my father's health. That would account for what Cumming says as to his offer to bolster up the bank for a time, and for a retraction of that offer within a few days after my father's death."

"But why on earth should he have run all this risk merely to ruin you? He had no cause of enmity against you, had he, sir?"

"None, so far as I knew but now we come to the other document where you witnessed the signature without having seen it signed. If the signature on the transfer was a forgery, why not that on the mortgage, if it was the mortgage. If so you see the motive of the transfer. The smash of the bank brought a good many estates into the market and they would consequently go cheap. Not only would he get it far below its value, but by reason of this pretended mortgage he would get a further drawback of £15,000 from the price he would pay as its purchase."

"Good heavens, Mr. Hartington! You take my breath away! Have you any reason whatever for believing that the mortgage was a bogus one?"

"None, beyond the fact that I was ignorant of its existence. I was so surprised that I not only wrote to Brander himself but to the official liquidator. The former said he had advanced the money at the urgent request of my father, who told him he wished to settle a very long standing claim upon him, and that he desired that the transaction should be kept an absolute secret. The official liquidator said he had gone carefully into the question of the mortgage, that it was of three years, standing, that the receipts Mr. Brander had given my father for the half-yearly interest on the money had been found among my father's papers, and that Brander had moreover produced a document, showing that he had sold securities to that amount, and had drawn the money from his bankers in town by a singled check for £15,000. Do you remember whether such a deed was ever drawn up in the office?"

"Certainly it was not, but you see that proves nothing, for it was to be kept a secret. Brander might have had it drawn up by some solicitor in London."

"I see that. Well, then, this deed, whatever it was that you witnessed, was that drawn up in the office?"

"No. I remember Levison and I talked it over and said it was curious that a deed between Brander and Mr. Hartington should not have been given to us as usual to be drawn up."

"You witnessed his signature then as well as that of my father?"

"Yes, I have a particular reason for remembering that, for I had sat down hurriedly after he had signed it, and dipping my pen too deeply in the ink, made a blot. It was no doubt a stupid thing to do, but Brander was so unreasonably angry about it, and blew me up so roughly that I made up my mind there and then to stand it no longer, and wrote that very evening to my friend in my present office the letter which led to my getting the situation there two or three months later."

"That blot may be a most important one," Cuthbert said, "if it occurs on the mortgage deed on Fairclose, it is clear that document was not, as it professes on its face, executed three years earlier."

"That would be so indeed," Mr. Harford exclaimed, excitedly; "it would be a piece of evidence there would be no getting over, and that fact would account for Brander's anger, which seemed to me was out of all proportion to the accident. If you could show that the mortgage deed on which Brander claimed is really that document we witnessed, it would be all up with him. As to the receipts for the payments of interest they proved nothing as they were, of course, in Brander's own handwriting and were found where he put them. If you could find out that Brander had knowledge of Mr. Hartington's state of health about the time that transfer was produced you would strengthen your case. It seems to me that he must have got an inkling of it just before he filled up the transfer, and that he ante-dated it a week so that it would appear to have been signed before he learnt about his illness. I can see no other reason for the ante-dating it."

"That may have been the reason," Cuthbert agreed. "It was one of the points for which Cumming and I, talking it over, could see no motive. Certainly he would wish that if anyone said to him you ought to have prevented Mr. Hartington buying those shares when you knew that he was in a precarious state of health, to be able to reply that when the shares were bought he had not the slightest idea of his being in anything but the best of health."

"At any rate I will see Dr. Edwardes, and ascertain exactly when he did tell Brander. He is certain to be able by turning back to his visiting book, to ascertain when he himself became aware of my father's danger, and is likely to remember whether he told Brander at once."

"But even without that, Mr. Hartington, if you can prove that question of the date of the deed you have him completely on the hip. Still it will be a very difficult case to carry through, especially if you cannot get Cumming to come into court."

"But, as I began by telling you, I cannot carry out the case to a legitimate conclusion, nor do I want the intervention of lawyers in the matter. I want the estate back again if I can get it, but rather than this matter should be made public I would not lift a little finger to regain the property. It happens," and he smiled dryly, "that Mr. Brander's reputation is almost as dear to me as it is to him, for I am going to marry his daughter. We should not feel quite comfortable together, you see, at the thought that the father was working out a sentence of penal servitude."

"That is an unfortunate combination indeed, Mr. Hartington," Mr. Harford said seriously, though he could not repress a smile of amusement at the unexpected news. "Then it seems to me, sir, that Brander may in fact snap his fingers at any threat you may hold out, for he would feel certain that you would never take any steps that would make the matter public."

"Fortunately," Cuthbert replied. "Mr. Brander is wholly unaware of the little fact I have mentioned, and is likely to remain so until matters are finally arranged between us."

"That is indeed fortunate. Then I understand, Mr. Hartington, your object is to obtain so strong a proof of Brander's share in this affair as will place you in a position to go down to him, and force him into some satisfactory arrangement with you."

"That is it, and it is clear the first step will be to see the official liquidator and to obtain a sight of the mortgage."

"I suppose you know that he is the head of the firm of Cox, Tuke, and Atkinson, in Coleman Street. I suggest that the best plan will be to see him to-morrow, and to make an appointment with him for you to inspect the mortgage. You would wish me, of course, to be with you when you do so?"

"Think you very much. I will go round there in the morning, and will call at your office afterwards and let you know if I have arranged the matter, and the time at which I am to call to inspect the mortgage."



Chapter XIX.


Cuthbert, on calling upon the head of the great firm of accountants, was courteously received by him.

"Of course, I remember your name, Mr. Hartington, with reference to the Abchester Bank failure. It seemed a particularly hard case, and I know our Mr. Wanklyn, who had charge of the winding up, took particular interest in it, and personally consulted me more than once about it, though I cannot exactly recall the circumstances now. What is it that you say you want to examine?"

"I want to have a look at the deed of mortgage that Mr. Brander, who purchased the property, had upon it."

"Yes, I remember now, that was one of the points on which Mr. Wanklyn consulted me. It struck him at first sight as being rather a remarkable transaction, and he went into it carefully, but it was all proved to be correct to his satisfaction. It is unfortunate that the system of registering mortgages is not enforced everywhere as it is in London -- it would save a great deal of trouble in such cases as the present."

"Are the affairs of the bank quite wound up?"

"Dear me, no, Mr. Hartington. Why, it is but two years since the failure. There are properties to be realized that cannot be forced on the market without ruinous loss. There are assets which will not be available until after death; it is not the assets of the bank, but the assets of individual shareholders and debtors of the bank that have to be collected. I should say it will be at least twenty years before the last dividend will be divided. I am sure Mr. Wanklyn will be happy to let you see any document you desire. I will take you to him."

Mr. Wanklyn had a room on the same floor with his principal, and Mr. Cox took Cuthbert and introduced him to him.

"Mr. Hartington wants to have a look at the mortgage that Brander held on the late Mr. Hartington's estate. You remember we had several talks about it at the time, and you took a good deal of pains about the matter. Mr. Hartington wrote to me about it from Paris, if you recollect, and you replied to him in my name. I will leave him with you to talk it over."

"Have you any particular reason for wanting to see the deed, Mr. Hartington?" the accountant asked, when Mr. Cox had left the room. "I only ask because I suppose the documents connected with the winding up of the bank must weigh several tons, and it will take a considerable time for a clerk to hunt out the one in question. If you have really any motive for examining it I will get it looked out for you by to-morrow, but it will put us to a great deal of trouble."

"I am really anxious to see it for a special purpose, Mr. Wanklyn. I have reason to believe there was some irregularity in the matter."

"I am afraid it will make but little difference to you whether it was so or not, Mr. Hartington. The creditors of the bank have been the sufferers if there was any irregularity in it."

"Yes, I suppose so, and yet I assure you it is not a mere matter of sentiment with me. Other questions might turn upon it."

"Then I will certainly have it ready for you by to-morrow -- give me until the afternoon. Will four o'clock suit you?"

"Very well. I will, with your permission, bring with me one of the attesting witnesses to my father's signature. He was one of Mr. Brander's clerks at the time."

Mr. Wanklyn looked up keenly.

"You can bring whom you like," he said, after a pause, "and I will put a room at your disposal, but of course the document cannot be taken away."

"Certainly not, Mr. Wanklyn, and I am very much obliged to you for granting my request."

Cuthbert called for James Harford at the hour at which he had said he went out to lunch, and told him of the appointment he had made.

"I have been thinking it over, Mr. Hartington, and I should recommend you to bring Cooper with you."

"Who is Cooper?"

"He is one of our greatest experts on handwriting. I don't know whether you have any of your father's letters in your possession."

"Yes, I have several. I brought over the last two I had from him, thinking they might be useful."

"Well, his opinion on the signatures may be valuable, though as a rule experts differ so absolutely that their evidence is always taken with considerable doubt, but it is part of his business to look out for erasures and alterations. It is quite possible Brander may have removed that blot, and that he has done it so well that neither you nor I could detect it; but whether he did it with a knife or chemicals you may be sure that Cooper will be able to spot it, whichever he used. I have very little doubt that your suspicions are correct and those parchments were really the pretended mortgage deeds. If you like I will go round and see Cooper at once and arrange for him to meet us in Coleman Street to-morrow at four o'clock."

"Thank you very much. The idea of the blot being erased had never struck me."

The next day Cuthbert met James Harford and Mr. Cooper at the door of the accountants, and after being introduced by the clerk to the expert they went up together. On giving his name in the office a clerk came across to him.

"If you will come with me, gentlemen, I will lead you to the room that is ready for you. This is the document that you desire to see."

As soon as they were alone they sat down at the table, and opened the deed.

"How is it for size?" Cuthbert asked.

"It is about the same size, but that is nothing. All deeds are on two or three sizes of parchment. The last page is the thing."

Cuthbert turned to it. There were but four lines of writing at the top of the page, and below these came the signatures.

"Of course I could not swear to it, Mr. Hartington, but it is precisely in accordance with my recollection. There were either three, four, or five lines at the top. Certainly not more than five, certainly not less than three. As you see there is no blot to my signature. Now, Mr. Cooper, will you be kind enough to compare the signatures of these two letters with the same name there?"

Mr. Cooper took the letter and deed to a desk by the window, examined them carefully, then took out a large magnifying glass from his pocket, and again examined them.

"I should say they are certainly not by the same hand," he said, decisively. "I do not call them even good imitations. They are nothing like as good as would be made by any expert in signing other people's names. The tail of the 'J' in James in these two letters runs up into the 'a' but as you will notice the pen is taken off and the letter 'a' starts afresh. Here on the contrary you see the pen has not been taken off, but the upstroke of the 'J' runs on continuously into the 'a.' More naturally it would be just the other way. In these two letters the writer would be signing his name more hurriedly than to a formal deed, and would be much more likely to run his letters into each other than when making a formal signature on parchment.

"Looking through this glass you will observe also that although the letters run on together there is a slight thickening in the upstroke between each letter as if the writer had paused, though without taking his pen off, to examine the exact method of making the next letter in a copy lying before him. In the surname there are half a dozen points of difference. To begin with, the whole writing slopes less than in the other signatures. In both your father's letters the cross of the first 't' is much lower than usual and almost touches the top of the 'r' and i.' The same peculiarity is shown in the second 't' in both letters, while on the deed the 't's' are crossed a good deal higher. The whole word is more cramped, the flourish at the end of the 'n' is longer but less free. In the capital letter, the two downstrokes are a good deal closer together. There has been the same pause between each letter as those I pointed out in the Christian name, and indeed the glass shows you the pen was altogether taken off the paper between the 'o' and the 'n,' as the writer studied that final flourish. My opinion is that it is not only a forgery but a clumsy one, and would be detected at once by anyone who had the original signatures before him. I will even go so far as to say that I doubt if any bank clerk well acquainted with Mr. Hartington's signature would pass it."

"And now for the blot," Cuthbert said. "There was a blot somewhere near the signature of Mr. Harford."

"Don't tell me where it was, Mr. Harford. I would rather not know its exact position."

With the aid of the magnifying glass the expert carefully examined the parchment and then held it up to the light.

"The blot was in the middle of the signature and involved the letters 'a' and 'r.' Is that right?"

"That is right, Mr. Cooper; he used blotting paper to it at once, and it did not show up very strongly."

"An eraser has been used and a chemical of some sort, and the two letters involved in the blot have been re-written, or at any rate touched up, but they have run a little. You can see it quite plainly through this lens. The difference between their outline and that of the other letters is quite distinct, and by holding the parchment so that the light falls across it, you can see that, although it has been rubbed, probably by the handle of a penknife to give it a gloss, the difference between that gloss and the rest of the surface, is distinctly visible."

"I see that," the clerk said, "and I should be quite prepared to swear now, Mr. Hartington, that this is the document I signed some three weeks after I signed as witness to the transfer."

"That is quite good enough, I think," Cuthbert said. "Thank you, Mr. Cooper, you have quite settled the doubt I had in my mind. I do not think I shall have occasion to ask you to go into court over this matter, but should I have to do so I will, of course, give you due notice."

After paying the expert's fee Cuthbert went into the office and handed the document over to the clerk from whom he had received it.

"Would you kindly put it where it can be got at easily should it be wanted again. It is of the highest importance."

After parting with Mr. Cooper at the door, Cuthbert walked westward with Mr. Harford.

"So far you have proved that your suspicions are correct, sir, and I have not the least doubt that your father's signature to the transfer was, like this, a forgery. May I ask what step you propose to take next? Of course if your object was not to prevent publicity your course would be clear. You would first apply for a warrant for the arrest of Brander on a charge of double forgery. When that was proved, you would have to take steps to apply to have it declared that your father's name was wrongfully placed among the shareholders of the bank, and then endeavor to obtain a decree ordering the liquidator to reimburse the proceeds of the sale of the estate and all other moneys received by him from your father's executor. Lastly, you would apply to have the sale annulled, not only on the ground of fraud on the part of Mr. Brander, but because the liquidators could not give a title. Of course in all these steps you would have to be guided by a firm of high standing, but as you particularly wish to avoid publicity, I suppose your first step will be to confront Brander with the proofs of his guilt. I suppose you would wish me to go down with you. I shall be able to do so without difficulty, for I took no holiday last year and can, therefore, get two or three days whenever I choose to ask for them."

"Thank you, Mr. Harford. It will certainly be desirable that I should be backed up by your presence. The first thing I shall do will be to go down to Abchester to see Dr. Edwardes. I want to ascertain from him when he first knew of my father having heart-disease. That he did know it before his death I am aware, though, at my father's particular request, he abstained from informing me of the fact. He may also know when Brander first became acquainted with it. It will strengthen my case much if I am in a position to show that it was after he had the knowledge that my father's death might take place at any moment, that he committed these frauds. As soon as I find this out, which will probably be in a few hours after my arrival there, I will send you a telegram. I am anxious to lose no time, because I do not want Brander to know of my arrival in Abchester until I confront him. If I could find out what he did with the £15,000 he proved to the liquidator that he had drawn out on the day this mortgage was said to have been executed, I should have the chain of evidence complete, but I don't see how that is to be got at."

"It might be got at by advertisements, Mr. Hartington; £15,000 is a large sum, and were you to advertise a reward of £100 for information as to whom Mr. Brander paid the sum of £15,000 on the date named in the mortgage, it is quite probable you might obtain the information."

"I might get it that way, but unless it is absolutely necessary I would rather not do so. Were I to advertise before I see him, he might have his attention drawn to it, and it would put him on his guard. I can but resort to it afterwards if he refuses to come to terms."

Accordingly, the next day Cuthbert went down to Abchester, travelling by a train that arrived there after dark, and taking a fly, drove to Dr. Edwardes'.

The servant took in his name and the doctor at once hurried out into the hall.

"Why, my dear Cuthbert, I am glad indeed to see you, though from your letter I had hardly hoped to do so for some little time. Come in, come in; my wife will be delighted to see you. Dinner is just on the table, so you have arrived at precisely the right moment."

"Dear me, Mr. Hartington, you are looking terribly ill," Mrs. Edwardes exclaimed, after the first greetings were over.

"I have been ill, but I am quite convalescent now. I did rather a foolish thing, Doctor. I joined a corps of Franc-tireurs raised in the schools and studios, and the Germans put a bullet through my body. It was a very near squeak of it, but fortunately I was taken to the American ambulance, which was far the best in Paris, and they pulled me through. It is but ten days since I was discharged cured, but of course it will be some little time before I quite get up my strength again."

"Where was it, Cuthbert? Then you were fortunate indeed," he went on, as Cuthbert laid his finger on the spot; "the odds were twenty to one against you. Did they get the bullet out?"

"It went out by itself, Doctor. We were at close quarters in the village of Champigny when we made our sortie on the 1st of December, so the ball went right through, and almost by a miracle, as the surgeon said, without injuring anything vital. There is the dinner-bell, Doctor. I will go into your surgery and wash my hands. I remember the ways of the place, you see."

During dinner-time the talk was entirely of the siege. When the meal was over, the doctor and Cuthbert went to the former's study, where the doctor lighted a cigar and Cuthbert his pipe.

"How are they getting on at Fairclose?" Cuthbert asked, carelessly.

The doctor shrugged his shoulders.

"I should say they heartily regret having changed their quarters. Of course it was her doing that they did so. She is a curious mixture of cleverness and silliness. Her weak point is her ambition to be in county society, and to drop the town altogether. She has always been hankering for that. No doubt it is partly for the sake of the girls -- at least she always lays it to that. But when I used to attend them as babies, she was always complaining to me that the air of the town did not suit her. However, so far from gaining by the exchange, she has lost.

"As the leading solicitor here, and I may say the leading man in the place, Brander went a good deal into the county. Of course his wife did belong to a county family, and no doubt that helped open the doors of many good houses to him. Well, he is in the county now, but he is not of the county. There was naturally a lot of bad feeling about the smash of that bank. A good many men besides yourself were absolutely ruined, and as everyone banked there, there was scarce a gentleman in the county or a tradesman in the town, who was not hit more or less severely. The idea was that Brander, whose name had been a tower of strength to the bank, had been grossly negligent in allowing its affairs to get into such a state. I think they were wrong, for I imagine from what I heard, that Brander was correct in saying that he was not in any way in the counsels of the directors, but confined himself to strictly legal business, such as investigating titles and drawing up mortgages, and that he was only present at the Board meetings when he was consulted on some legal questions.

"Still there is no stemming the tide of popular opinion. Abchester demanded a scapegoat. Cumming had disappeared, the five directors were ruined, and so they fell upon Brander. He could have got over that -- indeed he has got over it as far as the town is concerned -- but his purchase of Fairclose set the county against him. They considered that he got it for £20,000 below its value, which was true enough; the other estates that went into the market were all sold at an equal depreciation, but it was felt somehow that he at least ought not to have profited by the disaster, and altogether there was so strong a feeling against him that the county turned its back on Fairclose."

"By the way, Doctor, can you tell me when and how you first became aware of the state of my father? The loss was so recent that I asked but few questions about it when I was here, though you told me that you had known it for some little time."

"I can give you the exact date," the doctor said, stretching out his hand for a book on his desk. "Yes, here it is; it was the 23rd of March. His man rode down with the news that he had found him insensible. Of course I went up as hard as my horse could carry me. He had recovered consciousness when I got there, and his first request was that I should say nothing about his illness. When I examined him, I found that his heart was badly diseased, so badly that I told him frankly he had not many weeks to live, and that, as the slightest shock might prove fatal, I absolutely forbade him to ride. He said he hated to be made a fuss of. I urged him at least to let me write to you, but he positively refused, saying that you would be greatly cut up about it, and that he would much rather go on as he was. The only exception he made was Brander. He was the only soul to whom I spoke of it. I called in and told him directly I got back here and he went that afternoon to Fairclose."

The date was conclusive to Cuthbert. The transfer had been ante-dated some three weeks; and the two clerks, therefore, attested it on the 24th or 25th of March; so Brander had lost no time in conceiving his plan and carrying it into execution.

"By the way, Doctor," he said, after a pause, "I shall be glad if you will not mention to anyone that I am here. I don't want people to be coming to see me, and I would especially rather not see Brander. I never did like the man from the time I was a boy, and I don't think I could stand either his business manner or his hearty one. I thought I would come down and have the pleasure of a chat with you again for a day or two, but I don't mean to stir out while I am here."

The next morning Cuthbert obtained a telegraph form from the doctor and sent his man with it to the post-office. It was directed to Harford, and contained only the words, "Come down this evening if possible. Put up at the George. Come round in the morning to Dr. Edwardes.'"

Cuthbert was really glad of the day's rest, and felt all the better for it. On the following morning Harford's name was brought in just as breakfast was over.

"It is the man who was Brander's clerk, Doctor," he said. "I met him in town and he has come down to see me on a little matter of business."

"Take him into the consulting-room, Cuthbert, I am not likely to have any patients come for the next half-hour."

"That settles it, sir," the clerk said, when he heard from Cuthbert of the date which he had obtained from the doctor, "though I cannot swear to a day."

"I hear that Brander comes to his office about eleven o'clock. He is sure to be there, for I hear that Jackson has gone away for a few days. I will go at half-past. If you will call here for me at that time we will walk there together. I will go in by myself. I will get you to call two or three minutes after me, so that I can call you into his private room if necessary."

"You have soon done with him," the doctor said, as Cuthbert returned to the breakfast-room.

"I have given him some instructions and he will call again presently," Cuthbert replied. "By the way, we were talking of Brander; how have his two girls turned out? I mean the two younger ones; I met Mary in Paris during the siege."

"Ah. I heard from Brander that she was shut up there, and I was wondering whether you had run against her. He is very savage at what he calls her vagaries. Did she get through the starvation all right?"

"Oh, yes, she was living in a French family, and like most of the middle class they had laid in a fair stock of provisions when it became evident the place was to be besieged, and though the supply of meat was stinted I don't think there was any lack of other things."

"I liked Mary," the doctor said, warmly; "she was a straightforward, sensible girl, till she got that craze about woman's rights in her mind; in all other respects she was a very nice girl, and differed from the rest of them as much as chalk from cheese."

"And what are the sisters like?"

"They are like their mother, vain and affected, only without her cleverness. They feel bitterly their position at Fairclose, and make matters worse by their querulous complainings. I never go into the house unless I am sent for professionally, for their peevishness and bad temper are intolerable. If things had gone differently, and they had made good marriages, they might have turned out pleasant girls enough. As it is they are as utterly disagreeable as any young women I ever came across."

"Then Brander must have a very bad time of it."

"Yes, but from what I have seen when I have been there I don't thing they show off before him much. I fancy Brander's temper has not improved of late. Of course, in public, he is the same as ever, but I think he lets himself loose at home, and I should say that the girls are thoroughly afraid of him. I have noticed anyhow that when he is at home when I call, they are on their best behavior, and there is not a word of any unpleasantness or discontent from their lips. However, I suppose the feeling against Brander will die out in time. I think it was unjust, though I don't say it was not quite natural, but when the soreness wears off a bit, people will begin to think they have been rather hard on Brander. There's the surgery bell, now I must leave you to your own devices."

At half-past eleven James Harford called, and Cuthbert at once went out with him, and they walked towards Mr. Brander's office, which was but a couple of hundred yards away.

"How do you do, Mr. Levison?" Cuthbert asked as he entered. "Is Mr. Brander alone?"

"Yes, he is alone, Mr. Hartington. I am glad to see you again, sir."

With a nod Cuthbert walked to the door of the inner office, opened it, and went in. Mr. Brander started, half rose from his chair with the exclamation -- 

"My dear --  -- !" then he stopped.

There was something in the expression of Cuthbert's face that checked the words on his lips.

"We need not begin with any greetings, Mr. Brander," Cuthbert said, coldly. "I have come to tell you a story."

"This is a very extraordinary manner of address, Mr. Hartington," the lawyer said, in a blustering tone, though Cuthbert noticed his color had paled, and that there was a nervous twitching about the corners of his lips. Brander had felt there was danger, and the blow had come so suddenly that he had not had time to brace himself to meet it. Without paying any attention to the words, Cuthbert seated himself and repeated -- 

"I have come to tell you a story, Mr. Brander. There was once a man who was solicitor, agent, and friend of a certain land-owner. One day he had heard from his client's doctor that he had had an attack of heart-disease and that his life was only worth a few weeks' purchase; also that the landowner desired that an absolute silence should be observed as to his illness. Then, like another unjust steward, the lawyer sat down to think how he could best turn an honest penny by the news. It was rather a tough job; it would involve forgery among other things, and there was a good deal of risk, but by playing a bold game it might be managed."

"What do you mean by this?" the lawyer exclaimed, furiously.

"Calm yourself, Mr. Brander. There is no occasion for you to fit the cap on to your own head yet. If you think there is anything in my story of a libellous nature you are at liberty to call your two clerks in to listen to it. Well, sir, the scheme this lawyer I am telling you about worked out did credit to his genius -- it was complicated, bold, and novel. It happened he was solicitor to a bank. He knew the bank was hopelessly involved, that it could last but a few weeks longer, and that its failure would involve the whole of the shareholders in absolute ruin. If, therefore, he were to contrive to place his client's name on the register of shareholders that point would be achieved. Accordingly, having forms by him he filled one up, forging the name of his client. It would not have done to have had the date of the transfer later than the seizure of that gentleman, for manifestly no man, aware that he had but a few days or weeks to live, would have entered on a fresh investment. He, therefore, ante-dated the transfer by some three weeks.

"As to the witnesses to the forged signature there was no difficulty. He waited for a few days till his client called upon him, and then, after his departure, called in his two clerks, who witnessed the signature as a matter of course, -- an irregular proceeding, doubtless, but not altogether uncommon. That matter concluded he went to the bank. It was above all things important that none of the directors should be cognizant of his client having been put on the register, as being friends of that gentleman they might have mentioned the matter to him when they met him. Having the manager a good deal under his thumb, from his knowledge of the state of affairs, he requested him to pass the transfer with others at the next board meeting, in such a way that it should be signed as a matter of routine without the names being noticed, suggesting that the manager should transfer some of the shares he held. This little business was satisfactorily performed and the name passed unnoticed on to the register. There was one thing further to be done in this direction, namely, that the bank should not fail before the death of his client, and he therefore requested the manager to let him know should there be any pressure imminent on the bank's resources, offering to get some of the mortgages it held transferred, and so to bolster up the bank for a considerable time. As a matter of fact he did raise £20,000 in this manner, and so kept the bank going until after his client's death, when he withdrew the offer, there being no longer any occasion to keep it on its legs. You follow this, I hope, Mr. Brander. It is interesting for ingenuity and boldness."

The lawyer made no reply. As Cuthbert spoke the ruddy color on his cheeks had been replaced by a ghastly pallor. An expression of bewilderment had come across his face, the perspiration stood out in big drops on his forehead.

"Thus far you see, Mr. Brander," Cuthbert went on, "the first part of the scheme had been ably carried out, but it still remained to reap the benefit of this ingenuity. In the first place it was certain that the estate of his client would, on the failure of the bank, come into the market. Under such circumstances, and seeing there would be widespread ruin in the county, the estate would fetch far under its value. It would be advisable to get it cheaper still, and this could be managed by the production of a mortgage upon it, and by the invention of a plausible tale to account for that mortgage having been kept a secret even from the dead man's son. As to the deed itself, the matter was easy enough; the document would only have to be drawn up by himself, or in some office in London, the signature of his client affixed as before and the two clerks be called in to witness it.

"It would be necessary to satisfy the official liquidator, however, who might make some inquiries concerning it. It happened that some time before the lawyer had had occasion to pay over the sum of £15,000, as he would be able to prove by his bank-book. Therefore, £15,000 was the sum fixed upon for the mortgage, and the date of that document was made to coincide with that of the payment of that amount. It was easy enough to place among the dead man's papers receipts for the half-yearly payment of this interest. It was not necessary to show that his client had paid these sums by check, as they would, of course, have been deducted from the amount to be handed over by him as agent to his client.

"The scheme worked admirably. After the death of his client, the bank was allowed to break, the estate fell into the hands of the official receiver of the bank, the mortgage was presented, and the proofs considered satisfactory. The lawyer bought the estate for some £20,000 below its value, and this with the mortgage brought the purchase money down from £70,000 to half that sum. The story is interesting, and if anyone should doubt it I am in a position to prove it up to the hilt. I have the sworn statement of the bank manager as to the particulars of the interview with him, the injunction that the transfer should be passed unnoticed, the offer to support the bank, and the partial fulfilment of that offer. I have the opinion of an expert that the signature is not only a forgery but an exceedingly clumsy one. I have the statement of one of the clerks that the signature of both the transfer and the mortgage was witnessed by him and his fellow-clerk in obedience to the orders of the solicitor, but they did not see the signature affixed.

"Lastly, I have a singular piece of evidence that the mortgage was signed not on the date it purported but shortly after the seizure of the client. The clerk might have had some difficulty in swearing that this mortgage was the document that he signed, as the signatures were written on the last sheet of the parchment, and he saw nothing of the contents. But it happened that there were only four lines of writing on that page, and there are four on the mortgage in the hands of the official liquidator, but this is not the crucial point. The clerk, in making his signature, dropped a blot of ink on the parchment. Now it was clear that this blot of ink might prove the means o identifying this document and of proving the time at which it was signed; therefore it was necesssary that it should be erased. This the lawyer proceeded to do and so cleverly that an unpracticed eye would not detect it. The expert, however, though not knowing where the blot had fallen, detected the erasure at once, and noticed that in erasing it two of the letters of the name had been involved, and these had been retouched so as to make them the same darkness as the rest. The chain of evidence is therefore complete."

The last blow had proved too crushing. There was a sudden rush of blood to his face, and, with a gasping sob, Mr. Brander fell back in his chair insensible. Cuthbert ran to the door and opened it.

"Mr. Levison, your employer is taken ill. Send the other clerk to fetch Dr. Edwardes at once, he will not have started on his rounds yet. Bring some water in here."

With the assistance of the clerk, Cuthbert loosened the lawyer's necktie and collar, swept the papers off the table, and laid him upon it, folding up his great coat and placing it under his head.



Chapter XX.


"Apoplexy!" Dr. Edwardes exclaimed, as soon as he entered. "Cut his sleeve open, Cuthbert. Fetch a basin, sir, and some water," he added to the clerk.

He took a lancet from his pocket and opened a vein in the arm. At first only a few drops of dark-colored blood issued out.

"Dip a cloth in cold water and wrap it round his head; and do you, lad, run down to Miggleton, the confectioner, and get some ice, quick; it is a matter of life or death!"

At last the blood began to flow more freely.

"I think he will do now," the doctor said, "it is his first seizure. I have told him a good many times that he was too fond of good living and did not take exercise enough. What brought this about, Cuthbert?"

"We had an unpleasant interview, Doctor. I had some ugly truths to tell him and did not spare him."

"Then I think you had better go before he comes to his senses again. Tell my man to bring down a mattress, pillows, and blankets. He won't be fit to be moved to-day, and we must make him up a bed here. Directly I see that he is out of immediate danger, I will send over to Fairclose to break the news to his wife. Yes, I will come round and let you know how he is going on as soon as I can leave him."

Cuthbert nodded and put on his hat and went out. James Harford was standing a few paces from the door.

"He has had a fit," Cuthbert said, as he joined him.

"I thought that was it when I saw the clerk run down the street without a hat and come back with the doctor two or three minutes later. Will he get over it?"

"The doctor thinks so, and I am sure I most sincerely hope he will do so -- it would be a bad business in all ways if he did not. Now, Mr. Harford, I don't think there is any occasion to detain you here longer; it may be days before I can see him again, and I don't think it will be needful for you to confirm my statements. I fancy the fight is all out of him -- it came upon him too suddenly -- if he had known that I was here he might have braced himself up, but coming down like an avalanche upon him it stunned him. Now, Mr. Harford, you must permit me to draw a check for ten pounds for your expenses down here; when I come to my own again I shall be able properly to show my gratitude for the inestimable services you have rendered me."

"I will take the money for my expenses, Mr. Hartington, but I can assure you that I have no thought or wish for payment of any kind for my share in this business, and am only too glad to have been able to give some little aid towards righting the grievous harm you have suffered, to say nothing of paying off my old score against Brander."

Half an hour later Dr. Edwardes returned home.

"He is conscious now," he said to Cuthbert. "That is to say, vaguely conscious. I have not let him speak a word, but simply told him he had had a fit and must remain absolutely quiet. I don't suppose he has as yet any recollection whatever of what preceded it. I am going to write a note and send it up to Fairclose. I must keep a close watch over him for a bit, for I have taken a good deal of blood from him."

"I would rather you did not mention to anyone, Doctor, that I was present at the time he had the fit, as things may happen ere long that will set people talking, and if it was known that it was during an interview with me that he had this apoplectic stroke it might give rise to unpleasant surmises -- unpleasant not only to him but to me, for -- this is also a secret at present -- I am going to marry his eldest daughter!"

"You don't say so, Cuthbert. Well, I congratulate you, for she is a charming girl. I need not say that you can rely upon my keeping it quiet until you choose to have it published."

"Well, Doctor, as it may be some days before I can see Brander again, I will go back to town this evening. I did not see anyone I knew as I went to his office, and I would rather that it should not be known that I am down here. As you are going back there now you might ask Levison to come round here to see me. I will then tell him that neither Brander nor myself would wish it mentioned that I was with him at the time he had that seizure."

"Then I suppose the fact is, Cuthbert, that while I have been flattering myself your visit was to me, you really came down to see Brander?"

"I am rather afraid, Doctor, that had some influence in bringing me down, but you must forgive me this time."

"All right, lad, I am glad to have had a glimpse of you again, whatever your motive was in coming down."

It was ten days before Cuthbert received a letter from the doctor saying that Mr. Brander was now strong enough to see him.

"He has asked to see you several times," he said, "but I have told him that I could not permit him to talk. However, he is a good deal stronger now and is downstairs, again, and as I am sure some worry or other is preying on his mind and keeping him back, I told him this morning that I would send for you."

Cuthbert went down by the next train and was driven over in the doctor's gig to Fairclose. It was strange to him to enter the familiar house as a visitor, and he looked round the library into which he was shown upon giving his name, with a sort of doubt whether the last two years had not been a dream.

He had not much time for thought for the door opened and Mr. Brander entered. Cuthbert was shocked at his appearance. He looked a mere wreck of himself. He walked feebly and uncertainly. His face was pale and the flesh on the cheeks and chin was loose and flabby. He made his way to an armchair and sank wearily into it.

"What are you going to do with me, Cuthbert Hartington?" he asked in a weak voice. "Does all the world know that I am a forger and a swindler?"

"No one knows it, Mr. Brander, nor need anyone know it. If you make restitution as far as is in your power, the matter may rest entirely between us. With the evidence in my possession I am in a position to obtain a judge's order striking out my father's name from the list of shareholders of the bank and annulling the sale of Fairclose, of regaining my own, and of securing your punishment for the offences you have committed. The latter part, as I have said, I have no desire to press. I consider that you have been punished sufficiently already, but I must insist upon the restoration of the estates of which I have been wrongfully deprived."

"And you will say nothing of what I have done?"

"Nothing whatever; it will be for you to offer any reason you choose for resigning Fairclose to me, but there is one other point that I must insist on, namely, that you leave Abchester. Your illness will be a valid excuse for retiring altogether from an active share in the business and of relinquishing the part you have taken in the affairs of the town. As the senior partner you will doubtless receive a sufficient income from your business to enable you to live in comfort elsewhere, and it will be for your own benefit as much as mine for you to leave the place, for it will be painful for both of us to meet."

"I cannot give up Fairclose altogether unburdened," the lawyer said. "£15,000 of the purchase money I found myself. The other £20,000 I raised on mortgages of the estate, and although that mortgage would be invalidated by the proof that I had no power to give it, the mortgagee would, of course, fight the question, and the whole matter would be made public."

Cuthbert was silent for a minute, not from any great doubt or hesitation, but he did not wish the man to see that he was eager to make terms, for he would at once think that he was not in the position to prove the statement he had made.

"It is a large sum," he said, "a very large sum to lose, and then there are two years' rents that you have received."

"These I could repay, Mr. Harrington," the lawyer said, eagerly. "I have six thousand pounds invested in securities I could realize at once."

Cuthbert was silent again.

"Mr. Brander," he said at last, "I feel, and I think naturally, very sore at the cruel wrong that has been inflicted upon me, but I cannot forget that in my boyhood I was always received with kindness by your wife, and for her sake, and that of your daughters, I am most anxious your reputation should remain untarnished. I am willing to believe that this crime was the result of a sudden impulse, and that in other respects you have been an honest man. I cannot forget, too, that my father had a great esteem for you. As to the two years' rents you have received, I will not claim them. I have done well enough without them, and in fact the necessity for working for my living has been of great advantage to me, and that alone makes me less inclined than I otherwise might be to press hardly upon you. I will, therefore, make this offer. You shall sign a paper that I have drawn up confessing the share you have taken in this business. That paper I pledge myself solemnly to keep a profound secret, unless by any subsequent actions you force me to use it in self-protection, and that you will sign a deed of gift to me of Fairclose and its estates, subject to the mortgage of £20,000. You can hand me over the deeds of the estate and I will have the deed of gift drawn up. You will also give me your promise to leave this town and settle elsewhere. On these conditions, I pledge you my word that the transactions by which you obtained possession of the estates shall not be divulged, and that the high reputation you bear shall be altogether unsullied."

"God bless you, Mr. Hartington," the lawyer said, in a broken voice, "for your generosity in sparing my wife and children from the shame and disgrace that would have fallen upon them had you insisted on your rights. It is more than I deserve. I have never had a day's happiness since I came here; it seemed to me that all danger of detection had passed, and yet it was ever before me. I was ever dreading that in some way I had not provided against, it would come out."

"May I ask what income you will draw from your business?"

"The business is worth between four and five thousand a year, and by my deed of partnership I was to receive two-thirds of that as long as I myself chose to take a share in the management, and one-third when I like to retire altogether. A thousand a year is to be paid to my widow after my death, and two hundred apiece to my daughters at her death."

"So you will have some fifteen hundred a year, Mr. Brander, and with that and the six thousand you have invested you will not do badly. I shall return to town this evening again and will bring down the deed as soon as it is prepared."

"The papers connected with the estate are in a tin box at my office, Mr. Hartington," Mr. Brander said, in a voice more like his own than he had hitherto used. "I will write an order to Levison to hand it over to you. I feel a different man already," he went on, as he got up and took a seat at the table; "before, it seemed to me, there was nothing but disgrace and ruin staring me in the face. Now, I may hope that, thanks to your forbearance, I may enjoy in peace what remains to me of life. You may not believe me, Mr. Hartington, there is no reason why you should -- but I swear to you I have been a miserable man ever since your father's death. It was not that I was afraid of detection -- it seemed to me in that respect I had nothing to fear -- and yet I was miserable. Before, I was proud of the respect in which I was held in the town, and felt to some extent I deserved it, for I had given up well nigh every moment of my spare time to its service. Since then I have known that the poorest man in the town would draw aside from me did he but know what I was. To my family it has been a terrible disappointment that the county has turned its back on us. To me it has been a relief. I have felt a sort of satisfaction at finding that, in this respect at least, I had sinned in vain. Were it not for my wife and girls I would even now prefer that all should be known and that I should take the punishment that I deserve. I could bear prison-life better than to go about and mix with other men, knowing what I know of myself and feeling always what they would think of me did they know it also --  -- " and he broke down and buried his face in his hands.

Cuthbert put his hand on his shoulder.

"You have done wrong, Mr. Brander, but as you have repented of it, you may fairly hope it will be forgiven you as freely and as fully as I forgive you. You may take it from me that I feel I have been greatly benefited by what has taken place, and that I have reason to bless the necessity that fell upon me for working for my living. I was spending a very useless and indolent life, and had nothing occurred to rouse me, should probably have led it to the end. Now I have worked hard for two years, and my masters tell me that I have every prospect of rising to eminence as an artist. There will be no occasion for me to rely upon that as a profession now, but the good the necessity for work has done me will remain, and at any rate I shall continue to work at it until this mortgage is paid off. It has in another way brought happiness into my life. Therefore, on my account at least, you need not regret what has happened. I should say nothing at present as to your intention of leaving here. Possibly we may hit upon some reason for your doing so that will be accepted as a natural one. I can assure you I am as anxious as you are yourself, indeed more so, that no shadow of suspicion of anything wrong should rest upon you. So do not worry yourself about it. You can safely leave it in my hands. Now I will say good-bye. I hope that when I return I shall find you stronger and better. I do not know that there is any occasion for you to sign this paper I have brought."

"I would rather do so," the lawyer said, firmly. "It will be a relief to me to know that I have at least made a full confession."

He took the document Cuthbert had drawn up, read it through carefully, then took a pen and added at the bottom -- 

"The fifteen thousand pounds mentioned above as having been drawn by me from my bank for the purpose of the mortgage, was really used for the payment of calls on shares held by me in the Oakhurst Mining Company. This can be established by a reference to the accounts of that company in the hands of the liquidator."

He then signed his name and handed the paper to Cuthbert.

In spite of the efforts the latter made to hurry on Messrs. Barrington and Smiles, it was nearly three weeks before the deed of gift was prepared. It had, in the first place, been sketched out by Cuthbert, with the assistance of James Harford, and recited "That Mr. Brander, of Fairclose, handed back that estate, together with the house and all appurtenances appertaining thereto, to Cuthbert Hartington as a dowry with his daughter Mary upon her marriage with the said Cuthbert Hartington, being moved thereto partly by his love and affection for his daughter, partly by the desire to restore to the said Cuthbert Hartington the family estates of which he had been deprived, partly from the want of care of the said Jeremiah Brander in failing to represent to the late J. W. Hartington, father of the said Cuthbert Hartington, the grievous nature of the liability he would incur by taking shares in the Abchester and County Bank."

Cuthbert was the more anxious to get the affair arranged, as the insurrection in Paris had broken out, and he was eager to return there. At last the deed was drawn up and he returned to Abchester, and taking a fly at the station drove straight to Fairclose.

He had written several times to Mary lamenting that business had detained him longer than he expected, and suggesting that it would be better for her to leave Paris at once, but she had replied that she would rather remain there, at any rate, until his return. As he did not wish her to come to Abchester at present, he abstained from pressing the point, believing that McMahon would speedily collect a sufficient force at Versailles to suppress the insurrection.

He found Mr. Brander looking much more himself. It was a very subdued likeness, but he had evidently gained strength greatly.

"I have been longing for your return," he said, as soon as Cuthbert entered the library. "I am eager to get out of this and to go away. Have you brought down the deed?"

"Here it is; it is all stamped and in due form, and needs only your signature and that of two witnesses."

Mr. Brander rang the bell.

"John, call Gardener in. I want you both to witness my signature." The coachman came in.

"Glad to see you again, Mr. Cuthbert," he said, touching an imaginary hat.

"I am glad to see you, Gardener. I knew you were still here."

All was ready for the signature. While waiting for the men's entry Cuthbert had said -- 

"I would rather you did not read this deed until you have signed it, Mr. Brander. I know it is a most unbusiness-like thing for you to do, but I think you may feel sure you can trust me."

"I have no intention of reading it," the lawyer said. "Whatever the conditions of that paper I am ready to comply with them."

After the signatures had been affixed, and the witnesses had retired, Cuthbert said -- 

"Now, Mr. Brander, you are at liberty to read the deed. I think you will find its provisions satisfactory."

Mr. Brander, with a slight shrug of his shoulders that signified that he was indifferent as to the details of the arrangement, took the paper and began to run his eyes carelessly through it. Suddenly his expression changed. He gave a start of surprise, read a few lines farther, and then exclaimed -- 

"Can this be true, are you really going to marry Mary?"

"It is quite true," Cuthbert said, quietly. "I first asked her a few weeks before my father's death when I met her down at Newquay. She refused me at that time, but we have both changed since then. I saw a great deal of her in Paris and she worked as a nurse in the American ambulance during the siege. I was one of her patients, having been shot through the body and brought in there insensible. Having assisted in saving my life she finally came to the conclusion that she could not do better than make that life a happy one. She had refused me because she considered, and rightly, that I was a useless member of society, and the fact that I was heir to Fairclose had no influence whatever with her, but finding that I had amended my ways and was leading an earnest and hard-working life, she accepted me, small though my income was."

"God bless her!" Mr. Brander said, fervently. "We never got on well together, Mr. Hartington. I had always an uneasy consciousness that she disapproved of me, and that she regarded me as a humbug, and as I was conscious of the fact myself this was not pleasant. So I was rather glad than otherwise that she should choose her own path. But I am indeed delighted at this. She is honesty and truth itself, and I pray she may make up to you for wrongs you have suffered at my hands."

"She will do much more than that, Mr. Brander, and you see I have good reason for what I said when I was here before, that the change in my fortune had been a benefit, since it had forced me to take up a profession and work at it. Had it not been for that I should never have won Mary. My being once again master of Fairclose would not have weighed with her in the slightest. She would not have married a mere idler, had he been a duke. Now you had better finish reading the deed."

The lawyer read it through to the end.

"You have indeed made it easy for me," he said, when he had laid it down.

"You see, I have an object in doing so, Mr. Brander. I told you that my interest in your reputation was as great as your own. I hope that in any case I should not have made a harsh use of the power I possessed. I am sure that I should not, especially as I felt how much I had benefited by the two years of work, but perhaps I might not have felt quite so anxious that no breath of suspicion should fall upon you had it not been for Mary."

"Does she know?" Mr. Brander asked.

"She does not know and will never hear it from me. She may have vague suspicions when she hears that you have made over Fairclose to me, but these will never be more than suspicions. Nor need your other daughters know. They may wonder, perhaps, that Mary should have so large a share of your property, but it will be easy for you to make some sort of explanation, as is given in this deed, of your reason for restoring Fairclose to me with her."

"They will be too glad to get away from here, to care much how it was brought about, and if afterwards they come to ask any questions about it, I can tell them so much of the truth that it had been found the sale of the property to me had been altogether illegal and irregular, and that in point of fact you had a right not only to the estate but to the £20,000 for which I mortgaged it to raise the purchase money, and to the two-years' rents.

"That is what I shall tell my wife. I think she has always had a vague suspicion that there was something shady about the transaction, and I shall tell her that, so far from regarding the loss of Fairclose as a hardship, I consider you have behaved with extreme generosity and kindness in the matter. Women do not understand business. I am sure it won't be necessary to go into details. She, too, will be heartily glad to leave Fairclose."

"Shall we go in and see them, Mr. Brander? You can tell them as much or as little of the news as you think fit, and after that you can give me some lunch. I want it badly."

"Thank you," Mr. Brander said, gratefully. "I did not like to ask you, but it will make matters easier."

He led the way into the drawing-room. Mrs. Brander was sitting at the window with an anxious look on her face. She knew of Cuthbert's former visit, and that he was again closeted with her husband, and had a strong feeling that something was wrong. The girls were sitting listlessly in easy-chairs, not even pretending to read the books that lay in their laps. They rose with a look of bright surprise on their faces as Cuthbert entered with their father.

"Why, Mr. Hartington, it is ages since we saw you."

"It is indeed -- it is over two years."

"I have two surprising pieces of news to give you, Eliza. In the first place it has been discovered that there was a very serious flaw in the title to Fairclose, and that the sale to me was altogether illegal. Mr. Hartington has behaved most kindly and generously in the matter, but the result is he comes back to Fairclose and we move out."

The three ladies uttered an exclamation of pleasure. Fairclose had become hateful to them all, and at this moment it mattered little to them how it had come about that they were going to leave it.

"You don't mean to go back to the High Street, father?" Julia, the elder of the girls, asked anxiously.

"No, my dear; it will be a question to be settled between us where we will go, but I have decided to leave Abchester altogether. I feel that I require rest and quiet and shall give up business and go right out of it."

The girls both clapped their hands.

"And now for my second piece of news which will surprise you as much as the first. Your sister Mary is going to marry Mr. Hartington. The matter was settled in Paris, where they have both been shut up during the siege."

"That is, indeed, good news," Mrs. Brander said cordially, foreseeing at once the advantage of such a marriage.

The girls took their cue from her, and professed great pleasure at the news which, however, was not altogether welcome to them.

Mary, whom they had never liked, was to be mistress of Fairclose, and was to gain all the advantages that they had expected but had never obtained. The thought was not pleasant, but it was speedily forgotten in the excitement of the other news. Her mother, however, seeing the pleasure that her husband unmistakably felt at the thought of the marriage, was genuinely pleased. Not only might the connection be useful to the girls, but it might be invaluable in covering their retirement from Fairclose. There might be something more about that than her husband had said. At any rate this would silence all tongues and put an end to the vague anxiety that she had long felt. She had always liked Cuthbert, and had long ago cherished a faint hope that he might some day take to Mary.

"This all comes very suddenly upon us, Mr. Hartington. I suppose I ought to call you Cuthbert again, now."

"It would certainly sound more like old times, Mrs. Brander."

"Only think, my dear," the lawyer put in, "he proposed to Mary more than two years ago and she refused him. I suppose she never told you?"

"She never said a word on the subject," Mrs. Brander said, almost indignantly. "Why, it must have been before --  -- " and she stopped.

"Before my short reign here as master, Mrs. Brander. Yes, I was down at Newquay sketching, when she was staying with her friend, Miss Treadwyn, and Mary was at the time too much occupied with the idea of raising womankind in the scale of humanity to think of taking up with a useless member of society like myself."

Mrs. Brander shook her head very gravely.

"It was a sad trouble to her father and myself," she said; "I hope she has got over those ideas."

"I think she has discovered that the world is too large for her to move," Cuthbert replied, with a smile. "At any rate she has undertaken the task of looking after me instead of reforming the world; it may be as difficult, perhaps, but it sounds less arduous."

At lunch the girls were engaged in an animated discussion as to where they would like to move to, but Mrs. Brander put an end to it by saying -- 

"We shall have plenty of time to talk that over, girls -- it must depend upon many things. Your father's health will, of course, be the first consideration. At any rate, I shall set my face against London. So you can put that altogether out of your minds. An income that would be sufficient to establish one in a good position near a country or seaside town would be nothing in London. And now, Cuthbert, we want to hear a great deal more about our dear Mary. She writes so seldom, and of course she has been cut off for so long a time from us that we scarcely know what she is doing. In Germany she did not seem to be doing anything particular, but as she said in her letters, was studying the people and their language."

"That is what she was doing in Paris -- at least that is what she came to do, but the siege put a stop to her studies, and she devoted herself to the much more practical work of nursing the wounded."

"Dear me, what an extraordinary girl she is," Mrs. Brander said, much shocked. "Surely there were plenty of women in Paris to nurse the wounded without her mixing herself up in such unpleasant work, of which she could know absolutely nothing."

"She was a very good nurse, nevertheless," Cuthbert said, quietly. "She worked in the American ambulance, under an American doctor, the other nurses and assistants being all American or English."

"How do you know she was a good nurse, Mr. Hartington?" Clara asked.

"Simply because I was one of her patients, Miss Brander. I joined one of the corps of Franc-tireurs, in which most of my student-friends enrolled themselves, and had the bad luck to get shot through the body in the sortie at Champigny, and as your sister was one of the nurses in the tent where I lay, I think that I am a pretty fair judge as to her powers of nursing. She was often there during the heaviest time for twenty-four hours at a stretch, and completely knocked herself up by he continued labors. At any rate I consider I owe my life in no small degree to her care."

"I don't think we ever understood Mary," Mr. Brander said, in a more peremptory tone than the girls had heard him use since his seizure. "There is no doubt that it was as much our fault as it was hers. I feel proud to hear that she has done such noble work. Mr. Hartington tells me," he said, abruptly changing the conversation, "that he has been working hard with the intention of making art his profession as it has long been his amusement. He seems to think that although he will, of course, be no longer obliged to look upon it as a necessary career, he intends at any rate to pursue it for a time."

"That will be very interesting," Mrs. Brander said, "and it is quite the fashion in our days."

"It is very nice when you haven't to live by it," Cuthbert said. "When you are obliged to do that, and instead of painting what you like, have to paint things that will sell, it is up-hill work, and none but men of real talent can push their way up out of the crowd. I shall be more happily situated, and shall therefore be able to devote an amount of care and time to a picture that would be impossible to a man who had his daily bread and cheese to earn by his brush. And now, Mr. Brander, we will have a few more words together and then I must be off. I shall most likely return to town this evening."

"It must be for you to decide, Mr. Brander," he went on, when they were alone in the study, "how this news shall be broken to the public. I am quite ready to be guided entirely by your wishes in the matter."

"The sooner the better. I would suggest that you should see Dr. Edwardes before you go up to town. If you will tell him what I told them in the next room, that it has been discovered that there is a flaw in the sale of Fairclose, and that as you are engaged to marry Mary, we have arrived at an amicable agreement under which you will return at once to Fairclose, while I intend to seek an entirely new scene and to retire altogether from business, there will be very little more needful. The news will spread like wildfire over the town and county. After that I shall have very few questions asked me. None that I shall not be able to answer without difficulty. The state of my health will form an excuse for my cutting my farewells short. There will, no doubt, be some gossip and wonder as to how it has come about, but the county will be so pleased at your coming back again to your father's place, that they will not be very curious as to how it occurred. I shall go off as quickly and as quietly as I can, after calling to say good-bye to those with whom I have been so long associated in the municipal business.

"It matters not where we go. I can take a furnished house at some seaside watering-place. The doctor will advise which is most likely to suit me, and we can then look round and settle on our future plans at our leisure. If I gain strength I think it likely enough we may travel on the Continent for a time. The girls have never been abroad and the prospect would go a long way towards reconciling them entirely to the change."

"I think that a very good plan," Cuthbert said. "I was intending to call upon the doctor on my way down and he will at once set the ball rolling."

Mr. Brander went to the door where the fly had been waiting for two hours.

"God bless you!" he said. "I cannot tell you how deeply grateful I am to you for your forbearance and generosity."

"Don't worry any more about it, Mr. Brander," Cuthbert said, as he shook his hand, "it has been a temporary change, and good rather than bad has come of it. Believe me, I shall put the matter out of my mind altogether."

"Back again, Cuthbert," the doctor said, when he was shown into the consulting-room. "I was down just now at the station to see a man off, and the station-master said you had arrived by the 11.30 train, and that he had seen you drive off in a fly. I could hardly believe it, but as you are here in person I suppose that there can be no mistake about it. Of course you have been up to Brander's again?"

"I have, Doctor, and for the last time. That is, the next time I shall go up it will be to take possession of Fairclose."

"My dear lad, I am delighted," the doctor said, shaking him heartily by the hand, "how has this miracle come about?"

"I cannot give you all the details, Doctor. I will simply give you the facts, which, by the way, I shall be glad if you will retail to your patients for public consumption," and he then repeated the statement that he had arranged with Mr. Brander that he should make.

"And that is the tale you wish me to disseminate?" the doctor said, with a twinkle of his eye, when Cuthbert concluded.

"That is the statement, Doctor, and it has the merit of being, as far as it goes, true. What the nature of the illegality of this sale was, I am not at liberty to disclose, not even to you, but I have discovered that beyond all question it was irregular and invalid, and Brander and I have come to a perfectly amicable understanding. I may tell you that to prevent the trouble inseparable even from a friendly lawsuit he assigns the property to me as Mary's dowry, and as a sort of recognition of the fact that he acted without sufficient care in advising my father to take those shares in the bank. Thus all necessity for the reopening of bygone events will be obviated."

"A very sensible way, lad. You will understand, of course, that I know enough of Jeremiah to be quite sure that he would not relinquish a fine property if he had a leg to stand upon. However, that is no business of mine, and I have no doubt that the fact that he is going to be your father-in-law, has had no small influence in bringing about this very admirable arrangement. Of course the matter will make a good deal of talk, but these things soon die out, and the county will welcome you back too heartily to care how your return has been brought about. You can rely upon my action in the part of town-crier, and I am sure to some of my patients the flutter of excitement the news will occasion will do a great deal more good than any medicine I could give them. Of course you are going to stay here?"

"Only to dinner, Doctor. I shall run up to town again this evening."



Chapter XXI.


It was on the last day of March that Cuthbert Hartington reached Paris. During the six weeks that had elapsed since he had left it many events had taken place. He himself had gone away a comparatively poor man, and returned in the possession of the estates inherited from his father, unimpaired save by the mortgage given upon them by Mr. Brander. He had succeeded beyond his hopes; and having obtained unlooked-for proofs of the fraud that had been practised, had been able to obtain restitution -- which was to him the most important point -- and all had been done without the slightest publicity. In Paris, the danger he had foreseen had culminated in the Commune. The battalions of National Guards from Montmartre and Belleville had risen against the Provisional Government; the troops had fraternized with them and their generals had been murdered in cold blood.

The National Guards of the business quarters had for a time held aloof, but, in the absence of support from without and being enormously outnumbered, they were powerless, and the extreme party were now in absolute possession of the city. M. Thiers and the Assembly at Versailles had so far been unable to take any steps to reduce the revolted capital. Such troops as had been hastily collected could not be relied upon to act and it seemed probable that the National Guards and Paris would, in a short time, take the offensive and obtain possession of Versailles, in which case the flame of insurrection would spread at once to all the great towns of France, and the horrors of the Terror might be repeated.

The line of railway to Paris was still open, for upon the Communists preparing to cut off all communications, the Germans, still in great force near the town, pending the carrying out of the terms of the treaty of peace, threatened to enter Paris were such a step taken. A vast emigration had taken place among the middle classes, and over fifty thousand persons had left Paris. So far the Communists had abstained from excesses, and from outrage upon peaceable citizens; had it been otherwise, Cuthbert would have returned to fetch Mary away at once. Her letters to him, however, had assured him that there was no cause whatever for uneasiness about her, and that everything was going on precisely as it had done, during the siege by the Germans. He had been anxious that she should, if possible, remain for the present in Paris, for he did not wish her to return to her family, and had made up his mind that if it became absolutely necessary for her to leave Paris she should arrange to go straight down to Newquay and stay there with her friends.

As he alighted from the carriage at the Northern Railway Station he found the place occupied by National Guards. There was no semblance of discipline among them; they smoked, lounged about, scowled at the few passengers who arrived, or slept upon the benches, wrapt in their blankets. There were none of the usual hotel omnibuses outside and but one or two fiacres; hailing one of these he was driven to his lodgings. He was greeted by the concierge with surprise and pleasure.

"So monsieur has come back. We did not expect you, though Monsieur Caillard, who comes here every day, told us that you would be sure to be back again in spite of the Reds. Ah, monsieur, what horror to think that after all Paris has gone through, these monsters should have become masters of the city! It would have been a thousand times better to have had the Prussians here, they would have kept order, and those wild beasts of Montmartre would not have dared even to have murmured. You have heard how they shot down peaceful citizens in the Rue de la Paix? Have you come to stay, monsieur?"

"For a time, anyhow;" and taking the key of his rooms Cuthbert carried up his pormanteau, and then at once came down and drove to Madame Michaud's.

Mary was half expecting him, for in his last letter to her he had told her he hoped to arrive in Paris that evening.

"I have been horribly anxious about you, Mary," he said, after the first greeting.

"There was no occasion for your being so," she replied, "everything is pefectly quiet here, though from what they say there may be fighting any day, but if there is it will be outside the walls and will not affect us here."

"I don't think there will be much fighting," he said; "if the troops fraternize with the Communists there's an end of the business, all France will join them, and we shall have the Reign of Terror over again, though they will not venture upon any excesses here in Paris, for, fortunately, the Germans are still within gunshot, and they would have the hearty approval of all Europe in marching in here, and stamping the whole thing out. If the troops, on the other hand, prove faithful, I feel sure, from what I saw of the Belleville battalions, that there will be very little fighting outside the walls. They may defend Paris for a time, and perhaps bravely, for they will know they are fighting with ropes round their necks, and the veriest cur will fight when cornered. Your people here are not thinking of leaving, I hope?"

"No, and they could not now if they wanted; the Commune has put a stop to emigration, and though the trains still run once or twice a day, they go out as empty as they come in. Have you got through your business?" she asked, with a shade of anxiety.

"Yes, dear, and most satisfactorily; everything has been arranged in the happiest way. I unexpectedly obtained proofs that the sale of Fairclose was altogether irregular, and indeed, invalid. I have seen your father, who at once, upon my laying the proofs before him, recognized the position. Our arrangement has been a perfectly amicable one. He is going to retire altogether from business, and will probably take up his residence at some seaside place where there is a bracing climate. The doctor recommends Scarborough, for I may tell you that he has had a slight stroke of apoplexy, and is eager himself for rest and quiet. Fairclose and the estate comes back to me, nominally as your dowry, and with the exception that there is a mortgage on it for £20,000, I shall be exactly in the same position that I was on the day my father died. I may say that your mother and the girls are delighted with the arrangement, for, somehow, they have not been received as cordially as they had expected in the county -- owing of course to a foolish prejudice arising from your father's connection with the bank, whose failure hit everyone heavily -- and they are, in consequence, very pleased indeed at the prospect of moving away altogether."

Mary's forehead was puckered up in little wrinkles of perplexity as she listened. "I am glad of course, very glad, that you have got Fairclose back," she said, "though it all seems very strange to me -- is that all that I am to know, Cuthbert?"

"That is all it is necessary that you should know, Mary, and no one else will know any more. Your father's illness and the doctor's injunctions that he should retire from business altogether and settle in some place with a mild climate, is an ample reason for his leaving Fairclose, and your engagement to me, and my past connection with the place are equally valid reasons why I should be his successor there. I do not say, Mary, that there may not have been other causes which have operated to bring about this result, but into these there is no need, whatever, for us to enter. Be contented, dear, to know that all has turned out in the best possible way, that I have recovered Fairclose, that your family are all very pleased at the prospect of leaving it, and in that fact the matter ends happily for everyone."

"I lunched at the old place only yesterday," he went on lightly, "and the girls were in full discussion as to where they should go. Your father is picking up his strength fast, and with rest and quiet, will, I hope, soon be himself again. I expect, between ourselves, that he will be all the better for getting away from that work in the town, with its lunches and dinners. The Doctor told me that he had warned him that he was too fond of good living, specially as he took no exercise. Now that he will be free from the office, and from all that corporation business, he will no doubt walk a good deal more than he has done for many years and live more simply, and as the doctor told me yesterday, the chances are that he will have no recurrence of his attack. I may tell you that from a conversation I had with him I learned that your father will still draw a very comfortable income from the business, and will have amply sufficient to live in very good style at Scarborough."

The fact that Cuthbert had lunched at Fairclose did more to soothe Mary's anxiety than anything else he had said. It seemed a proof that however this strange change had come about, an amicable feeling existed between Cuthbert and her father, and when he wound up with "Are you contented, dear?" she looked up at him with tears in her eyes.

"More than contented, Cuthbert. I have been worrying myself greatly while you have been away, and I never thought that it would end as happily as this. I know, dear, that you have concealed a great deal from me, but I am contented to know no more than that. I am as sure as if you had told me that you have brought all these things about in this friendly way for my sake. And now," she said after a pause, "what are your plans for yourself?"

"You mean for us, Mary. Well, dear, my plan is that we shall wait on here and see how things turn out. I don't want to go back to England till all these arrangements are carried out. I don't intend to have to go to Scarborough to marry you, and I think it will be vastly better for us to be married quietly here as soon as the chaplain at the embassy returns, which, of course, he will do directly these troubles are over. My present idea is, that I shall let the house at Fairclose, or shut it up if I cannot let it, and let the rents of the property go to paying off this mortgage, and I intend to take a modest little place near London, to live on our joint income, and to work hard until Fairclose is clear of this incumbrance."

"That is right, Cuthbert. I have been wondering ever since you told me you were to have Fairclose again, if you would give up painting, and hoping that you would still go on with it. I should so like you to win a name for yourself as a great painter."

Cuthbert laughed. "My dear child, you are jumping a great deal too fast at conclusions. I am not yet out from school. I have painted my two first pictures, which you like, principally because your face is in one of them, but that is a short step towards becoming a great artist. You are like a young lady in love with a curate, and therefore convinced that some day he will be Archbishop of Canterbury, and with almost equally good foundation; however, I shall do my best, and as I shall still have a strong motive for work, and shall have you to spur me on I hope I may make a modest success."

"I am sure you will, and more than that," she said, warmly; "if not," she added, with a saucy laugh, "I think you might as well give it up altogether; a modest success means mediocrity, and that is hateful, and I am sure you yourself would be no more satisfied with it than I should."

"Well, I will go on for a bit and see. I agree with you, that a thing is not worth doing unless it is done well, but I won't come to any final decision for another year or two. Now it is past ten o'clock, and I must be going."

"When will you come? To-morrow?"

"I will come at three o'clock. Have your things on by that time, and we will go for a ramble."

René Caillard came into Cuthbert's room at nine o'clock the next morning.

"I came round yesterday evening, Cuthbert, and heard from the concierge that you had arrived and had gone out again. As she said you had driven off in a fiacre, it was evidently of no use waiting. I thought I would come down and catch you the first thing this morning. You look well and strong again, your native air evidently suits you."

"I feel quite well again, though not quite so strong. So things have turned out just as I anticipated, and the Reds are the masters of Paris."

René shrugged his shoulders. "It is disgusting," he said. "It does not trouble us much, we have nothing to lose but our heads, and as these scoundrels would gain nothing by cutting them off, I suppose we shall be allowed to go our own way."

"Is the studio open again?"

"Oh, yes, and we are all hard at work, that is to say, the few that remain of us. Goudé has been fidgeting for you to come back. He has asked several times whether I have news of you, and if I was sure you had not left Paris forever. I know he will be delighted when I tell him that you have returned; still more so if you take the news yourself."

"I suppose Minette has resumed her duties as model?"

"Not she," René said scornfully, "she is one of the priestesses of the Commune. She rides about on horseback with a red flag and sash. Sometimes she goes at the head of a battalion, sometimes she rides about with the leaders. She is in earnest but she is in earnest theatrically, and that fool, Dampierre, is as bad as she is."

"What! Has he joined the Commune?".

"Joined, do you say? Why, he is one of its leaders. He plays the part of La Fayette, in the drama, harangues the National Guards, assures them of the sympathy of America, calls upon them to defend the freedom they have won by their lives and to crush back their oppressors, as his countrymen crushed their British tyrants. Of course it is all Minette's doing; he is as mad as she is. I can assure you that he is quite a popular hero among the Reds, and they would have appointed him a general if he had chosen to accept it, but he said that he considered himself as the representative of the great Republic across the sea, that he would accept no office, but would fight as a simple volunteer. He, too, goes about on horseback, with a red scarf, and when you see Minette you may be sure that he is not far off."

"Without absolutely considering Dampierre to be a fool, I have always regarded him as being, well, not mad, but different to other people. His alternate fits of idleness and hard work, his infatuation for Minette, his irritation at the most trifling jokes, and the moody state into which he often fell, all seem to show as the Scots say, 'a bee in his bonnet,' and I can quite fancy the excitement of the times, and his infatuation for that woman may have worked him up to a point much more nearly approaching madness than before. I am very sorry, René, for there was a good deal to like about him, he was a gentleman and a chivalrous one. In Minette he saw not a clever model, but a peerless woman, and was carried away by enthusiasm, which is, I think, perfectly real: she is in her true element now, and is, I should say, for once not acting. Well, it is a bad business. If the Commune triumphs, as I own that it seems likely enough, it will do, he will in time become disgusted with the adventurers and ambitious scoundrels by whom he is surrounded, and will, like the Girondists, be among the first victims of the wild beasts he has helped to bring into existence. If the troops prove faithful, the Commune will be crushed, and all those who have made themselves conspicuous are likely to have but a short shrift of it when martial law is established. Well, René, as there is nothing that can be done in the matter, it is of no use troubling about it. None of the others have gone that way, I suppose."

"Of course not," René exclaimed indignantly. "You don't suppose that after the murder of the generals any decent Frenchman would join such a cause, even if he were favorable to its theories. Morbleu! Although I hate tyrants I should be tempted to take up a rifle and go out and defend them were they menaced by such scum as this. It is not even as it was before; then it was the middle class who made the Revolution, and there was at least much that was noble in their aims, but these creatures who creep out from their slums like a host of obnoxious beasts animated sorely by hatred for all around them, and by a lust for plunder and blood, they fill one with loathing and disgust. There is not among them, save Dampierre, a single man of birth and education, if only perhaps you except Rochefort. There are plenty of Marats, but certainly no Mirabeau.

"No, no, Cuthbert, we of the studio may be wild and thoughtless. We live gayly and do not trouble for the morrow, but we are not altogether fools; and even were there nothing else to unite us against the Commune, the squalor and wretchedness, the ugliness and vice, the brutal coarseness, and the foul language of these ruffians would band us together as artists against them. Now, enough of Paris, what have you been doing in England, besides recovering your health?"

"I have been recovering a fortune, too, René. A complicated question concerning some property that would, in the ordinary course of things, have come to me has now been decided in my favor."

"I congratulate you," René said, "but you will not give up art, I hope?"

"No, I intend to stick to that, René. You see I was not altogether dependent on it before, so that circumstances are not much changed."

"You finished your pictures before you went away, did you not? The temptation to have a peep at them has been very strong, but I have resisted -- nobly it was heroic, was it not?"

"It must have been. Yes, I put the finishing touches to them before I went away, and now I will show them to you René; it is the least I can do after all your kindness. Now go and look out of the window until I fix the easels in a good light, I want your first impressions to be favorable. There," after a pause, "the curtain is drawn up and the show has begun." He spoke lightly, but there was an undertone of anxiety in his voice. Hitherto no one but Mary had seen them, and her opinion upon the subject of art was of little value. He, himself, believed that the work was good, but yet felt that vague dissatisfaction and doubt whether it might not have been a good deal better, that most artists entertain as to their own work. In the school René's opinion was always sought for eagerly; there were others who painted better, but none whose feeling of art was more true or whose critical instinct keener.

René looked at the pictures for a minute or two in silence, then he turned to Cuthbert and took one of his hands in his own. "My dear friend," he said, "it is as I expected. I always said that you had genius, real genius, and it is true; I congratulate you, my dear friend. If it were not that I know you English object to be embraced, I should do so, but you are cold and do not like a show of feeling. These pictures will place you well in the second rank; in another year or two you will climb into the first. They will be hung on the line, that goes without saying. They are charming, they are admirable, and to think that you are still at the school. I might paint all my life and I should never turn out two such canvases; and it is a sin that one who can paint like that should expose himself to be shot at by Prussians. Now, do you sit down and let me look at them."

"Do so, René, and please remember that I want not praise, but honest criticism; I know they have defects, but I want you to point them out to me, for while I feel that they might be improved, I have my own ideas so strongly in my head, that I cannot see where the faults are as you can. Remember, you can't be too severe, and if possible to do so, without entirely having to repaint them, I will try to carry out your suggestions."

René produced a pipe, filled and lighted it, then placed a chair so that he could sit across it and lean upon the back. He sat for upwards of a quarter of an hour puffing out clouds of tobacco-smoke without speaking.

"You mean what you say, Cuthbert?" he said at last. "Very well, I will take the bright one first. As to the figure I have nothing to say; the effect of the light falling on her head and face is charming; the dress is perhaps a little stiff, it would have been bettered if relieved by some light lace or gauze, but we will let that pass; it is a portrait and a good one. It is your pretty nurse at the Ambulance. Am I to congratulate you there too?"

Cuthbert nodded.

"I thought so," René went on, without moving his gaze from the pictures, "and will congratulate you presently. The background of the figure is the one weak point of the picture, that, too, like the portrait, I doubt not, was taken from reality, for with your artistic feeling you would never have placed that bare wall behind the figure. You have tried by the shadows from the vine above to soften it, and you have done all you could in that way, but nothing could really avail. You want a vine to cover that wall. It should be thrown into deep cool shadow, with a touch of sunlight here and there, streaming upon it, but less than you now have falling on the wall. As it is now, the cool gray of the dress is not sufficiently thrown up, it, like the wall, is in shade except where the sun touches the head and face; but, with a dark cool green, somewhat undefined, and not too much broken up by the forms of the foliage, the figure would be thrown forward, although still remaining in the shade, and I am sure the picture would gain at once in strength and repose. Now, as to the other. It is almost painfully sombre, it wants relief. It expresses grief and hopelessness; that is good; but it also expresses despair, that is painful; one does not feel quite sure that the young woman is not about to throw herself into the sea. Now, if you were to make a gleam of watery sunshine break through a rift in the cloud, lighting up a small patch of foam and breaker, it would be a relief; if you could arrange it so that the head should stand up against it, it would add greatly to the effect. What do you think?" he asked, breaking off suddenly and turning to Cuthbert.

"You are right in both instances, René. Both the backgrounds are from sketches I made at the time; the veranda in the one case, and the sea and sky and rock in the other are as I saw them, and it did not occur to me to change them. Yes, you are a thousand times right. I see now why I was discontented with them, and the changes you suggest will be invaluable. Of course, in the sea-scene the light will be ill-defined, it will make its way through a thin layer of cloud, and will contrast just as strongly with the bright warm sunshine on the other picture, as does the unbroken darkness. There is nothing else that you can suggest, René?"

"No, and I almost wish that I had not made those suggestions, the pictures are so good that I am frightened, lest you should spoil them by a single touch of the brush."

"I have no fear of that, René, I am sure of the dark picture, and I hope I can manage the other, but if I fail I can but paint the wall in again. I will begin at once. I suppose you are going round to Goudé's; tell him that I am back, and will come round this evening after dinner. Ask all the others to come here to supper at ten; thank goodness we shall have a decent feed this time."

Directly René had left, Cuthbert set to work with ardor. He felt that René had hit upon the weak spots that he had felt and yet failed to recognize. In four hours the sea-scape was finished, and as he stepped back into the window to look at it, he felt that the ray of misty light showing rather on the water than on the air, had effected wonders, and added immensely to the poetry of the picture.

"I have only just time to change, and get there in time," he said, with a very unlover-like tone of regret, as he hastily threw off his painting blouse, ate a piece of bread left over from breakfast, and drank a glass of wine. He glanced many times at the picture.

"Curious," he muttered, "how blind men are to their own work. I can detect a weak point in another man's work in a moment, and yet, though I felt that something was wrong, I could not see what it was in my own. If I succeed as well with the other as I have done with this I shall be satisfied indeed."

"You are a quarter of an hour late, sir," Mary said, holding up her finger in reproof as he entered. "The idea of keeping me waiting, the very first time after our engagement. I tremble when I look forward to the future."

"I have been painting, Mary, and when one is painting one forgets how time flies; but I feel greatly ashamed of myself, and am deeply contrite."

"You don't look contrite at all, Cuthbert. Not one bit."

"Well, I will not press for forgiveness now, I think when you see what I have been doing you will overlook the offence."

"What have you been doing? I thought you told me that you had quite finished the two pictures, the day you came to say good-bye before you started for Brussels."

"René has been criticising them and has shown me where I committed two egregious blunders."

"Then I think it was very impertinent of him," Mary said in a tone of vexation. "I am sure nothing could have been nicer than they were even when I saw them, I am certain there were no blunders in them, and I don't see how they could be improved."

"Wait until you see them again, Mary. I altered one this morning, but the other will take me three or four days steady work. I am not so sure of success there, but if you don't like it when you see it, I promise you that I will restore it to its former condition, now let us be off; if I am not mistaken there is something going on, I saw several battalions of National Guards marching through the streets; and there is a report that 50,000 men are to march against Versailles. We may as well see them start, it may turn out to be an historic event."



Chapter XXII.


The march against Versailles did not take place on the first of April, although the Communists had every reason to believe that they would meet with no opposition, as on the previous night two regiments of the army, forming the advanced guard between Versailles and Paris, came in, together with a battery of artillery, and declared for the Commune. The next morning Cuthbert went up at nine o'clock, as he had arranged to take Mary out early, and to work in the afternoon. Just as he reached the house he heard a cannon-shot.

"Hurry on your things," he said as he met her, "a gun has just fired; it is the first in the Civil War; perhaps the National Guard are starting against Versailles; at any rate it will be worth seeing."

The girl was ready in two or three minutes, and they walked briskly to the Arc de Triomphe. As they did so they could hear not only the boom of cannon, but the distant firing of musketry. Around the Arch a number of people were gathered, looking down the long broad avenue running from it through the Porte Maillot, and then over the Bridge of Neuilly to the column of Courbeil. Heavy firing was going on near the bridge, upon the banks of the river, and away beyond it to the right.

"That firing means that France is saved from the horrors of another red Revolution, Mary," Cuthbert said. "It shows that some of the troops at least are loyal, and in these matters example is everything. There was a report that Charrette's Zouaves and the gendarmes have been placed at the outposts, and if the report is true, it was a wise step, indeed, for McMahon to take, for both could be relied upon; and now fighting has begun, there is hope that the troops behind will stand firm."

"Why should they, Cuthbert?"

"Some of the shots from this side are sure to fall among them, and if a few are killed and wounded the rest will get angry, and all idea of fraternizing with the men who are firing on them will be at an end. I should like to see how that crowd of National Guards are behaving."

"Shall we go down and look, Cuthbert. See, there is an omnibus going down the hill, so I don't suppose there can be much danger."

"I don't think that there is any danger at present, Mary; the balls will hardly come so far, but if the troops open fire with cannon, they will send shell right up this avenue."

"Would you go by yourself if I were not here, Cuthbert?"

"Well, I certainly should, but that is no reason why I should go with you."

"I can see women looking out of the windows," she said, "so we will go down together, Cuthbert. We had the German shell falling near us while the siege was going on, and things went on just as usual."

"Come on then, dear; at any rate it will be only field-guns and not heavy siege artillery, and I dare say we can get into one of the houses and look out from them; a twelve-pounder would scarcely do much harm to one of these solid stone buildings."

They went quietly down the road. No whiz of bullet or crash of shell was heard, and without interruption they continued their course until they arrived near the gate. Near it were two battalions of the National Guard, who were in a state of utter disorder. Some of the men were quietly walking away with their rifles slung behind them, in spite of a line of sentries placed across the road and the efforts of their officers. Cuthbert questioned some of the men, as they came along, as to what had happened, but the most contradictory answers were given. They had been fired upon from Fort Valerien; they had been attacked from Courbevoie; they had been betrayed; they had been sent out without any cannon: ammunition was short; they were not going to stay to be shot down; they were going to the Hôtel de Ville to turn out the traitors who had sent them out without a proper supply of ammunition. That they had some ammunition was evident from the fact that several muskets went off accidentally, the result of nervousness on the part of those that held them.

"We won't stay here to risk being shot by these cowardly fools," Cuthbert said, "let us get into one of the houses."

They went back a short distance, and Cuthbert spoke to a man standing at his door. "This lady and myself are English," he said, "would you allow us to go up and stand at one of the windows to see what is going on?"

The request was at once acceded to, and they were soon posted at a window on the fifth floor.

"Look at them," Cuthbert said in disgust, "these are the heroes who clamored to go out and destroy the Germans."

The scene below was certainly singular -- the bugles and drums sounded the assembly and beat the rappel alternately, but the men paid not the slightest attention to the call, but continued to slink away until the drummers and buglers remained alone. Of the two battalions, some fifty men posted at the loop-holes of the crenelated wall by the gate remained; the rest had melted away. From the balcony at the window a fine view was obtained across the country. A heavy musket-fire was still maintained along the river-side, and there was a continuous roll of musketry at Courbevoie, where, as one of the National Guard had told them, a battalion which occupied the barracks there had been cut off by the advance of the troops. Artillery and musketry were both at work there, but elsewhere there was no artillery fire.

Close to the bridge at Neuilly the struggle was maintained for a time, and presently a column of troops were seen advancing against the bridge. As it did so the firing there ceased at once, and it was soon evident that the troops had gained the position. Numbers of National Guards soon came trooping in at the gate. A very few remained there; the rest, without waiting for orders, hurried on into Paris. A dark group now appeared on the road leading up to Courbeil; there was a white puff of smoke and a shell exploded a hundred yards on the other side of the gate. A steady fire was now kept up by two guns, the greater part of the shells exploded beyond the outer works; but several came up the avenue, two of them striking houses, and others exploding in the roadway. Each time when the whistle of a shell was heard approaching, Cuthbert drew Mary back from the balcony into the room.

"I fancy," he said, "the troops have an idea that there are masses of the Communists assembled near the gates in readiness for a sortie, and they are firing to prevent their coming out, until they have fortified the bridge and the other points they have occupied."

The firing continued for some time. At other windows the inhabitants were watching the conflict, and Cuthbert pointed out, to Mary's great amusement, the precautions that some of them were taking to ensure their personal safety. One woman had drawn down the Venetian blinds, and was looking between them, another was peering out with a pillow held over her head. The few National Guards who remained at their post were men of courage, for they showed no signs of flinching even when shells exploded within a few yards of the position they occupied. Presently there was a sound of wheels, and two four-pounder guns were brought up and placed one on each side of the gate to sweep the approaches.

Between one and two o'clock several battalions of National Guards came leisurely up, piled their arms and sat down under shelter of the wall. It was evident they had no idea of making a sortie, but had been brought up to defend the gate in case it was attacked. Soon after their arrival, a party that had remained near the river returned and it was clear that at least a portion of the troops had proved faithless, for with them were forty or fifty soldiers, who had come over during the fight. They were disarmed and then escorted into the town, where, as Cuthbert afterwards learned, they were received with enthusiasm by the mob.

"It is evident that there is no idea of any attempt being made to recapture the bridge at present, Mary; I don't know how you feel but I am getting desperately hungry, so I think we may as well be going back. I should like to see what is going on in the city. Will you come with me? I have no doubt we shall be able to get a voiture up at the arch, and we can have lunch there."

Mary was as anxious to see what is going on as he was, and in a quarter of an hour they alighted in the Rue Rivoli. As yet the population had heard but vague reports that fighting was going on, and matters were comparatively quiet, for so many rumors had pervaded the town during the last few days, that they were not generally believed. Accordingly, after lunch, Cuthbert took Mary home in a fiacre.

"I have been quite alarmed about you, my dear, where have you been?" Madame Michaud said as they entered.

"We have been seeing the fighting, madame, and the Reds have been beaten."

"I have heard all sorts of stories about it, but most of them say that the Versailles people got the worst of it."

"Then the stories were not true," Mary said, "most of the National Guard wouldn't fight at all, and the regiments all broke away and went into Paris without firing a shot, the troops have taken the bridge of Neuilly."

"The good God be thanked," Madame Michaud said piously, "my husband was afraid the troops would not fight, and that we were going to have terrible times; but there is a hope now, that the Commune will be put down."

"Every hope, madame," Cuthbert said. "I was sure this scum of Paris would not fight if the troops would do so. They have too much regard for their worthless skins. It may be some time before McMahon can get a force together sufficient to take Paris, but sooner or later he will do so, though it will be a serious business with the forts all in the hands of the Communists. If they had but handed over one or two of the forts to the gendarmes, or kept a company or two of sailors there, there would have been a line by which the troops could have approached the town, as it is they will have to bring up siege-guns and silence Issy and Vanves before much can be done."

An hour later Monsieur Michaud arrived; he too had been in the city and was in ignorance of what had taken place during the morning.

"That accounts for it," he said, "we are all ordered to be under arms at eight o'clock this evening."

"But you will not go?" his wife exclaimed anxiously.

"But I must go, my dear. I have no desire to be shot, and I think there is much more fear of my being shot, if I don't answer to the call of my name than there will be if I do. In the first place, we may not go out beyond the wall, in the second place, if there is I may see a chance of running away, for mind you, though I hope I should have fought as bravely as others if the Germans had come, I do not feel myself called upon to fight against Frenchmen and in a cause I hate."

"You will find yourself in good company anyhow, Monsieur Michaud," Cuthbert laughed. "We have seen nineteen hundred and fifty men out of two thousand march off without firing a shot to-day."

"So much the better, monsieur, four out of five of the National Guards hate it all as much as I do. Will you dine with us to-day, monsieur, and then we can go down together afterwards."

Cuthbert accepted the invitation willingly. "Yes, you can come down with us, Mary," he went on, in answer to a look of appeal from her. "I will bring her back safely, Madame Michaud, the sight will be well worth seeing. Before I go I will have a look round and see if I can get a bed for the night, it is a long way out from my lodgings and I should like to be out here by daylight, for if they mean to march on Versailles they are sure to start as soon as it is light."

"We have a spare room," Madame Michaud said, "and it is quite at your disposal. It will be doing us a kindness if you will accept it, for when my husband is away I always feel nervous without a man in the house, and as it is but ten minutes' walk from here to the Arc de Triomphe, you will be on the spot, and indeed from the roof of this house you can obtain a view all over the country."

A great change had taken place in the appearance of Paris when they went down in the evening, the town was in a state of the wildest excitement, everywhere drums were beating and trumpets sounding, everywhere National Guards mustering. The streets were crowded, the most violent language uttered by the lower classes, and threats of all kinds poured out against the 'butchers of Versailles.' On the walls were red placards issued by the Commune and headed "Men of Paris. The butchers of Versailles are slaughtering your brethren!!!"

"As a rule the brethren decline to be slaughtered, Mary," Cuthbert said as they read the proclamation. "You see, if the troops fire they are butchers, if the National Guards fire they are heroes. Considering that Paris has ten armed men to every one McMahon has got, even if all the troops could be relied upon, the Parisians must indeed be of a mild temper if they submit to be butchered."

Monsieur Michaud now left them to take his place in the ranks of his battalion. It was not long before the National Guards were in motion, and for hours columns of troops moved up the Champs Elysées. The Rue Rivoli was actually choked with the men; the mob shouted "Vive la Commune" until they were hoarse, and the battalions from the working quarters lustily sang the chorus of the Marseillaise.

At ten o'clock Cuthbert and Mary arrived at the Arc de Triomphe on their way back. Along the whole line from the Tuileries the National Guard were bivouacked. The arms were piled down the centre of the road, and many of the men had already wrapped themselves in their blankets and lain down to sleep with their heads on their knapsacks. The wine-shops in the neighborhood were all crowded, and it was evident that many of the men had determined to keep it up all night.

Madame Michaud had coffee ready for them on their return, and after drinking it they went to their rooms, Mary being completely tired out with the fatigue and excitement of the day. At five o'clock Cuthbert was up; he had told Mary the night before that he would return for her at eight. On arriving at the Arc de Triomphe he found the National Guards pouring down the avenue to the Fort Maillot. Three heavy columns were marching along the roads which converged at the Bridge of Neuilly. Here Cuthbert expected a desperate struggle, but a few shots only were fired, and then a small body of troops covered by a party of skirmishers, retired up the hill, and then turning off made their way towards Fort Valerien.

The force was evidently insufficient to hold the bridge against the masses of revolutionists advancing against it, and the real resistance to the forces of the Commune would commence further back. Crossing the bridge the National Guard spread out to the right and left and mounted the hill, as they did so some eighteen-pounder guns which had been the day before mounted on the Fort, opened fire on the bridge, and for a time the forward movement ceased, and the regiment on their way down towards the gate were halted. Cuthbert chatted for some time with one of the officers and learnt from him that this was not the real point of attack.

"It is from the other side of the river that the great stroke against the Versaillaise will be struck," he said, "a hundred and fifty thousand National Guards advanced on that side; they will cross the heights of Meudon, and move straight to Versailles. We have but some twenty-five thousand here, and shall advance as soon as the others have attacked Meudon."

In an hour the forward movement had again commenced, a heavy column poured across the bridge, the firing from Valerien having now ceased. Cuthbert watched the black mass advancing up the slope towards Courbeil. It was not until they reached the top of the slope that Valerien suddenly opened fire. Puff after puff of white smoke darted out from its crest in quick succession, the shells bursting in and around the heavy column. In a moment its character changed; it had been literally cut in half by the iron shower. Those in front of the point where the storm had struck it, broke off and fled to the village of Nanterre on the left, where they took shelter among the houses. The other portion of the column broke up as suddenly, and became at once a disorganized mob, who at the top of their speed rushed down to the slope again to the bridge at Neuilly. Across this they poured in wild confusion and made no halt until they had passed the Fort Maillot. There the officers attempted to rally them, but in vain; many had thrown their muskets away in their flight, the rest slung them behind them, and continued their way to Paris, all vowing that they had been betrayed, and that they would have vengeance on the Commune. Seeing that there was no more probability of fighting on his side, Cuthbert returned to Madame Michaud's.

"Madame is on the roof," Margot said as he entered; "everyone is up there: she said I was to give you breakfast when you came in; the coffee is ready, and I have an omelette prepared, it will be cooked in three minutes; Madame said that you would be sure to be hungry after being out so long." In a quarter of an hour he ascended to the roof. The resident on the ground-floor had an astronomical telescope with which he was in the habit of reconnoitring the skies from the garden. This he had taken up to the roof, where some twenty persons were gathered. A magnificent view was obtained here of the circle of hills from Valerien round by Meudon, and the whole of the left bank of the river. It needed but a glance to see that the army of the Commune had made but little progress. Although the fighting began soon after two o'clock in the morning, and it was now nearly mid-day, the heights of Meudon were still in the hands of the troops.

From among the trees by the chateau white puffs of smoke shot out, many of the shells bursting in and around the fort of Issy, which replied briskly. The guns of Vanves joined in the combat, their fire being directed towards the plateau of Chatillon, which was held by the troops. Round Issy a force of the National Guard was assembled, but the main body was in the deep valley between the forts and Meudon, and on the slopes nearly up to the chateau; the rattle of musketry here was continuous, a light smoke drifting up through the trees. After a time it was evident that the line of musketry fire was lower down the hill, descending, showing that the troops were pressing the Communists backwards, and presently one of the batteries near the chateau shifted its position, and took ground some distance down the hill, and this and a battery near the end of the viaduct by the chateau, opened a heavy fire on the forts.

A look through the telescope showed that the Communists were crouching behind walls and houses, occasionally, when the fire of the guns was silent, a few of them would get up and advance into the open, but only to scamper back into shelter as soon as they reopened fire.

"That settles it, monsieur," Cuthbert said, to the owner of the telescope, after taking a long look through it, "hitherto, the Communists have believed that Versailles was at their mercy, and they had but to march out to capture it. They have failed, and failure means their final defeat. They say that the prisoners of war are arriving in Versailles at the rate of two or three thousand a day, and in another fortnight, Thiers will have a force sufficient to take the offensive, and by that time, will doubtless have siege-guns in position. I don't say that Paris may not hold out for a considerable time, but it must fall in the long run, and I fear, that all who have got anything to lose will have a very bad time of it."

"I fear so, monsieur; as these wretches become more desperate, they will proceed to greater lengths. You see they have already insisted that all the National Guard -- whatever their opinions -- shall join in the defence of the city. They have declared the confiscation of the goods of any member of the Guard who shall leave the town. I hear a decree is likely to be published to-morrow or next day confiscating all Church property; already they have taken possession of the churches, and turned them into clubs. If they do such things now, there is no saying to what lengths they may go as they see their chances of success diminishing daily."

Although the artillery fire was maintained for some time longer, it was by three o'clock evident that the battle was virtually over. The party therefore descended from the roof, and Cuthbert strolled back to the centre of Paris. The streets, that evening, presented a very strong contrast to the scene of excitement that had reigned twenty-four hours before. There was no shouting and singing; no marching of great bodies of troops. An air of gloom pervaded the lower classes, while the bourgeois remained for the most part in their houses, afraid that the deep satisfaction the events of the day had caused them, might betray itself in their faces.

For the next few days Cuthbert worked steadily, going up late in the afternoon to Passy. The Commune had, on the day after the failure against Versailles, issued a decree that all unmarried men from seventeen to thirty-five, should join the ranks, and a house-to-house visitation was ordered to see that none escaped the operation of the decree. One of these parties visited Cuthbert: it consisted of a man with a red sash, and two others in the uniform of the National Guard. As soon as they were satisfied of Cuthbert's nationality, they left, having been much more civil than he had expected. He thought it advisable, however, to go at once to the Hôtel de Ville, where, on producing his passport, he was furnished with a document bearing the seal of the Commune, certifying that being a British subject, Cuthbert Hartington was exempt from service, and was allowed to pass anywhere without molestation.

Equal good luck did not attend the other students, all of whom were, to their intense indignation, enrolled upon the list of the National Guard of their quarter. Cuthbert had difficulty in retaining a perfectly serious countenance, as René, Pierre, and two or three others came in to tell him what had occurred.

"And there is no getting away from it," René said. "If we had thought that it would come to this, of course we would have left Paris directly this affair began, but now it is impossible: no tickets are issued by the railways except to old men, women and children, no one is allowed to pass through the gates without a permit from the Commune, and even if one could manage to get on to the wall and drop down by a rope one might be taken and shot by the Communist troops outside, or, if one got through them, by the sentries of the army of Versailles. What would you advise us to do, Cuthbert?"

"I am afraid I can't give you any advice whatever, René, it is certainly horribly unpleasant being obliged to fight in a cause you detest, but I don't think there will be a very great deal of fighting till an assault is made on the city, and when that begins, I should say the Communists will be too busy to look for absentees from the ranks."

"We shall be in double danger then," Pierre Leroux put in. "We run the risk of being shot by the Communists for not fighting at the barricades, and if we escape that, we have a chance of being shot by the Versaillais as Communists. It is a horrible position to be placed in."

"Well, I should say, Pierre, keep your eyes open and escape if you possibly can before the assault takes place. I should think some might manage to get out as women, but, of course you would have to sacrifice your mustaches. But if you did that, and borrowed the papers of some young woman or other, you might manage it. No doubt it would be awkward if you were found out, but it might be worth trying. If I cannot leave before the assault takes place I mean to go to one of the English hotels here, Meurice's or the Dover, and establish myself there. During such fighting as there may be in the streets, there will be very few questions asked, and one might be shot before one could explain one was a foreigner, but the hotels are not likely to be disturbed. Seriously I should say that the best thing you can all do when the fighting begins in the streets, is to keep out of the way until your battalion is engaged, then burn anything in the way of uniform, get rid of your rifle somehow, and gather at Goudé's. He could vouch for you all as being his pupils, and as being wholly opposed to the Commune. His name should be sufficiently well known, if not to the first officer who may arrive, at least, to many officers, for his testimony to be accepted. Still, I do think that the best plan of all will be to get out of the place when you get a chance."

Some of the students did succeed in getting out. Pierre and two others made their way down through the drains, came out on the river at night, and swam across. One of the youngest went out by train dressed as a woman, but the rest were forced to don the uniform and take their places in the ranks of the National Guard. The question of leaving Paris was frequently discussed by Cuthbert and Mary Brander, but they finally determined to stay. It was morally certain that the troops would enter Paris either at the Port Maillot or at the gate of Pont du Jour; or at any rate, somewhere on that side of Paris. Once inside the walls they would meet with no resistance there -- the fighting would only commence when they entered the city itself. Passy was to a large extent inhabited by well-to-do people, and it was not here that the search for Communists would begin. The troops would here be greeted as benefactors.

"I do not think there is the smallest risk, Mary; if there were, I should say at once that we had better be off, and I would escort you down to Cornwall, but as there seems to me no danger whatever, I should say let us stick to our original plan. I own I should like to see the end of it all. You might amuse yourself at present by making a good-sized Union Jack, which you can hang out of your window when the troops enter. When I see the time approaching, I intend to make an arrangement with the Michauds to establish myself here, so as to undertake the task of explaining, if necessary, but I don't think any explanation will be asked. It is likely enough that as soon as the troops enter they will establish themselves in this quarter before making any further advance; they will know that they have hard fighting before them, and until they have overcome all opposition, will have plenty to think about, and will have no time to spare in making domiciliary visits."



Chapter XXIII.


Arnold Dampierre had moved from his lodgings in the Quartier Latin at the outbreak of the insurrection, and had taken up his abode in one of the streets leading up to Montmartre. There he was in close connection with many of the leaders of the Commune, his speeches and his regular attendance at their meetings, his connection with Dufaure, who was the president of one of the revolutionary committees, and with his daughter, and the fact that he was an American, had rendered him one of the most conspicuous characters in the Quarter. He would have been named one of the delegates of the Council of the Commune, but he refused the honor, preferring to remain, as he said, "the representative of the great republic across the seas."

More than once Cuthbert met him as he rode about, but only once did they speak. Cuthbert was crossing the square in front of the Hôtel de Ville, when he saw Arnold Dampierre. The latter was on foot and did not notice Cuthbert until he was within a few yards of him; as his eye fell on him he hesitated and then walked on as if about to pass without speaking; Cuthbert, however, held out his hand.

"Why, Dampierre," he said, "you are not going to cut me, are you? There has been no quarrel between us, and the last time we met was when we were lying next to each other in the ambulance."

Dampierre took the offered hand. "No, no," he said with nervous quickness, "no quarrel at all, Hartington, but you see we have gone different ways, that is to say, I have gone out of your way, and thought that you would not care to continue the acquaintance."

"There is no such feeling on my part, I can assure you. There need be no question between us as to the part you have taken. I am sorry, but it is no concern of mine, and after living in the same house for a year or so, and having faced death side by side at Champigny, no difference of political opinion should interfere with our friendship. Besides, you know," he added with a laugh, "I may want to get you to exert your influence on my behalf. Events are thickening. In troubled times it is always well to have a friend at court, and if I come to be treated as a suspect, I shall refer to you for a character as a peaceable and well-intentioned student of art."

"There is no fear of anything of that sort, Hartington; but should you, by any possibility, get into trouble, you have but to send to me. However, this state of things will not last long, the people are fairly roused now and will soon sweep the butchers of Versailles before them, and a reign of perfect freedom and equality will be established, and the world will witness the spectacle of a free country, purging itself from the tyranny of capital and the abuse of power, under which it has so long groaned. But I have much to do and must be off," and with a hasty shake of the hand he hurried away again.

Cuthbert looked after him. "The poor fellow is fast qualifying for a mad-house," he said; "he has changed sadly, his cheeks are hollow and his eyes unnaturally brilliant. Those patches of color on his cheeks are signs of fever rather than of health. That woman, Minette, is responsible for this ruin. It must end badly one way or the other; the best thing that could happen to him would be to fall in one of these sorties. He has made himself so conspicuous that he is almost certain to be shot when the troops take Paris, unless, indeed, he becomes an actual lunatic before that. Wound up as he is by excitement and enthusiasm he will never bring himself to sneak off in disguise, as most of the men who have stirred up this business will do."

The time passed quickly enough in Paris, events followed each other rapidly, there was scarce a day without fighting, more or less serious. Gradually the troops wrested position after position from the Communists, but not without heavy fighting. The army at Versailles had swelled so rapidly by the arrival of the prisoners from Germany that even in Paris, where the journals of the Commune endeavored to keep up the spirits of the defenders by wholesale lying as to the result of the fighting outside its walls. It was known that at least a hundred thousand men were now gathered at Versailles.

"There is no doubt of one thing," Cuthbert said, as standing with Mary on the Trocadero, they one day watched the duel, when the guns at Meudon were replying vigorously to the fire of the forts, "I must modify my first opinions as to the courage of the Communists. They have learnt to fight, and allowing for all the exaggeration and bombast of their proclamations, they now stand admirably; they have more than once retaken positions from which they have been driven, and although very little is said about their losses, I was talking yesterday to a surgeon in one of the hospitals, and he tells me that already they must be as great as those throughout the whole of the first siege.

"They are still occasionally subject to panics. For instance, there was a bad one the other night when the troops took the Chateau of Becon, and again at Clamart, but I fancy that is owing to the mistake the Communists made in forcing men who are altogether opposed to them into their ranks. These men naturally bolt directly they are attacked, and that causes a panic among the others who would have fought had the rest stood. Still, altogether, they are fighting infinitely better than expected, and at Clamart they fought really well in the open for the first time. Before, I own that my only feelings towards the battalions of beetle-browed ruffians from the faubourgs was disgust, now I am beginning to feel a respect for them, but it makes the prospect here all the darker.

"I have no doubt that as soon as McMahon has got all his batteries into position he will open such a fire as will silence the forts and speedily make breaches in the walls; but the real fighting won't begin till they enter. The barricades were at first little more than breastworks, but they have grown and grown until they have become formidable fortifications, and, if stoutly defended, and with every house occupied by desperate men, it will be terrible work carrying them by assault. However, there are few places where the main defences cannot be turned, for it is impossible to fortify every street. However, if the Communists fight as desperately as we may now expect, in their despair, the work of clearing the whole city must occupy many days."

"It will be very unpleasant in Passy when the batteries on all those heights open fire."

"It would, indeed, if they were to direct their fire in this direction, for they could wipe Passy out altogether in a few hours; but everything shows that Thiers is anxious to spare Paris itself as much as possible. Not a shot has been fired at random, and scarcely a house has been injured. They fire only at the forts and at the batteries on this side, and when they begin in earnest I have no doubt it will be the same. It would be a mere waste of shot to fire up there, and if the Versailles people were to do unnecessary damage it would bring them into odium throughout all France, for it would be said that they were worse than the Prussians."

On the 25th of April, at 8 o'clock in the morning, the long silence of the besiegers' batteries ended. Cuthbert was taking his coffee when he heard a sound like the rumble of a heavy wagon. He ran to his window. There was quiet in the street below, for everyone had stopped abruptly to listen to the roar, and from every window heads appeared. Completing his dressing hastily, he went out and took the first fiacre he met and drove to Passy. The rumble had deepened into a heavy roar; the air quivered with the vibrations, and the shriek of the shells mingled with the deep booming of the guns. When he entered Madame Michaud's, she, her husband and Mary were standing at the open window.

"We have just come down from the top of the house," Mary said, "it is a grand sight from there; will you come up, Cuthbert?"

"Certainly, Mary; you see I was right, and there do not seem to be any shell coming this way."

"No. But we were all desperately alarmed, were we not madame, when they began."

"It was enough to alarm one," Madame Michaud said indignantly, "half the windows were broken, and that was enough to startle one even without the firing."

"It was perfectly natural, madame," Cuthbert agreed; "the first shock is always trying, and even soldiers with seasoned nerves might be excused for starting, when such a din as this commenced."

Cuthbert and Mary went up at once to the roof, where the old gentleman from below had already set up his telescope. He did not need that, however, to observe what was going on. Along almost the whole crest of the eminences round the south and west, heavy guns were playing upon the defences. From the heights of Chatillon, the puffs of white smoke came thick and fast, the battery at the Chateau of Meudon was hard at work, as were those of Brimborien and Breteuil. Mount Valerien was joining in the fray, while batteries on the plateau of Villejuif were firing at the forts of Montrouge and Bicêtre. Without exception, the greater part of the fire was concentrated upon the forts of Issy and Vanves, while attention was also being paid to the batteries at Point de Jour and Porte Maillot.

The Communists replied to the fire steadily, although Issy, which came in for by far the largest share of the attentions of the assailants, fired only a gun now and then, showing that it was still tenanted by the defenders. It was difficult indeed to see how often it replied, for the shell burst so frequently on it that it was difficult to distinguish between their flashes and those of its guns. Through the telescope could be seen how terrible was the effect of the fire; already the fort had lost the regularity of its shape, and the earth, with which it had been thickly covered, was pitted with holes. Presently there was an outburst of firing comparatively close at hand.

"That is the battery on the Trocadero," one of the party exclaimed. "I think that they must be firing at Valerien, I saw several spurts of smoke close to it."

"I hope not," Cuthbert said, "for if Valerien answers, our position here will not be so pleasant."

For an hour Valerien disregarded the shells bursting in and around it, and continuing its fire against Issy.

"That was a good shot," the astronomer said, as he sat with his eyes at his telescope watching the fort. "A shell burst right on one of the embrasures." A minute or two later came a rushing sound, rising rapidly to a scream; instinctively most of those on the roof ducked their heads.

"Valerien is waking up," Cuthbert said; "here comes another."

For an hour Valerien poured its fire upon the battery on the Trocadero, and with so accurate an aim that at the end of that time it was reduced to silence. While the fire was going on, those on the roof went below, for although the precision with which the artillerymen fired was so excellent that there was but slight danger, the trial to the nerves from the rush of the heavy shell was so great that they were glad to leave the roof and to take their places at the windows below. The danger was no less, for had a shell struck the house and exploded, it would have wrecked the whole building, but there was some sense of safety in drawing back behind the shelter of the wall as the missiles were heard approaching.

To the disappointment of the middle class who still remained in Paris, the bombardment was only partly renewed on the following day, and then things went on as before. It was supposed that its effects, great as they had been on the forts most exposed to it, had not come up to the expectations of the besiegers, and the telescope showed that the troops were hard at work erecting a great battery on Montretout, an eminence near St. Cloud. On the night of the 5th of May the whole of the batteries opened fire again, and the troops made a desperate effort to cut the force in Issy from communication either with the town or with Vanves. The National Guard poured out from the city, and for some hours the fighting was very severe, the troops at last succeeding in their object; but as soon as they had done so, the guns on the enciente and those of Vanves opened so tremendous a fire upon them, that they were forced to abandon the positions they had won.

At the Railway Station at Clamart there was also heavy fighting; the National Guard attacked suddenly and in such overwhelming numbers that after a short but desperate resistance, the garrison of the station were forced to retire. Reinforcements were soon brought up, the troops again advanced and the insurgents were driven out. Their loss during the night was put down as a thousand. On the 8th Montretout, which was armed with 72 heavy guns, opened fire, the rest of the batteries joined in, and for a couple of hours the din was terrific. The next day Issy was captured by the troops. They attacked the village at daybreak, and advancing slowly, capturing house by house, they occupied the church and marketplace at noon. Just as they had done so, a battalion of Insurgents were seen advancing, to reinforce the garrison of the Fort. They were allowed to advance to within fifty yards when a heavy volley was poured into them. They halted for a moment, but their colonel rallied them. He was, however, killed by another volley, when the men at once broke, threw away their arms, and ran back to the city gates. The rest of the village was carried with a rush, and when the troops reached the gate of the Fort, it was found open. It was at once occupied, the whole of the defenders having fled, as they saw that the steady advance of the troops would, if they remained, cut them off from escape. The fall of the Fort was so unexpected that the batteries on the heights continued to fire upon it for some time after the troops had gained possession.

The capture of Issy created an immense effect in Paris. General Rossel resigned the command of the insurgent army. He had been a colonel of the engineers, and was an officer of merit, but his political opinions had proved too much for his loyalty to his country and profession; doubtless he had deemed that if, as at first seemed probable, the insurrection would be successful and the revolution triumph, he would become its Napoleon. He now saw the ruin of his hopes; he had forfeited his position and his life, and in the proclamation he issued announcing his resignation he poured out all the bitterness of his disappointment, and told the Commune his opinion of them, namely, that they were utterly incapable, without an idea of the principles either of liberty or of order, and filled only with jealousy and hatred of each other. So scathing was the indictment, that he was at once arrested, but managed to make his escape.

The fire from the batteries on the assailants' right, was now concentrated upon Vanves, which was evacuated by the insurgents two days later. The fall of these forts left the position at Point de Jour unsupported, and indeed the guns remounted at Issy took its defenders in flank, and rendered it impossible for them to work their guns. In their despair the Commune now threw off the mask of comparative moderation, and proceeded to imitate to its fullest extent the government of the Jacobins. Decrees were passed for the establishment of courts to arrest, try, and execute suspected persons without delay, and under the false pretence that prisoners taken by the troops had been executed, the murder of the Archbishop of Paris and other priests, who had been taken and thrown into prison as hostages, was decided upon.

Upon the fall of Issy being known, Cuthbert considered the end to be so near that it would be better for him to take up his abode permanently at Madame Michaud's. She had been pressing him to do so for some time, as she and her husband thought that the presence of an English gentleman there would conduce to their safety when the troops entered Paris. He had indeed spent most of his time there for the last three weeks, but had always returned to his lodgings at night. He, therefore, packed up his pictures and his principal belongings and drove with them to Passy. Two days later he met Arnold Dampierre.

"I am glad to have met you," the latter said, "I have been to our old place, and found that you had left. Minette and I are to be married to-morrow, a civil marriage, of course, and I should be very glad if you will be present as a witness. There is no saying who will be alive at the end of another week, and I should like the marriage to be witnessed by you."

"I will do so with pleasure, Arnold, though it seems scarcely a time for marrying."

"That is true, but if we escape we must escape together. If I am killed I wish her to go over to America and live as mistress of my place there, therefore, I shall place in your hands an official copy of the register of our marriage. Where will she be able to find you after all this is over?"

Cuthbert gave his address at Madame Michaud's.

"I don't suppose I shall stay there long after all is finished here," he said, "but they will know where to forward any letters to me. Would it not be better, Arnold, for you to throw up all this at once and return to your old lodgings, where you may perhaps remain quietly until the search for the leaders of this affair relaxes?"

Arnold shook his head gloomily; "I must go through it to the end. The cause is a noble one, and it is not because its leaders are base, and at the same time wholly incapable men, that I should desert it. Besides, even if I should do so, she would not. No, it is not to be thought of. The marriage will take place at the Mairie of Montmartre, at eleven o'clock tomorrow."

"I will be there, Arnold." Cuthbert walked slowly back to Passy. He was shocked at the dismal shipwreck, of what had seemed a bright and pleasant future, of the man of whom he had seen so much for upwards of a year. Dampierre's life had seemed to offer a fairer chance of happiness and prosperity than that of any other of the students at Monsieur Goudé's. He had an estate amply sufficient to live upon in comfort, and even affluence; and he had artistic tastes that would save him from becoming, like many southern planters, a mere lounger through life. His fatal love for Minette had caused him to throw himself into this insurrection, and to take so prominent a part in it that the chance of his life being spared, did he fall into the hands of the troops, was small indeed; even did he succeed in escaping with Minette his chances of happiness in the future seemed to Cuthbert to be faint indeed. With her passionate impulses she would speedily weary of the tranquil and easy life on a southern plantation, and, with her, to weary was to seek change, and however that change might come about, it would bring no happiness to her husband.

"I am going to see your rival married to-morrow," he said to Mary.

"What, the model? Don't call her my rival, Cuthbert, it makes me ashamed of myself, even to think that I should have suspected you of caring for that woman we saw on horseback the other day."

"Then we will call her your supposed rival, Mary; yes, she is going to be married to Arnold Dampierre, to-morrow."

"What a time to choose for it," she said, with a shudder. "In a few days Paris will be deluged with blood, for the Commune boasts that every street is mined."

"We need not believe all that, Mary; no doubt the principal streets have been mined, but the Commune have made such a boast of the fact, that you may be sure the French generals will avoid the great thoroughfares as much as possible, and will turn the barricades by advancing along the narrow streets and lanes; besides, it is one thing to dig mines and charge them, and quite another thing to explode them at the right moment in the midst of a desperate fight. However, I agree with you that it is a dismal business, but Arnold explained to me that he did it because he and Minette might have to fly together, or, that if he fell, she might inherit his property. He did not seem to foresee that she too might fall, which is, to my mind as likely as his own death, for as in former fights here, the female Communists will be sure to take their place in the barricades with the men, and, if so, I will guarantee that Minette will be one of the foremost to do so. The production of female fiends seem to be one of the peculiarities of French revolutions. As I told you, I am going to the wedding in order to sign as a witness; I could hardly refuse what I regard as the poor fellow's last request, though it will be a most distasteful business."

"The last time you spoke to him, you said it struck you that he was going put of his mind."

"Yes, I thought so and think so still; his manner was changed to-day; before, he had that restless, nervous, excitable look that is the indication of one phase of insanity; to-day there was the gloomy, brooding sort of look that is equally characteristic of another form of madness.

"At the same time that might be well explained by the circumstances, and I have not the same absolute conviction in his sanity that I had before. I suppose you will not care to honor the wedding ceremony by your presence."

"No, no, Cuthbert, not for anything. You cannot think that I should like to be present at such a ghastly ceremony. I thought the churches were all shut up."

"So they are; the marriage is to be a civil one. They will merely declare themselves man and wife in the presence of an official; he will enter them as such in a register, and the affair will be over. I would not say so to Arnold, but I have serious doubt whether the American authorities would recognize the ceremony as a legal one, did she ever appear there to claim possession. Of course, if he gets away also, it can be put right by another marriage when they get out, or they can stop for a few weeks on their way through England, and be married again there."

"It is all most horrid, Cuthbert."

"Well, if you see it in that light, Mary, I won't press you to go to-morrow, and will give up any passing idea that I may have had, that we might embrace the opportunity and be married at the same time."

"It is lucky that you did not make such a proposition to me in earnest, Cuthbert," Mary laughed, "for if you had, I would assuredly have had nothing more to do with you."

"Oh, yes, you would, Mary, you could not have helped yourself, and you would, in a very short time have made excuses for me on the ground of my natural anxiety to waste no further time before securing my happiness."

"No one could expect any happiness after being married in that sort of way. No, sir, when quite a long time on, we do get married, it shall be in a church in a proper and decent manner. I don't know that I might not be persuaded to make a sacrifice and do without bridesmaids or even a wedding-breakfast, but everything else must be strictly en règle."

The next morning at the appointed hour, Cuthbert went up to Montmartre. Several men, whose red scarfs showed that they belonged to the Government of the Commune were standing outside. They looked with some surprise at Cuthbert as he strolled quietly up. "I am here, messieurs, to be a witness to the marriage of my friend, Arnold Dampierre."

The manner of the men instantly changed, and one said, "We are here also to witness the marriage of our noble American friend to the daughter of our colleague, Dufaure. Dampierre is within, Dufaure will be here with his daughter in a few minutes." Cuthbert passed through and entered the office where a Commissary of the Commune was sitting at a table. Arnold was speaking to him. He turned as Cuthbert entered.

"Thank you, Hartington. This is not exactly what I had pictured would be the scene at my wedding, but it is not my fault that it must be managed this way, and I intend to have the ceremony repeated if we get safely to England. After all, it is but what you call a Gretna Green marriage."

"Yes, as you say, you can be married again, Arnold, which would certainly be best in all respects, and might save litigation some day. But here they come, I think."

There was a stir at the door, and Minette and her father entered, followed by the Communists with red scarfs. Arnold also wore one of these insignia. Minette was in her dress as a Vivandière. She held out her hand frankly to Cuthbert.

"I am glad to see you here, monsieur," she said. "It is good that Arnold should have one of his own people as a witness. You never liked me very much, I know, but it makes no difference now."

"Please to take your place," the officer said. Cuthbert stepped back a pace. Arnold took his place in front of the table with Minette by his side, her father standing close to her.

"There is nothing, Arnold Dampierre," the official asked, "in the laws of your country that would prevent you making a binding marriage."

"Nothing whatever. When a man is of age in America he is free to contract any marriage he chooses without obtaining the consent of any relation whatever."

The official made a note of this. "Martin Dufaure, do you give your sanction and consent to the marriage of your daughter with Arnold Dampierre, American citizen."

"I do," the Communist said.

"Take her hand, Arnold Dampierre."

"Do you take this woman as your wife?"

As the words left his lips, there was a pistol-shot. With a low cry, Arnold fell across the table. Cuthbert had turned at the report, and as the man who had fired, lowered his pistol to repeat the shot, he sprang forward, and struck him with all his weight and strength on the temple. The man fell like a log, his pistol exploding as he did so. With a cry like that of a wounded animal Minette had turned around, snatched a dagger from her girdle, and, as the man fell, she sprang to his side and leant over him with uplifted knife. Cuthbert caught her wrist as she was about to strike.

"Do not soil your hand with blood, Minette," he said quietly as she turned fiercely upon him. "Arnold would not like it; leave this fellow to justice, and give your attention to him."

Dropping the knife she ran forward to the table again, two or three of Arnold's colleagues were already leaning over him. Believing that her lover was dead, Minette would have thrown herself on his body, but they restrained her.

"He is not dead, Minette, the wound is not likely to be fatal, he is only hit in the shoulder."

"You are lying, you are lying, he is dead," Minette cried, struggling to free herself from their restraining arms.

"It is as they say, Minette," her father said, leaning over Arnold, "here is the bullet hole in his coat, it is the same shoulder that was broken before; he will recover, child, calm yourself, I order you."

Minette ceased to struggle, and burst into a passion of tears.

"You had better send a man to fetch a surgeon at once," Cuthbert said to one of the Communists. "I have no doubt Arnold has but fainted from the shock, coming as it did at such a moment," He then looked at the wound.

"'Tis not so serious as the last," he said, "by a long way, it is higher and has no doubt broken the collar bone, but that is not a very serious matter. I think we had better lay him down on that bench, put a coat under his head, pour a few drops of spirits between his lips, and sprinkle his face with cold water."

Cuthbert then went across the room. Several of the Communists were standing round the fallen man.

"He is stunned, I think," Cuthbert said.

"He is dead," one of the men replied. "Your blow was enough to kill an ox. It is the best thing for him, for assuredly he would have been hung before nightfall for this attempt upon the life of our good American colleague."

Cuthbert stooped down and felt the pulse of the fallen man.

"I am afraid he is dead," he said, "certainly I had no intention of killing him. I thought of nothing but preventing him repeating his shot, which he was on the point of doing."

"It does not matter in the least," one of the men said, "it is all one whether he was shot by a bullet of the Versaillais, or hung, or killed by a blow of an Englishman's fist. Monsieur le Commissaire, will you draw up a proces-verbal of this affair?"

But the Commissary did not answer; in the confusion no one noticed that he had not risen from his chair, but sat leaning back.

"Diable, what is this?" the Communist went on, "I believe the Commissary is dead." He hurried round to the back of the table. It was as he said, the shot fired as the man fell had struck him in the heart, and he had died without a cry or a movement.

"Morbleau," another of the Communists exclaimed, "we came here to witness a comedy, and it has turned into a tragedy."

An exclamation from Minette, who was kneeling by Arnold, called Cuthbert's attention to her. The American had opened his eyes.

"What has happened, Minette," he asked, as she laid her head down on his breast and burst into another fit of passionate sobbing.

"You are out of luck, Arnold," Cuthbert said, cheerfully; "a villain has fired at you, but you have got off this time more lightly than the last, and I think it is nothing more than a broken collar-bone, and that is not a very serious business, you know; be quiet for a little time; we shall have the surgeon here directly. Of course Minette is terribly upset, for she thought for a moment that you were killed."

Arnold lay still, stroking Minette's head gently with his right hand; gradually her sobs ceased, and Cuthbert then left them to themselves. The two bodies had by this time been carried into another room, and one of the delegates took his seat at the table and drew out a formal report of the occurrences that had taken place which was signed by the others present and by Cuthbert. A surgeon presently arriving confirmed Cuthbert's view that the collar-bone had been broken, and proceeded to bandage it.

As soon as it was done Arnold stood up unsteadily. "Citizen Rigaud, I presume that, as a high official of the Commune, you can replace the citizen who has fallen and complete the ceremony."

"Certainly, if it is your wish."

"It is my wish more even than before."

"The matter is simple," the delegate said, "my predecessor has already recorded your answers, there remains but for me to complete the ceremony."

A minute later Arnold Dampierre and Minette were pronounced man and wife, and signed the register, Martin Dufaure, Cuthbert, and the various deputies present signing as witnesses. A fiacre had been called up, and was in readiness at the door. Cuthbert assisted Arnold to take his place in it.

"If I were you, Arnold," he whispered, "I would go to the old lodgings; of course they are still vacant; if you prefer it, you can take mine, I still keep them on though I have moved for a time. It will be better for you in every way not to be up here at Montmartre."

"Thank you; it would anyhow be quieter. Will you tell the coachman where to drive?"

"I will go on the box," Cuthbert said, "of course Dufaure will go with you." He told the Communist what they had decided on.

"That will be best," he agreed; "this is not a quiet quarter at present. What with drumming and drinking, it is not a place for a wounded man."

"You had better go inside with them, and I will go on the box," Cuthbert said, "keep Minette talking, it will prevent her breaking down, it has been a terrible shock for her."

The landlady was heartily glad to see Dampierre back again. Cuthbert and the Communist assisted the wounded man to bed.

"I will see about getting things in at present," Cuthbert said, "so do not worry over that, Minette; if everything goes well he will be about again in a few days, but keep him quiet as long as you can, I will come in to-morrow and see how he is getting on."

After going round to a restaurant and ordering meals to be sent in regularly, with some bottles of wine for Martin Dufaure's benefit, Cuthbert returned to Passy.



Chapter XXIV.


Mary was greatly shocked upon hearing the tragic circumstances that had occurred at the wedding.

"Who is the man that fired, Cuthbert?"

"His name is Jean Diantre. I heard from Dufaure that he has been a lover of Minette's; he said she had never given him any encouragement, but acknowledged that he himself believed she might have taken him at last if she had not met Dampierre. He said that he had been uneasy for some time, for the man had become so moody and savage that he had feared ill would come of it. He was the same man who nearly stabbed me three months ago, taking me for Dampierre."

"It is shocking to think that you have killed a man, Cuthbert."

"It may be shocking to you, Mary, but the matter does not weigh on my conscience at all. In the first place I had no idea of killing him, and in the second, if I had not hit hard and quickly he would have fired again and killed Arnold; lastly, I regard these Communists as no better than mad dogs, and the chances are ten to one that he would have been shot at the barricades, or afterwards, if he had not died when he did."

"It is all very terrible," Mary sighed.

"It has all been terrible from beginning to end, Mary, but as hundreds of men are killed every day, and there will probably be thousands shot when the troops enter Paris, I cannot regard the death of a would-be murderer as a matter that will weigh on my mind for a moment. And now what has been going on here? I hardly had time to notice whether the firing was heavy."

"It has been tremendous," she said. "Several houses have been struck and set on fire lower down but no shells have come this way."

"I have no doubt the troops imagine that all the houses down near Pont du Jour, are crowded with Communists in readiness to repel any assault that might be made. The army is doubtless furious at the destruction of the Column of Vendome, which was in commemoration, not only of Napoleon, but of the victories won by French armies. Moreover, I know from newspapers that have been brought in from outside, and which I have seen at the café, that they are incensed to the last degree by being detained here, when but for this insurrection, they would have been given a furlough to visit their families when they returned from the German prisons. So that I can quite understand the artillerymen taking a shot occasionally at houses they believe to be occupied by the insurgents.

"You may be sure of one thing, and that is that very little quarter will be shown to the Communists by the troops. Even now, I cannot but hope, that seeing the impossibility of resisting many days longer, and the certainty of a terrible revenge if the troops have to fight their way through the streets, the Communists will try to surrender on the best terms they can get. Thiers has all along shown such extreme unwillingness to force the fighting, that I am sure he would give far better terms than they could have any right to expect, rather than that Paris should be the scene of a desperate struggle, and, if the Communists fulfil their threats, of wholesale destruction and ruin."

Two more days passed. Cuthbert went down each day to his old lodging and found that Arnold was doing well. On the second day, indeed, he was out of bed with his arm in a sling and sitting partly dressed in an easy-chair. Martin Dufaure had left that morning for his own lodging, having slept for the last two nights on the sofa. Minette had made everything about the rooms tidy and fresh, the windows were open, and the distant roar of the bombardment could be plainly heard. She had a white handkerchief tied over her head, a neat, quiet dress, and was playing the rôle of nurse to perfection. Cuthbert had been round to Monsieur Goudé and had told him what had happened, and he had the evening before dropped in for a talk with Arnold.

"I am getting on wonderfully, Cuthbert," Arnold said, on the latter's second visit. "Of course it is trying to be sitting here incapable of taking a part in what is going on."

"You have taken quite enough part, Arnold, and I own I think your wound at the present moment is a fortunate one, for it will keep you out of mischief. When the surgeon comes next I should strongly advise you to get him to write you a certificate certifying that you have been wounded by a pistol ball, so that if, as is probable, there will sooner or later be a general search for Communists, you can prove that your injury was not received in the fighting outside the walls, and you can refer to Goudé and me as to the fact that you are an art student here. Both documents had better be made out in another name than your own, for, unfortunately, yours has been rendered familiar to them by the frequent notices of your doings and speeches in the papers here."

"I will see about it," Arnold said; "I do not know that I can bring myself to that."

"You will be very foolish and wrong not to do so, Arnold. You are a married man now, and have your wife to think about as well as yourself. You may be sure that there is not a single leader of the insurrection here who will not endeavor to escape under a false name; besides, even granting that, as you believe, the cause is a righteous one, you certainly cannot benefit it in the slightest by sacrificing your life. Your wife was a Communist Vivandière a few days ago, now she is a quiet little wife nursing a sick husband." Glancing at Minette he saw an angry flush on her face, and a look of dogged determination; he made no remark, however, and after chatting with Arnold for some time returned to Passy.

"That woman will bring destruction on them both or I am mistaken," he said to Mary; "fond as she may be of Dampierre, her enthusiasm for the Commune will take her from his side when the last struggle begins. Do you know, Mary, my presentiments about her have turned out marvellously correct." He opened his sketch-book. "Look at that," he said; "at the time I sketched it she was poised as a Spanish dancer, and had castanets in her hand; the attitude is precisely that in which she stood as a model, but it struck me at the moment that a knife would be more appropriate to her than a castanet, and you see I drew her so, and that is the precise attitude she stood in, dagger in hand, when I caught her wrist and prevented her from stabbing the man at her feet."

"Don't show them to me, Cuthbert, it frightens me when you talk of her."

"You must remember that she is a mixture, Mary; she is like a panther, as graceful, and as supple; a charming beast when it purrs and rubs itself against the legs of its keeper, terrible when, in passion, it hurls itself upon him. In the early days the students were, to a man, fascinated with her. I stood quite alone in my disapproval. Seeing her as I saw her to-day, I admit that she is charming, but I cannot forget her fury as she bounded, knife in hand, upon the man I had knocked down. Listen! do your hear that rattle of musketry down by Pont du Jour? The troops must be working their way up towards the gate. Possibly, it is the beginning of the end."

Presently a Communist, with a red sash, rode furiously past, and in a quarter of an hour returned with a battalion of National Guards who had been stationed near the Arc de Triomphe.

"Evidently, there is a some sharp business going on, Mary. It is hardly likely the troops can be attacking at this time of day, they would be sure to choose early morning, mass their forces under cover of darkness, and go at the gate at daybreak; still, there is no doubt from that musketry firing, they must be trying to establish themselves nearer the gate than before."

The batteries that had all day been playing upon Pont du Jour, had suddenly ceased firing, but the rattle of musketry in that direction continued as hotly as ever for another two hours, and a number of field-guns joined in the conflict on the side of the Communists.

"I really must go and find out what it is all about," Cuthbert said; "if I could get up near the Viaduct, I should be able to look down into the bastions at Pont du Jour."

"Don't be away long," Mary urged, "I shall be feeling very nervous till you get back."

"I won't be long; I shan't stay to watch the affair, but only just to find out what the situation is. The fact that the Communists have brought up Field Artillery, shows that it is something more than ordinary, although, why the batteries opposite should have ceased to play I cannot make out; they are hard at work everywhere else."

Cuthbert made his way towards the Viaduct, and as he approached it saw that some of the field-guns he had heard had been placed there, and that the parapet was lined with National Guards who were keeping up an incessant fire. Shells from Meudon and Fort Issy were bursting thickly over and near the bridge, and Cuthbert, seeing that he could not get further without being exposed to the fire, and might, moreover, get into trouble with the Communists, made his way down towards Pont du Jour. Several people were standing in shelter behind the wall of one of the villas.

"You had better not go farther," one of them said, "a shell burst twenty yards lower down a few minutes ago. Several of the villas are in flames, and bullets are flying about everywhere."

"What is going on, gentlemen?" Cuthbert asked, as he joined them.

"The troops have entered Pont du Jour."

"Impossible!" Cuthbert exclaimed, "the firing has been heavy, but no heavier than usual, and although the village is knocked to pieces, as I saw for myself yesterday, no great harm was done to the bastions."

"They have entered for all that," one of the gentlemen said. "Several wounded Communists have come along here, and they have all told the same story. Of course, they put it down to the treachery of their leaders, but at any rate, owing to the tremendous fire from the upper batteries and Issy, it was absolutely impossible to keep men in the bastions, and they were all withdrawn. A few were left in the houses and gardens, but the greater part fell back behind the Viaduct, which afforded them shelter. Somehow or other, the troops in the sap that had been pushed forward to within fifty yards of the gate must have come to the conclusion that the bastion was not tenanted, and trying the experiment, found themselves inside the wall without a shot having been fired. More must have followed them, at any rate a considerable force must have gathered there before the Communists found out they had entered. There can be no doubt that it was a surprise, and not a preconcerted movement, for the batteries continue to fire on the place for some time after they had entered.

"In a short time, small bodies of soldiers ran across the open where the shells were still bursting thickly, established themselves in the ruins of the village, and, as they received reinforcements, gradually worked their way forwards. The Communists have brought up strong forces, but so far, they have been unable to drive back the troops, and, of course, their chance of doing so grows less and less. We can hear heavy firing all along to the right, and it seems as if the troops were pushing forward all along the line from here to Neuilly. Thank God, the end of this terrible business is approaching, and by to-morrow morning we may see the troops in Passy, where there is scarce a soul but will welcome them with open arms. Our battalion of National Guards was one of the last to accept the orders of the Commune, and as it must be known in Versailles as well as in Paris, that this quarter is thoroughly loyal, we need fear no trouble. We are going back there with the news, for we can see nothing here, and if a battalion of Communists came along beaten, they would be as likely as not to vent their fury on all whom they see by their appearance and dress are likely to sympathize with the troops."

Cuthbert walked back with them to Passy.

"Good news," he exclaimed, as he entered the room, where Mary and the Michauds were standing at the open window; "the troops are masters of Point du Jour, and the Communists have tried in vain to drive them back. No doubt, at present, the whole French army is being brought up, in readiness to enter as soon as it is dark, and by to-morrow morning this part of the town at any rate may be clear of the Communists."

Exclamations of delight burst from the others. "I will run up to the roof," Cuthbert said, "there is heavy musketry fire going on all along this side, and one may get an idea how matters are going, but we may be sure that the Communists will all fall back upon the city as soon as they know the troops have entered here."

Mary went up with him, and they found the astronomer had already his telescope in position.

"I have good news for you, Monsieur," Cuthbert said; "the troops have entered Pont du Jour, and although the Communists are opposing them in great force, they are making their way forward. It has evidently been a surprise all round, and so far no great body of troops have been brought up, but no doubt they will soon be ready to advance in force."

"That is good news indeed. I have been watching Asnieres, and as far as I can make out a large body of troops have crossed the bridge there, and are skirmishing towards the enciente, and gradually driving back the Communists. They have advanced too from Neuilly and are pressing forward towards Porte Maillot. Mount Valerien seems to be firing at Montmartre."

Nightfall brought no cessation of the roar of cannon, and the roll of musketry seemed to be continuous, both from the left and right. Every window at Passy was lit up; there was a crowd of women at every shop where colored materials could be obtained, and in every house the females were engaged in sewing red, white, and blue stuff of every description to make the National tri-colored flags, in readiness to hang out when the troops came along. Occasionally adventurous boys and young men came in with scraps of news; the Viaduct had been carried before darkness set in, a heavy column of troops had captured a strong barricade across the road, and, following the bank of the river, had taken possession of the bridge of Grenelle. Another division turning to the left had carried the gas works, while a third had captured the Asylum of St. Perrine.

It was at the Trocadero that the insurgents were expected to make a stand in earnest. Here they had erected formidable works, and were reported to be hard at work mounting guns and mitrailleuses there. The troops, however, gave them no time to complete their preparations. A column entered a little before midnight by the gate of Passy, pushed on to the bridge of Jena, carried it after a sharp fight, and then charged at the double towards the heights of the Trocadero, where the Communists, taken completely by surprise, fled precipitously after a slight resistance, and at one o'clock in the morning the loyalists were in possession of this important position. At midnight another division entered at the Porte Maillot, and advancing took possession of the Arc de Triomphe.

At two o'clock the head of the French column came down the street. In an instant candles were placed at every window, flags were hung out, and the inhabitants poured into the street and welcomed their deliverers with shouts of joy. The troops piled their arms and fell out, and as soon as they did so, men and women brought out jugs of wine and provisions of all kinds. In half an hour the inhabitants were ordered to return to their houses, and the troops wrapping themselves in their blankets laid down in the roadway to get two or three hours, sleep before the heavy work expected in the morning. At five they were on their feet again. Already the din of battle had recommenced. At daybreak Bruat's division crossed the Seine by the Viaduct, kept along the left bank, drove the insurgents from the great iron foundry of Cail, and entered the Champs de Mars.

The Communists fought stubbornly here, but a corps was sent round to turn their position, and seeing their retreat threatened, they broke and fled, and the Ecole Militaire was taken possession of without further resistance. General Cissey's division entered by the gate of Mont Rouge, where the Communists, threatened in the rear by Bruat's advance, fell back at their approach. Moving along the Boulevard Mont Rouge they came upon very strong and formidable barricades, defended by six cannon and mitrailleuses, supported by musketry fire from the houses. The position was so strong that even with the assistance of the artillery Cissey was unable to advance farther in this direction.

Bruat's division met with strong opposition at the Cartridge Factory in the Avenue Rapp, and the Reds were only driven out at last by artillery being brought up, and shelling them out. After this Bruat pushed on, captured and occupied without resistance the Invalides, and the Palais Legislatif, opposite the Place de la Concorde.

On the right bank the troops advanced from the Arc de Triomphe at the double and carried the Palais de L'Industrie after a short resistance. By mid-day the whole of the Champs Elysées as far as the barrier of the Place de la Concorde were in possession of the troops.

Late in the afternoon the division of General Clinchamp marched down on the Rue Faubourg St. Honoré, came out upon the Boulevard and took possession of the Madeleine and the Grand Opera House. While these operations had been carried on the Communists, batteries on Montmartre had thrown shells over the whole area occupied by the troops, while Mont Valerien and the other batteries facing the western side maintained a heavy fire upon those of Montmartre.

Early in the morning all the members of the National Guard of Passy and Auteuil were summoned to arms and ordered to assist the troops, and were specially enjoined to maintain order in their rear as they advanced. Numbers of Communist prisoners were taken by the troops as they worked their way forward, and upwards of 8,000 were despatched under a strong escort to Versailles. The order for the National Guard to assemble was received with intense satisfaction, the younger and unmarried men had been forced into the ranks of the Communists, but many had during the last day or two slipped away and remained in hiding, and all were anxious to prove that it was loyalty and not cowardice that had caused them to desert.

Cuthbert was out all day watching, from points where he could obtain shelter from the flying bullets, the advance of the troops. When he returned he told Mary that everything was going on well so far, but he added, "The work is really only beginning; the barrier at the Place de la Concorde and the batteries on the terrace of the Tuileries are really formidable positions, and I hear that on the south side the advance has been entirely arrested by one of the barricades there. The Insurgents never intended to hold the outlying suburbs, and even the batteries on the Trocadero were built to aid the Forts and not for fighting inside the walls. You see every yard the troops gain now drives the Communists closer and closer together, and renders the defence more easy. It may be a week yet before the Commune is finally crushed. I should think that before the troops advance much further on this side they will storm Montmartre, whose batteries would otherwise take them in rear."

The next day three divisions marched against Montmartre, and attacked it simultaneously on three sides. The Communists here who had throughout the siege been the loudest and most vehement in their warlike demonstrations, now showed that at heart they were cowards. Although their batteries were armed with over a hundred guns, they offered but a momentary resistance and fled, panic-stricken, in every direction, some thousands being taken prisoners by the troops. On the other hand, throughout the rest of Paris, the fighting became more and more severe and desperate. The Northern Railway Station was defended successfully throughout the day. On the south side of the river but little progress was made by the troops, and they remained stationary also in the Champs Elysées, the barriers in front being too strong to be stormed without frightful loss. These, however, would be turned by the divisions who had captured Montmartre, and the troops descending by different routes to the Boulevard des Italiennes, worked their way along as far as the Porte St. Denis, and this threatened the flank of the defenders of the Place de la Concorde and the Tuileries.

The roar of fire was unbroken all day, the Forts, that had not yet fallen into the hands of the troops, bombarded all the quarters that had been captured, and were aided by powerful batteries at Belleville, at Vilette, and above all by those on the Buttes du Chaumont, where the Cemetery of Père la Chaise had been converted into an entrenched camp, the positions here being defended by 20,000 of the best troops of Paris. In the western quarters things had resumed their normal state; the shops were opened, children played in the streets, and women gossipped at the doors, there were men about too, for the order for the reassembling of the National Guard of this quarter had been cancelled, having met with the strongest opposition in the Assembly at Versailles.

The astronomer downstairs turned out a very useful acquaintance, for hearing from Cuthbert, that he was extremely anxious to obtain a pass that would permit him to move about near the scenes of fighting without the risk of being seized and shot as a Communist, he said that he was an intimate friend of Marshal McMahon and should be glad to obtain a pass for him. On going to the quarters where the Marshal had established himself, he brought back an order authorizing Cuthbert Hartington, a British subject, to circulate everywhere in quarters occupied by the troops.

"It is too late to go down this evening, Mary," he said, "but I expect that to-morrow a great attack upon the positions round the Tuileries will take place, and I shall try and get somewhere where I can see without being in the line of fire. I will take care to run no risk, dear; you see my life is more precious to me now than it was when I joined the Franc tireurs des Ecoles."

It was difficult to stop quietly indoors when so mighty a struggle was going on almost within sight, and at ten o'clock in the evening he and Mary went out to the Trocadero. The flashes of fire from the Loyal and Communist batteries were incessant. Away on the south side was a constant flicker of musketry as Cissey's troops struggled with the defender of the barricades. An incessant fire played along the end of the Champs Elysées, flashed from the windows of the Tuileries and fringed the parapet of the south side of the river facing the Palais. Fires were blazing in various parts of Paris, the result of the bombardment. The city looked strangely dark, for the men at the gas works were for the most part fighting in the ranks of the insurgents. The sky was lined with sparks of fire moving in arcs and marking the course of the shell as they traversed to and fro from battery to battery, or fell on the city.

"It is a wonderful sight, Mary."

"Wonderful, but very terrible," she replied; "it is all very well to look at from here, but only think what it must be for those within that circle of fire."

"I have no pity for the Communists," Cuthbert said, "not one spark. They would not pull a trigger or risk a scratch for the defence of Paris against the Germans, now they are fighting like wild-cats against their countrymen. Look there," he exclaimed, suddenly, "there is a fire broken out close to the Place de la Concorde, a shell must have fallen there. I fancy it must be within the barricades, but none of the batteries on either side would have been likely to send a shell there at night, as it is so close to the line of division that the missile would be as likely to strike friend as foe."

Higher and higher mounted the flames, spreading as they went till a huge mass of fire lighted up all that part of Paris.

"It must be a great public building of some sort," Cuthbert said.

"See, another building is on fire a short distance away from it; look, Cuthbert, look is that the reflection of the flames in the windows of the Tuileries or is it on fire?

"It is fire," Cuthbert exclaimed after a minute's pause; "see the flames have burst through that window on the first floor. Good heavens, the Communists are carrying out their threat to lay Paris in ashes before they yield."

In five minutes all doubt was at an end, the flames were pouring out from every window on the first floor of the Palais, and it was evident the fire must have been lighted in a dozen places simultaneously.

By this time the Trocadero was thronged with spectators attracted by the light in the sky, and by the report that one of the public buildings was on fire; exclamations of fury and grief, and execrations upon the Communists rose everywhere, when it was seen that the Tuileries were in flames. From points at considerable distances from each other fresh outbreaks of fire took place. Most of those standing round were able to locate them, and it was declared that the Palace of the Court of Accounts, the Ministries of War and Finance, the palaces of the Legion of Honor and of the Council of State, the Prefecture of Police the Palace de Justice, the Hôtel de Ville and the Palais Royale were all on fire. As the night went on the scene became more and more terrible. Paris was blazing in at least twenty places, and most of the conflagrations were upon an enormous scale. The scene was too fascinating and terrible to be abandoned, and it was not until the morning began to break that the spectators on the Trocadero returned to their homes.



Chapter XXV.


Armed with his pass Cuthbert started for the city at ten o'clock next morning. A dense pall of smoke hung over Paris. On the south side of the river the conflict was still raging, as it was also on the north and east, but the insurgents' shells were no longer bursting up the Champs Elysées and the firing had ceased at the Place de la Concorde. It was evident that the insurgents, after performing their work of destruction, had evacuated their position there. On reaching the bottom of the Champs Elysées he found that a breach had been made in the barricade and that a considerable number of troops were bivouacked in the Place de la Concorde itself.

The fire-engines from Versailles, St. Denis, and other places round were already at work, but their efforts seemed futile indeed in face of the tremendous bodies of fire with which they had to cope. Just as Cuthbert, after passing through the breach in the barricade, on the presentation of his pass to the sentries, arrived at the end of the Rue Rivoli, a mounted officer dashed up to the two engines at work opposite the building that had first been fired, and said -- 

"You can do no good here. Take your engines to the courtyard of the Tuileries and aid the troops in preventing the fire from spreading to the Louvre. That is the only place where there is any hope of doing good. Now, monsieur," he said to Cuthbert, "You must fall in and aid the Pompiers. The orders are that all able-bodied men are to help in extinguishing the fire."

Cuthbert was glad to be of use, and joining the firemen ran along with the engines down the Rue Rivoli and turned in with them into the courtyard of the palace. The western end, containing the State apartments, was a mass of fire from end to end, and the flames were creeping along both wings towards the Louvre. In the palace itself a battalion of infantry were at work. Some were throwing furniture, pictures and curtains through the window into the courtyard; others were hacking off doors and tearing up floors, while strong parties were engaged on the roofs in stripping off the slates and tearing down the beams and linings.

Other engines presently arrived, for telegrams had been sent off soon after the fires broke out to all the principal towns of France, and even to London, asking for engines and men to work them, and those from Amiens, Lille, and Rouen had already reached Paris by train.

After working for three hours Cuthbert showed his pass to the officer and was permitted to pass on, a large number of citizens being by this time available for the work, having been fetched from all the suburbs occupied by the troops. Before going very much farther Cuthbert was stopped by a line of sentries across the street.

"You cannot pass here," the officer in charge said, as Cuthbert produced his permit, "the island is still in the hands of the Communists, and the fire from their barricade across the bridge sweeps the street twenty yards farther on, and it would be certain death to show yourself there; besides, they are still in force beyond the Hôtel de Ville. You can, of course, work round by the left, but I should strongly advise you to go no farther. There is desperate fighting going on in the Place de la Bastille. The insurgent batteries are shelling the Boulevards hotly, and, worst of all, you are liable to be shot from the upper windows and cellars. There are scores of those scoundrels still in the houses; there has been no time to unearth them yet, and a good many men have been killed by their fire."

"Thank you, sir. I will take your advice," Cuthbert said.

He found, indeed, that there was no seeing anything that was going on in the way of fighting without running great risks, and he accordingly made his way back to the Trocadero. Here he could see that a number of fires had broken out at various points since morning, even in the part of the town occupied by the troops; and though some of these might be caused by the Communists' shell it was more probable that they were the work of the incendiary. He had, indeed, heard from some of the citizens to whom he had spoken while at work at the pumps, that orders had been issued that all gratings and windows giving light to cellars, should be closed by wet sacks being piled against them, and should then be covered thickly with earth, as several women had been caught in the act of pouring petroleum into the cellars and then dropping lighted matches down upon it.

These wretches had been shot instantly, but the fresh fires continually springing up showed that the work was still going on.

It was strangely silent in the streets. With the exception of the sentries at every corner there were few persons indeed abroad. Many were looking from the windows, but few, indeed, ventured out. They knew not what orders had been given to the sentries and feared arrest were they to stir beyond their doors. Moreover, the occasional crash of a shell from the insurgent batteries, the whistling of bullets, and the frequent discharge of musket shots still kept up by groups of desperate Communists who had taken refuge in the houses, was sufficient alone to deter them from making any attempt to learn what was going on. But in the absence of footfalls in the street and of the sound of vehicles, the distant noises were strangely audible. The rustle of the flames at the Hôtel de Ville and the great fires across the river, the crash of the falling roofs and walls, the incessant rattle of distant musketry, and the boom of cannon, formed a weird contrast to the silence that prevailed in the quarter. Cuthbert felt that he breathed more freely when he issued out again into the Champs Elysées.

The next day he did not go down. The advance continued, but progress was slow. On the following morning Paris was horrified by the news published in the papers at Versailles that statements of prisoners left no doubt that the Archbishop of Paris and many other priests, in all a hundred persons, had been massacred in cold blood, the methods of the first revolution being closely followed, and the prisoners made to walk out one by one from the gate of the prison, and being shot down as they issued out. Another statement of a scarcely less appalling nature was that the female fiends of the Commune not only continued their work of destruction by fire, but were poisoning the troops. Several instances of this occurred. In one case ten men were poisoned by one of these furies, who came out as they passed, and expressing joy at the defeat of the Commune, offered them wine. They drank it unsuspectingly, and within an hour were all dead. Orders, were consequently issued that no soldier should on any account accept drink or food of any kind offered them by women.

"This horrible massacre of the Archbishop and the other prisoners is next door to madness," Cuthbert said, as he read the account at breakfast. "The Communists could have no personal feeling of hostility against their victims, indeed, the Archbishop was, I know, most popular. Upon the other hand it seals the fate of thousands. The fury excited by such a deed will be so great that the troops will refuse to give quarter and the prisoners taken will have to suffer to the utmost for the crime committed by perhaps a handful of desperate wretches. The omnibuses began to run yesterday from Sèvres, and I propose, Mary, that we go over to Versailles to-day and get out of sound of the firing. They say there are fully 20,000 prisoners there."

"I don't want to see the prisoners," Mary said, with a shudder. "I should like to go to Versailles, but let us keep away from horrors."

And so for a day they left the sound of battle behind, wandered together through the Park at Versailles, and carefully abstained from all allusion to the public events of the past six months. The next day Cuthbert returned to Paris and made his way down to the Place de la Bastille, where, for the sum of half a Napoleon, he obtained permission to ascend to the upper window of a house. The scene here was terrible. On the side on which he was standing a great drapery establishment, known as the Bon Marché, embracing a dozen houses, was in flames. In the square itself three batteries of artillery belonging to Ladmirault's Division, were sending their shell up the various streets debouching on the place.

Most of the houses on the opposite side were in flames. The insurgent batteries on the Buttes de Chaumont were replying to the guns of the troops. The infantry were already pressing their way upwards. Some of the barricades were so desperately defended that the method by which alone the troops on the south side had been able to capture these defences, was adopted; the troops taking possession of the houses and breaking their way with crow-bar and pick-axe through the party wall, and so, step by step, making their way along under cover until they approached the barricades, which they were then able to make untenable by their musketry fire from the windows. Cuthbert remained here for an hour or two, and then making a detour came out on the Boulevards higher up.

The Theatre of Porte St. Martin was in flames, as were many other buildings. A large number of troops with piled arms occupied the centre of the street, taking their turn to rest before they relieved their comrades in the work of assault. Presently he saw down a side street a party of soldiers with some prisoners. He turned down to see what was going on. The officer in command of the party came up to him.

"Monsieur has doubtless a pass," he said, politely.

Cuthbert produced it.

"Ah, you are English, monsieur. It is well for you that your country does not breed such wretches as these. Every one of them has been caught in the course of the last hour in the act of setting houses alight. They are now to be shot."

"It is an unpleasant duty, monsieur," Cuthbert said.

"It would be horrible at any other time," the officer said. "But we cannot consider these creatures as human beings. They are wild beasts and I verily believe the women are worse than the men. There is only one I would spare, though she is the worst of all. At every barricade where the fighting has been fiercest for the last four days she has been conspicuous. The troops got to know her by her red cap and dress. She has been seen to shoot down men who attempted to retire, and she has led a charmed life or she would have been killed a thousand times. When she was taken she had on an old dress over her red one, and a hideous bonnet in place of the cap. She was caught just as she had dropped a lighted match into a cellar. The flames flashed up at once, and two soldiers near ran up and arrested her. She stabbed one, but the other broke her wrist with a blow from the butt of his musket.

"Then came a curious thing. A man who had been standing in a doorway on the opposite side of the street ran out and declared that he was a sharer in her crime. His air was that of a madman, and the men would have pushed him away, but he exclaimed, 'I am Arnold Dampierre, one of the leaders of the Commune. This is my wife.' Then the woman said, 'The man is mad. I have never seen him before. I know Arnold Dampierre everyone knows him. He does not resemble this man, whose proper place is a lunatic asylum.' So they contended, and both were brought before the drumhead Court Martial.

"The man had so wild an air that we should not have believed his story, but on his being searched his American passport was found upon him. Then the woman threw herself into his arms. 'We will die together then!' she said. 'I would have saved you if you would have let me.' Then she turned to us. 'Yes, I am guilty. I have fought against you on the barricades,' and she tore off her outer dress and bonnet. 'I have kindled twenty fires, but in this I am guilty alone. He stood by me on the barricades, but he would have nothing to do with firing houses. But I am a Parisian. I am the daughter of Martin Dufaure, who was killed an hour since, and my duty was to the Commune first, and to my husband afterwards. I hate and despise you slaves of tyrants. You have conquered us but we have taught a lesson to the men who fatten on our suffering.'

"Of course they were both ordered to be shot. I have given them all five minutes, but the time is up. Range them by the wall, men," he said, turning to the soldiers.

Cuthbert glanced for a moment and then turned away. The other women were mostly old, or at least middle-aged, and they stood scowling at the soldiers, and some of them pouring out the foulest imprecations upon them.

Minette stood in the centre of the line conspicuous by her red dress. One hand grasped that of Arnold, who was gazing upon her as if oblivious to all else. Her head was held erect and she looked at her executioners with an air of proud defiance.

Cuthbert hurried away, filled with an intense feeling of pity and regret. He heard Minette cry in a loud clear voice, "Vive la Commune!" Then there was a sharp volley and all was over, and a minute later the soldiers passed him on the way to join their comrades.

He stood for a time at the corner of the street irresolute. He had seen scores of dead in the streets. He had thought he could see nothing worse than he had witnessed, but he felt that he could not go back, as he had first thought of doing, to the scene of execution. Comrades had fallen by his side in the fight at Champigny, but he had not felt for them as for this comrade who lay behind him, or for the girl who, with her talents, might have had a bright future before her had she been thrown amid other surroundings. He wondered whether he could obtain their bodies for burial.

It did not seem to him possible. Vehicles could not be obtained at any price. The very request would seem suspicious, and suspicion at that hour was enough to condemn a man unheard. The difficulties in the way would be enormous. Indeed, it would matter nothing. Arnold and Minette. They had fallen together and would lie together in one of the great common graves in which the dead would be buried. It would be little short of a mockery to have the burial service read over her, and had Arnold been consulted he would have preferred to lie beside her to being laid in a grave apart.

So after a pause of five minutes Cuthbert moved away without venturing a single look back at the group huddled down by the wall, but walked away feeling crushed and overwhelmed by the untimely fate that had befallen two persons of whom he had seen so much during the past year, and feeling as feeble as he did when he first arose from his bed in the American ambulance.

Several times he had to pause and lean against the wall, and when he had passed the barricade at the Place de la Concorde, towards which he had almost instinctively made his way, he sat down on one of the deserted seats in the Champs Elysées, and burst into tears. It had hardly come upon him as a surprise, for he had felt that, conspicuous as he had made himself, the chances of Arnold making his escape were small indeed, especially as Minette would cling to the Commune until the very end. Still it never struck him as being possible that he himself might witness the end. He had thought that the same obscurity that hung over the fate of most of the other leaders of the Commune would envelop that of Arnold. He would have fallen, but how or when would never have been known. He would simply have disappeared. Rumor would have mentioned his name for a few days, the rumor that was already busy with the fate of other leaders of the insurrection, and he had never dreamt that it would be brought home to him in this fashion. After a time Cuthbert pulled himself together, waited until a fiacre came along for on this side of Paris things were gradually regaining their usual aspect and then drove back to Passy.

"What is the matter, Cuthbert?" Mary exclaimed as she caught sight of his face. "Are you ill? You look terribly pale and quite unlike yourself. What has happened?"

"I have had a shock, Mary," he said, with a faint attempt at a smile, "a very bad shock. Don't ask me about it just at present. Please get me some brandy. I have never fainted in my life, but I feel very near it just at present."

Mary hurried away to Madame Michaud, who now always discreetly withdrew as soon as Cuthbert was announced, and returned with some cognac, a tumbler, and water. She poured him out a glass that seemed to herself to be almost alarmingly strong, but he drank it at a draught.

"Don't be alarmed, Mary," he said, with a smile, at the consternation in her face. "You won't often see me do this, and I can assure you that spirit-drinking is not an habitual vice with me, but I really wanted it then. They are still fighting fiercely from Porte St. Martin down to the Place de la Bastille. I believe all resistance has been crushed out on the south side of the river, and in a couple of days the whole thing will be over."

"Fancy a week of fighting. It is awful to think of, Cuthbert. How many do you suppose will be killed altogether?"

"I have not the least idea, and I don't suppose it will ever be known; but if the resistance is as desperate for the next two days as it has been for the last three, I should say fully 20,000 will have fallen, besides those taken with arms in their hands, tried, and shot. I hear there are two general court-martials sitting permanently, and that seven or eight hundred prisoners are shot every day. Then there are some eighteen or twenty thousand at Versailles, but as these will not be tried until the fighting is over, and men's blood cooled down somewhat, no doubt much greater leniency will be shown."

"There is a terrible cloud of smoke over Paris, still."

"Yes, fresh fires are constantly breaking out. The Louvre is safe, and the firemen have checked the spread of the flames at the public buildings, but there are streets where every house is alight for a distance of a quarter of a mile; and yet, except at these spots, the damage is less than you would expect considering how fierce a battle has been raging. There are streets where scarce a bullet mark is to be seen on the walls or a broken pane of glass in a window, while at points where barricades have been defended, the scene of ruin is terrible."

Two days later a strange stillness succeeded the din and uproar that had for a week gone on without cessation night and day. Paris was conquered, the Commune was stamped out, its chiefs dead or fugitives, its rank and file slaughtered, or prisoners awaiting trial. France breathed again. It had been saved from a danger infinitely more terrible than a German occupation. In a short time the hotels were opened and visitors began to pour into Paris to gaze at the work of destruction wrought by the orgie of the Commune. One day Cuthbert, who was now installed in his own lodging, went up to Passy.

"I hear that the English Church is to be open to-morrow, Mary. I called on the clergyman to-day and told him that I should probably require his services next week."

"Cuthbert!" Mary exclaimed in surprise, "you cannot mean --  -- " and a flush of color completed the sentence.

"Yes, that is just what I do mean, Mary. You have kept me waiting three years and I am not going to wait a day longer."

"I have given up much of my belief in women's rights, Cuthbert, but there are some I still maintain, and one of these is that a woman has a right to be consulted in a matter of this kind."

"Quite so, dear, and therefore I have left the matter open, and I will leave you to fix the day and you can choose any one you like from Monday to Saturday next week."

"But I must have time, Cuthbert," she said, desperately. "I have, of course, things to get."

"The things that you have will do perfectly well, my dear. Besides, many of the shops are open and you can get anything you want. As for a dress for the occasion, if you choose to fix Saturday you will have twelve days, which is twice as long as necessary. Putting aside my objection to waiting any longer I want to get away from here to some quiet place where we can forget the events of the past month, and get our nerves into working order again. If there is any reason that you can declare that you honestly believe to be true and valid of course I must give way, but if not let it be Saturday week. That is right. I see that you have nothing to urge," and a fortnight later they were settled in a châlet high up above the Lake of Lucerne.

René and Pierre acted as Cuthbert's witnesses at the marriage. Pierre had escaped before the fighting began. René had done service with the National Guard until the news came that the troops had entered Paris, then he had gone to M. Goudé's who had hidden him and seven or eight of the other students in an attic. When the troops approached, they had taken refuge on the roof and had remained there until the tide of battle had swept past, and they then descended, and arraying themselves in their painting blouses had taken up their work at the studio; and when, three days later, the general search for Communists began, they were found working so diligently that none suspected that they had ever fired a shot in the ranks of the Communists.

When the salon was opened, long after its usual time, Cuthbert's pictures were well hung and obtained an amount of praise that more than satisfied him, although his wife insisted that they were not half as warm as the pictures deserved. It was not until they had been for some time in Switzerland that Mary had learned the details of the deaths of Arnold and Minette Dampierre. That both were dead she knew, for when she mentioned their names for the first time after the close of the fighting, Cuthbert told her that he had learned that both were dead, and begged her to ask no question concerning them until he himself returned to the subject.

Mary wrote to her mother a day or two after she was married giving her the news. An answer was received from Scarborough expressing great satisfaction, and saying that it was probable that the family would settle where they were. Neither Cuthbert nor his wife liked the thought of returning to England, and for the next five years remained abroad. After spending a few months at Dresden, Munich, Rome, and Florence, they settled at Venice. Cuthbert continued to work hard, and each year two or three of his pictures hung on the walls of the Academy and attracted much attention, and were sold at excellent prices. All his earnings in this way and the entire income of Fairclose were put aside to pay off the mortgage, and when, at the end of the five years, Cuthbert, his wife, and two children returned to Fairclose, the greater portion of the mortgage had been paid off, and three years later it was entirely wiped out.

Although very warmly received by the county, Cuthbert retained his preference for London, and during the winter six months always moved up to a house in the artists' quarter at St. John's Wood. Although he no longer painted as if compelled to do so for a living, he worked regularly and steadily while in town, and being able to take his time in carrying out his conceptions, his pictures increased in value and he took a place in the front rank of artists, and some fifteen years after the siege of Paris was elected Academician. Before this he had sold Fairclose and built himself a house in Holland Park, where he was able to indulge his love for art to the fullest extent.

Of his wife's family he saw but little. Mary's sisters both married before he and his wife returned from abroad. Mary went down occasionally to Scarborough, and stayed with her father and mother, but Mr. Brander steadily refused all invitations to visit them in London, and until his death, fifteen years later, never left Scarborough, where he became a very popular man, although no persuasions could induce him to take a part in any of its institutions or public affairs.

Cuthbert has often declared that the most fortunate event in his life was that he was a besieged resident in Paris through its two sieges. As for Mary she has been heard to declare that she has no patience, whatever, with the persons who frequent platforms and talk about women's rights.

Not far from the spot in la Chaise where the pits in which countless numbers of Communists were buried are situated, stands a small marble cross, on whose pedestal are inscribed the words: -- "To the memory of Arnold Dampierre and his wife, Minette, whose bodies rest near this place."

<eob>

Jane Allen: Right Guard

By

Edith Bancroft



Chapter I

Day Dreams


"Come out of your day dream, Janie, and guess what I have for you."

Hands behind him, Henry Allen stood looking amusedly down at his daughter.

Stretched full length in a gaily striped hammock swung between two great trees, her gray eyes dreamily turned toward the distant mountain peaks, Jane Allen had not heard her father's noiseless approach over the closely clipped green lawn.

At sound of his voice, she bobbed up from the hammock with an alacrity that left it swaying wildly.

"Of course I was dreaming, Dad," she declared gaily, making an ineffectual grab at the hands he held behind him.

"No fair using force," he warned, dexterously eluding her. "This is a guessing contest. Now which hand will you choose?"

"Both hands, you mean thing!" laughed Jane. "I know what you have in one of them. It's a letter. Maybe two. Now stand and deliver."

"Here you are."

Obligingly obeying the imperative command, Mr. Allen handed Jane two letters.

"Oh, joy! Here you are!"

Jane enveloped her father in a bear-like hug, planting a resounding kiss on his sun-burnt cheek.

"Having played postman, I suppose my next duty is to take myself off and leave my girl to her letters," was his affectionately smiling comment.

"Not a bit of it, Dad. I'm dying to read these letters. They're from Judith Stearns and Adrienne Dupree. But even they must wait a little. I want to talk to you, my ownest Dad. Come and sit beside me on that bench."

Slipping her arm within her father's, Jane gently towed him to a quaint rustic seat under a magnificent, wide-spreading oak.

"Be seated," she playfully ordered.

Next instant she was beside him on the bench, her russet head against his broad shoulder.

"Well, girl of mine, what is it? You're not going to tell me, I hope, that you don't want to go back to college."

Henry Allen humorously referred to another sunlit morning over a year ago when Jane had corralled him for a private talk that had been in the nature of a burst of passionate protest against going to college.

"It's just a year ago yesterday, Dad," Jane returned soberly. "What a horrid person I was to make a fuss and spoil my birthday. But I was only sixteen, then. I'm seventeen years and one day old now. I'm ever so much wiser. It's funny but that is really what I wanted to talk to you about. Going back to Wellington, I mean. I want to go this time. Truly, I do."

"I know it, Janie. I was only teasing you."

Henry Allen smiled down very tenderly at his pretty daughter.

"Of course you were," nodded Jane. "I knew, though, that you were thinking about last year, when I behaved like a savage. I was thinking of it, too, as I lay in the hammock looking off toward the mountains. Dear old Capitan never seemed so wonderful as it does to-day. Yet somehow, it doesn't hurt me to think of leaving it for a while.

"Last year I felt as though I was being torn up by the roots. This year I feel all comfy and contented and only a little bit sad. The sad part is leaving you and Aunt Mary. Still I'm glad to go back to Wellington. It's as though I had two homes. I wanted to tell you about it, Dad. To let you know that this year I'm going to try harder than ever to be a good pioneer."

Raising her head, Jane suddenly sat very straight on the bench, her gray eyes alive with resolution.

"You don't need to tell me that, Janie." Her father took one of Jane's slender white hands between his own strong brown ones. "You showed yourself a real pioneer freshman. They say the freshman year's always the hardest. I know mine was at Atherton. I was a poor boy, you know, and had to fight my way. Things were rather different then, though. There is more comradeship and less snobbishness in college than there used to be. That is, in colleges for boys. You're better posted than your old Dad about what they do and are in girls' colleges," he finished humorously.

"Oh, there are a few snobs at Wellington."

An unbidden frown rose to Jane's smooth forehead. Reference to snobbery brought up a vision of Marian Seaton's arrogant, self-satisfied features.

"Most of the girls are splendid, though," she added, brightening. "You know how much I care for Judy, my roommate, and, oh, lots of others at Wellington. There's Dorothy Martin, in particular. She stands for all that is finest and best. You remember I've told you that she looks like Dearest."

Jane's voice dropped on the last word. Silence fell upon the two as each thought of the beloved dead.

"Dad, you don't know how much it helped me last year in college to have Dearest's picture with me," Jane finally said. "It was almost as if she were right there with me, her own self, and understood everything. I've never told you before, but there were a good many times when things went all wrong for me. There were some days when it seemed to me that I didn't want to try to be a pioneer. I wanted to pull up stakes and run away. I sha'n't feel that way this year. It will be so different. I'll walk into Madison Hall and be at home there from the start. I'll have friends there to welcome --  -- "

Jane's confidences were suddenly interrupted by the appearance of Pedro, the groom, leading Donabar, Mr. Allen's horse, along the drive.

"I've got to leave you, girl." Mr. Allen rose. "I've an appointment with Gleason, to look at some cattle he wants to sell me. I'll see you at dinner to-night. Probably not before then."

With a hasty kiss, dropped on the top of Jane's curly head, her father strode across the lawn to his horse. Swinging into the saddle, he was off down the drive, turning only to wave farewell to the white-clad girl on the beach. Left alone, Jane turned her attention to her letters.

Those who have read "JANE ALLEN OF THE SUB-TEAM" will remember how bitterly Jane Allen resented leaving her beautiful Western home to go East to Wellington College. Brought up on a ranch, Jane had known few girls of her own age. To be thus sent away from all she loved best and forced to endure the restrictions of a girls' college was a cross which proud Jane carried during the early part of her freshman year at Wellington.

Gradually growing to like the girls she had formerly despised, Jane found friends, tried and true. Being a person of strong character she also made enemies, among them arrogant, snobbish Marian Seaton, a freshman of narrow soul and small honor.

Due to her interest in basket-ball, Jane soon found herself fighting hard to win a position on the freshman team. She also found herself engaged in a desperate struggle to rule her own rebellious spirit. How she won the right to play in the deciding game of the year, because of her high resolve to be true to herself, has already been recorded in her doings as a freshman at Wellington College.

"You first, Judy," murmured Jane, as she tore open the envelope containing Judith's letter and eagerly drew it forth.

She smiled as she unfolded the one closely written sheet of thin, gray paper. Judith never wrote at length. The smile deepened as she read:

"Dear Old Jane:

"It's about time I answered your last letter. I hope to goodness this reaches you before you start East. Then you'll know I love you even if I am not a lightning correspondent. I just came home from the beach yesterday. I had a wonderful summer, but I'm tanned a beautiful brown. I am preparing you beforehand so that you will not mistake me for a noble red man, red woman, I mean, when you see me.

"I'm dying to see my faithful roommate and talk my head off. I shall bring a whole bunch of eats along with me to Wellington and we'll have a grand celebration. Any small contributions which you may feel it your duty to drag along will be thankfully received. I'm going to start for college a week from next Tuesday. I suppose I'll be there ahead of you, so I'll have everything fixed up comfy when you poke your distinguished head in the door of our room.

"I've loads of things to tell you, but I can't write them. You know how I love (not) to write letters, themes, etc. You'll just have to wait until we get together. If this letter shouldn't reach you before you leave El Capitan, you will probably get it some day after it has traveled around the country for a while. Won't that be nice?

"With much love, hoping to see you soony soon,

"Your affectionate roommate,

"Judy."

Jane laughed outright as she re-read the letter. It was so exactly like good-humored Judy Stearns. She did not doubt that she was destined presently to hear at least one funny tale from Judith's lips concerning the latter's pet failing, absent-mindedness.

Picking up Adrienne's letter from the bench, Jane found equal amusement in the little French girl's quaint phraseology.

"WICKED ONE:" it began. "Why have you not answered the fond letter of your small Imp? But perhaps you have answered, and I have not received. Ma mère and I have had the great annoyance since we came to this most stupid studio, because much of our mail has gone astray.

"We have finished the posing for the picture 'The Spirit of the Dawn.' It was most beautiful. Ma mère was, of course, the Dawn Spirit, allowed for one day to become the mortal. She had many dances to perform, and was superb in all. I, too, had the dance to do in several scenes. When we meet in college I will tell you all.

"We shall not pose again in these motion pictures for the directors are, of a truth, most queer. They talk much, but have the small idea of art. It became necessary to quarrel with them frequently, otherwise the picture would have contained many ridiculous things. It is now past, and, of a certainty, I am glad. I am longing to make the return to Wellington. It will be the grand happiness to see again all my dear friends, you in particular, beloved Jeanne.

"La petite Norma will soon finish the engagement with the stock company. We have the hope to meet her in New York, so that she and your small Imp may make the return together to Wellington. Take the good care of yourself, dear Jeanne. With the regards of ma mère and my most ardent affection,

"Ever thy IMP."

Jane gave the letter an affectionate little pat. It was almost as though she had heard lively little Adrienne's voice. How good it was, she reflected happily, to know that this time she would go East, not as a lonely outlander, but as one whose place awaited her. There would be smiling faces and welcoming hands to greet her when she climbed the steps of Madison Hall. Yes, Wellington was truly her Alma Mater and Madison Hall her second home.



Chapter II

A Council Of War


"What does it all mean? That's the one thing I'd like to know."

Judith Stearns plumped herself down on Ethel Lacey's couch bed with an energy that bespoke her feelings.

"It is as yet beyond the understanding," gloomily conceded Adrienne Dupree.

"You'd better go downstairs and see Mrs. Weatherbee at once, Judy," advised Ethel.

It was a most amazed and indignant trio which had gathered for a council of war in the room belonging to Ethel and Adrienne.

"I'm going to," nodded Judith with some asperity. "I have Jane's telegram here with me. I just stopped for a minute to tell you girls. Why, Jane will be in on that four o'clock train! A nice tale we'll have to tell her!"

"Oh, there's surely been a misunderstanding," repeated Ethel Lacey.

Judith shrugged her shoulders.

"It looks queer to me," she said. "You know Mrs. Weatherbee never liked Jane. It would be just like her --  -- "

Judith paused. A significant stare conveyed untold meaning.

"She couldn't do anything so unfair and get away with it," reasoned Ethel. "Jane could take up the matter with Miss Howard and make a big fuss about it."

"She could, but would she?" demanded Judith savagely. "You know how proud Jane is. She'd die before she'd give Mrs. Weatherbee the satisfaction of seeing she was hurt over it. She --  -- "

"Oh, what's the use in speculating?" interrupted Ethel. "Go and find out, Judy. We're probably making much ado about nothing."

"It is I who will go with you," announced Adrienne decidedly. "I am also the dear friend of Jane."

"Let's all go," proposed Judith. "There's strength in numbers. If Mrs. Weatherbee hasn't been fair to Jane it will bother her a whole lot to have three of us take it up."

Adrienne and Ethel concurring in this opinion, the three girls promptly marched themselves downstairs to the matron's office to inquire into the matter which had aroused them to take action in Jane Allen's behalf.

Ten minutes later they retired from an interview with Mrs. Weatherbee, more amazed than when they had entered the matron's office. They were also proportionately incensed at the reception with which they had met.

"I think she's too hateful for words!" sputtered Judith, the moment the committee of inquiry had again shut themselves in Ethel's room.

"She might have explained," was Ethel's indignant cry. "I don't believe that Jane's not coming back to Madison Hall."

"Jane is coming back to Madison Hall," asserted Judith positively. "She said so in her last letter to me. That is, she spoke of our room and all. If she hadn't intended coming back, she'd have said something about it."

"Of a truth she intended to return to this Hall," coincided Adrienne. "This most hateful Mrs. Weatherbee has perhaps decided thus for herself. Would it not be the humiliating thing for our pauvre Jeanne to return and be refused the admittance?"

"That won't happen," decreed Judith grimly.

"We're going to the train to meet her, you know. We'll have to tell her the minute she sets foot on the station platform."

"But suppose we find that it's true?" propounded Ethel. "That she doesn't intend to live at the Hall this year? Something might have happened after she wrote you girls to make her change her mind."

"There's only one thing that I know of and I'd hate to think it was that," returned Judith soberly. "You know what I mean, that Jane mightn't care to room with me."

"That is the nonsense," disagreed Adrienne sturdily. "We, who know Jane, know that it could never be thus. But wait, only wait. We shall, no doubt, prove this Mrs. Weatherbee to be the g-r-rand villain."

Adrienne's roll of r's, coupled with her surmise as to the disagreeable matron's villainy, provoked instant mirth.

Downhearted as she was, Judith could not refrain from giggling a little as her quick imagination visualized in stately, white-haired Mrs. Weatherbee the approved stage villain.

"We'll just have to wait and see," declared placid Ethel. "It's after two now. Let's take a bus into Chesterford and see the sights until train time. We'll be on pins and needles every minute if we sit around here."

"I'm going without a hat. I just can't bear to go back to my room for one. I guess you know why," shrugged Judith.

"It is the great shame," sympathized Adrienne. "I am indeed sad that our Dorothy has not returned. She could perhaps learn from Mrs. Weatherbee what we cannot."

"I wish Dorothy were here," sighed Judith. "A lot of the girls haven't come back yet. I thought I'd be late, but I'm here early after all. Too bad Norma couldn't come on from New York with you."

"It was most sad." Adrienne rolled her big black eyes. "She has yet one more week with the stock company. La petite has done well. She has received many excellent notices. Next summer she will no doubt be the leading woman. She has the heaven-sent talent, even as ma mère."

"Alicia Reynolds is back," announced Judith. "I met her coming in with her luggage about an hour ago. She was awfully cordial to me. That means she's still of the same mind as when she left Wellington last June. She's really a very nice girl. I only hope she stays away from Marian Seaton."

"Neither Marian nor Maizie Gilbert have come back yet. I wish they'd stay away," came vengefully from Ethel. "With Alicia and Edith Hammond both on their good behavior Madison Hall would get along swimmingly without those two disturbers."

"They'll probably keep to themselves this year," commented Judith grimly. "It's pretty well known here how badly they treated Jane last year and how splendidly she carried herself through it all."

"Oh, the old girls at the Hall won't bother with them, but some of the new girls may," Ethel remarked. "We're to have several new ones."

"There'll be one less new girl if I have anything to say about it," vowed Judith. "If there's been any unfairness done, little Judy will take a prompt hike over to see Miss Rutledge."

"Jane wouldn't like that," demurred Ethel.

"Can't help it. I'd just have to do it," Judith made obstinate reply. "As Jane's roommate I think I've a case of my own. If Jane has chosen to room somewhere else -- then, all right. But if she hasn't -- if she's been treated shabbily, -- as I believe she has been -- then I'll go wherever she goes, even if I have to live in a house away off the campus."



Chapter III

Bad News


"Oh, girls, it's good to be back!"

Surrounded by a welcoming trio of white-gowned girls, Jane Allen clung affectionately to them.

All along the station platform, bevies of merry-faced, daintily dressed young women were engaged in the joyful occupation of greeting classmates who had arrived on the four o'clock train. Here and there, committees of upper class girls were extending friendly hands to timid freshmen just set down in the outskirts of the land of college.

Stepping down from the train Jane had been instantly seized by her energetic chums and smothered in a triangular embrace. A mist had risen to her gray eyes at the warmth of the welcome. She was, indeed, no longer the lonely outlander. It was all so different from last year and so delightful.

"It's good to have you back, perfectly dear old Jane!" emphasized Judith, giving Jane an extra hug to measure her joy at sight of the girl she adored.

"What happiness!" gurgled Adrienne. "We had the g-r-r-r-eat anxiety for fear that you would perhaps not come on this train."

"Oh, I telegraphed Judy from St. Louis on a venture," laughed Jane. "I knew she'd be here ahead of me."

"Then you did receive my letter," Judith said with satisfaction. "I was afraid you mightn't."

"I didn't answer it because I was coming East so soon," apologized Jane. "I took your advice, though, about the eats. There was a stop over at St. Louis, so I went out and bought a suitcase full of boxed stuff. Maybe it isn't heavy! We'll have a great spread in our room to-night. Who's back, Judy? Have you seen Christine Ellis or Barbara Temple yet? Is Mary Ashton here? I know Dorothy isn't or she'd be here with you."

As Jane rattled off these lively remarks, her three friends exchanged significant eye messages.

"Then -- why -- you --  -- " stammered Judith, a swift flush rising to her cheeks.

"What's the matter, Judy?"

Jane regarded her roommate in puzzled fashion. She wondered at Judith's evident confusion.

"Nothing much. I mean something rather queer." Judith contradicted herself. "Let's take a taxi, girls, and stop at Rutherford Inn for tea. We can talk there."

"But why not go straight to Madison Hall?" queried Jane, in growing perplexity. "I'm anxious to get rid of some of the smoke and dust I've collected on my face and hands. We can have tea and talk in our own room and be all by ourselves."

"I wish we could, Jane, but we must have a talk with you before you go to the Hall," returned Judith, her merry features now grown grave.

"What is it, Judy?"

All the brightness had faded from Jane's face. Her famous scowl now darkened her brow. She cast a quick glance from Adrienne to Ethel. Both girls looked unduly solemn.

"Girls, you're keeping something from me; something unpleasant, of course," Jane accused. "I must know what it is. Please tell me. Don't be afraid of hurting my feelings."

"We're going to tell you, Jane," Judith said reassuringly. "Only we didn't want to say a word until -- until we found out something. But this isn't the place to talk. Let's hail the taxi, anyway. Then he can stop at the Inn or not, just as you please. We'll tell you on the way there."

"All right."

Almost mechanically Jane reached down to pick up the suitcase she had placed on the station platform in the first moment of reunion. All the pleasure of coming back to Wellington had been replaced by a sense of deep depression. In spite of the presence of her chums she felt now as she had formerly felt when just a year before she had stood on that same platform, hating with all her sore heart its group of laughing, chatting girls.

"Do not look so cross, cherie." Adrienne had slipped a soft hand into Jane's arm. "All will yet be well. Come, I, your Imp, will lead you to the taxicab."

"And I'll help do the leading," declared Judith gaily, taking hold of Jane's free arm. "Ethel, you can walk behind and carry Jane's traveling bag. That will be some little honor."

Knowing precisely how Jane felt, Judith affected a cheeriness she was far from feeling. She heartily wished that she had not been obliged to say a word to rob her roommate of the first joy of meeting.

While traversing the few yards that lay between the station and the point behind it where several taxicabs waited, both she and Adrienne chattered lively commonplaces. Jane, however, had little to say. She was experiencing the dazed sensation of one who has received an unexpected slap in the face.

What had happened? Why had Judy insisted that they must have a talk before going on to the Hall? Surely some very unpleasant news lay in wait for her ears. But what? Jane had not the remotest idea.

"Now, Judy," she began with brusque directness the instant the quartette were seated in the taxicab, "don't keep me in the dark any longer. You must know how -- what a queer feeling all this has given me."

Seated in the tonneau of the automobile, between Adrienne and Judith, Jane turned hurt eyes on the latter.

"Jane," began Judith impressively, "before you went home last year did you arrange with Mrs. Weatherbee about your room for this year?"

"Why, yes."

A flash of amazement crossed Jane's face.

"Of course I did," she went on. "Mrs. Weatherbee understood that I was coming back to Madison Hall."

"Humph!" ejaculated Judith. "Well, there's just this much about it, Jane. About nine o'clock this morning a little, black-eyed scrap of a freshman marched into my room and said Mrs. Weatherbee had assigned her to the other half of my room. I told her she had made a mistake and come to the wrong room. She said 'no,' that Mrs. Weatherbee had sent the maid to the door with her to show her the way."

"Why, Judy, I don't see how --  -- " began Jane, then suddenly broke off with, "Go on and tell me the rest."

"I didn't like this girl for a cent. Her name is Noble, but it doesn't fit her. She has one of those prying, detestable faces, thin, with a sharp chin, and she hates to look one straight in the face," continued Judith disgustedly. "I went over to see Adrienne and Ethel and told them. Then we all went downstairs to interview Mrs. Weatherbee. She said you weren't coming back to Madison Hall this year."

"Not coming back to Madison Hall!" exclaimed Jane, her scowl now in fierce evidence. "Did she say it in just those words?"

"She certainly did," responded Judith. "I told her that I was sure that you were and she simply froze up and gave me one of those Arctic-circle stares. All she said was, 'I am surprised at you, Miss Stearns. I am not in the habit of making incorrect statements.' Adrienne started to ask her when you had given up your room and she cut her off with: 'Young ladies, the subject is closed.' So that's all we know about it, and I guess you don't know any more of it than we do."

"So that was why you didn't want me to go on to the Hall until I knew," Jane said slowly. "Well, I know now, and I'm going straight there. Mrs. Weatherbee has never liked me. Still it's a rather high-handed proceeding on her part, I think."

"If she did it of her own accord, I don't see how she dared. I'm not going to stand for it. That's all," burst out Judith hotly. "Miss Howard won't either. As registrar she'll have something to say, I guess. If she doesn't, then on to Miss Rutledge. That's going to be my motto. I won't have that girl in your place, Jane. I won't."

"I won't let her stay there if I can help it," was Jane's decided answer. "I'd rather the affair would be between Mrs. Weatherbee and me, though. If she has done this from prejudice, I'll fight for my rights. It won't be the first time she and I have had words. It seems hard to believe that a woman of her age and position could be so contemptible."

"That's what I thought," agreed Judith. "Well, we'll soon know. Here we are at the edge of the campus. Doesn't old Wellington look fine, though, Jane?"

Jane merely nodded. She could not trust herself to speak. The gently rolling green of the wide campus had suddenly burst upon her view. Back among the trees, Wellington Hall lifted its massive gray pile, lording it in splendid grandeur over the buildings of lesser magnitude that dotted the living green.

She had longed for a sight of it all. It was as though she had suddenly come upon a dear friend. For a moment the perplexities of the situation confronting her faded away as her gray eyes wandered from one familiar point on the campus to another.

"It's wonderful, Judy," she said softly, her tones quite steady. "Even with this horrid tangle staring me in the face I can't help being glad to see Wellington again. Somehow, I can't help feeling that there's been a mistake made. I don't want to pass through the gates of Wellington with my heart full of distrust of anyone."

"You're a dear, Jane!" was Judith's impulsive tribute. "Adrienne says Mrs. Weatherbee may turn out to be 'the grand villain.' Let's hope she won't. Anyway, if things can't be adjusted, wherever you go to live I'll go, too. I won't stay at the Hall without you."

"Thank you, Judy." Jane found Judith's hand and squeezed it hard. She had inwardly determined, however, that her roommate should not make any such sacrifice. It would be hard to find a room anywhere on the campus to take the place of the one the two had occupied at Madison Hall during their freshman year.

"I'm glad there's no one on the veranda," presently commented Jane.

Having dismissed the taxicab, the three girls were now ascending the steps of the Hall.

"Better wait here for me, girls, I'd rather have it out with Mrs. Weatherbee alone," she counseled. "I hope I sha'n't lose my temper," she added ruefully.

Mentally bracing herself for the interview, Jane crossed the threshold of the Hall and walked serenely past the living-room to the matron's office just behind it. She was keeping a tight grip on herself and intended to keep it, if possible. She knew from past experience how greatly Mrs. Weatherbee's calm superiority of manner had been wont to irritate her.

Jane loathed the idea of having a dispute with the matron the moment she entered Madison Hall. She had begun the first day of her freshman year in such fashion. Afterward it had seemed to her that most of the others had been stormy, as a consequence of a wrong start.

She reflected as she walked slowly down the hall that this new trouble, was, at least, not of her making. She had the comforting knowledge that this time she was not at fault.



Chapter IV

The Reason Why


Primed for the momentous interview, Jane was doomed to disappointment. The matron's office was empty of its usual occupant.

"Oh, bother!" was her impatient exclamation. "I'll either have to wait for her or go and find her. I'll go back to the veranda and tell the girls," she decided. "Then I'll come here again. Mrs. Weatherbee may not be in the Hall for all I know."

"Back so soon. What did she say?"

Judith sprang eagerly from the wicker chair in which she had been lounging.

"She is not there," returned Jane with a shadow of a frown. "I'm sorry. I wanted to see her and get it over with. Where's Ethel?"

"Oh, she forgot that she had an appointment with Miss Howard. She rushed off in a hurry."

"Mrs. Weatherbee has perhaps gone to make the call," suggested Adrienne. "Why do you not ring the bell and thus summon the maid?"

"A good idea."

Standing near the door, Jane's fingers found the electric bell and pressed it.

"Where is Mrs. Weatherbee?" she inquired of the maid who presently came to answer the door. "Isn't Millie here any more?" she added, noting that a stranger occupied the place of the good-natured girl who had been at the Hall during Jane's freshman year.

"No, miss. She's gone and got married. Did you want Mrs. Weatherbee? She's upstairs. I'll go and find her for you."

"Thank you. If you will be so kind. Please tell her Miss Allen wishes to see her."

Disturbed in mind, though she was, Jane replied with a graciousness she never forgot to employ in speaking to those in more humble circumstances than herself. It was a part of the creed her democratic father had taught her and she tried to live up to it.

"Wish me luck, girls, I'm going to my fate. Wait for me," she said lightly and vanished into the house.

"She's taking it like a brick," Judith admiringly commented.

"Ah, yes. Jane is what mon père would call 'the good sport,'" agreed Adrienne. "She is the strange girl; sometimes fierce like the lion over the small troubles. When come the great misfortunes she has calm courage."

Re-entering Mrs. Weatherbee's office, Jane seated herself resignedly to wait for the appearance of the matron. When fifteen minutes had passed and she was still waiting, the stock of "calm courage" attributed to her by Adrienne, began to dwindle into nettled impatience.

She now wished that she had not given her name to the maid. It looked as if Mrs. Weatherbee were purposely keeping her waiting. This thought stirred afresh in Jane the old antagonism that the matron had always aroused.

After half an hour had dragged by Jane heard footsteps descending the stairs to the accompaniment of the faint rustle of silken skirts. She sat suddenly very straight in her chair, her mood anything but lamb-like.

"Good afternoon, Miss Allen," greeted a cool voice.

Mrs. Weatherbee rustled into the little office, injured dignity written on every feature of her austere face.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Weatherbee."

Courtesy to an older woman prompted Jane to rise. Her tone, however, was one of strained politeness. There was no move made toward handshaking by either.

"I was greatly surprised to learn that you wished to see me, Miss Allen," was the matron's first remark after seating herself in the chair before her writing desk.

Mrs. Weatherbee's intonations were decidedly accusing. Jane colored at the emphasis placed on the "you."

"Why should you be surprised?" she flashed back, an angry glint in her gray eyes. Already her good resolutions were poised for flight.

"I am even more surprised at the boldness of your question. I consider it as being in extremely bad taste."

"And I am surprised at the way I have been treated!" Jane cried out passionately, her last remnant of patience exhausted. "I understand that you have seen fit to ignore the arrangement I made with you last June about my room. Miss Stearns has informed me that you have given it to an entering freshman. It's the most unfair proceeding I've ever known, and I shall not submit to such injustice."

This was not in the least what Jane had purposed to say. She had intended to broach the subject on the diplomatic basis of a mistake having been made. She realized that she had thrown down the gauntlet with a vengeance, but she was now too angry to care.

"Miss Allen!" The older woman's expression was one of intense severity. "Such insolence on your part is not only unbecoming but entirely uncalled for. You appear to have forgotten that you gave up your room of your own accord. I reserved it for you until I received your letter of last week."

"Of my own accord!" gasped Jane, unable to believe she had heard aright. "My letter of last week! I don't understand."

"I am at a loss to understand you," acidly retorted the matron. "I know of only one possible explanation for your call upon me this afternoon. I should prefer not to make it. It would hardly reflect to your credit."

"I must ask you to explain," insisted Jane haughtily. "We have evidently been talking at cross purposes. You say that I gave up my room of my own accord. You mention a letter I wrote you. I have not given up my room. I have never written you a letter. You owe me an explanation. No matter how unpleasant it may be, I am not afraid to listen to it."

"Very well," was the icy response. "Since you insist I will say plainly that it appears, even after writing me a most discourteous letter, you must have decided, for reasons of your own, to ignore this fact and return to Madison Hall. Not reckoning that your room would naturally be assigned to another girl so soon, you were bold enough to come here and attempt to carry your point with a high hand. I am quite sure you now understand me."

"I do not," came the vehement denial. "I repeat that I never wrote you a letter. If you received one signed by me, it was certainly not I who wrote it. I am not surprised at your unfair opinion of me. You have never liked me. Naturally you could not understand me. I will ask you to let me see the letter."

Mrs. Weatherbee's reply was not made in words. Reaching into a pigeon-hole of her desk she took from it a folded letter minus its envelope and handed it to Jane.

Her head in a whirl, Jane unfolded it and read:

"MRS. ELLEN WEATHERBEE, "Madison Hall, "Wellington Campus.

"Dear Madam:

"Although I regret leaving Madison Hall, it would be highly disagreeable to me to spend my sophomore year in it with you as matron. Your treatment of me last year was such that I should not like to court a second repetition of it. Therefore I am writing to inform you that I shall not return to the Hall.

"Yours truly,

"Jane Allen."



Chapter V

The Unknown Mischief Maker


"This is too dreadful!"

Springing to her feet, Jane dashed the offending letter to the floor, her cheeks scarlet with outraged innocence.

"That was precisely my opinion when I read it," Mrs. Weatherbee sarcastically agreed.

"But I never wrote it," stormed Jane. "That's not my signature. Besides the letter is typed. I would never have sent you a typed letter. Have you the envelope? What postmark was stamped upon it?"

"It was postmarked 'New York.' No, I did not keep the envelope."

"New York? Why, I came straight from Montana!" cried Jane. "I haven't been in New York since last Christmas."

"I could not possibly know that. A letter could be forwarded even from Montana to New York for mailing," reminded the matron with satirical significance.

"Then you still believe that I wrote this?"

Jane's voice was freighted with hurt pride. Something in the girl's scornful, fearless, gray eyes, looking her through and through, brought a faint flush to the matron's set face. The possibility that Jane's protest was honest had reluctantly forced itself upon her. She was not specially anxious to admit Jane's innocence, though she was now half convinced of it.

"I hardly know what to believe," she said curtly. "Your denial of the authorship of this letter seems sincere. I should naturally prefer to believe that you did not write it."

"I give you my word of honor as a Wellington girl that I did not," Jane answered impressively. "I cannot blame you for resenting it. It is most discourteous. I should be sorry to believe myself capable of such rudeness."

"I will accept your statement," Mrs. Weatherbee stiffly conceded. "However, the fact remains that someone wrote and mailed this letter to me. There is but one inference to be drawn from it."

She paused and stared hard at Jane.

Without replying, Jane again perused the fateful letter. As she finished a second reading of it, a bitter smile dawned upon her mobile lips.

"Yes," she said heavily. "There is just one inference to be drawn from it -- spite work. I had no idea that it would be carried to this length, though."

"Then you suspect a particular person as having written it?" sharply inquired the matron.

"I do," came the steady response. "I know of but one, perhaps two persons, who might have done so. I am fairly sure that it lies between the two."

"It naturally follows then that the person or persons you suspect are students at Wellington," commented the matron. "This is a matter that would scarcely concern outsiders. More, we may go further and narrow the circle down to Madison Hall."

Jane received this pointed surmise in absolute silence.

"There is this much about it, Miss Allen," the older woman continued after a brief pause, "I will not have under my charge a girl who would stoop to such a contemptible act against a sister student. I must ask you to tell me frankly if your suspicions point to anyone under this roof."

"I can't answer that question, Mrs. Weatherbee. I mean I don't wish to answer it. Even if I knew positively who had done this, I'd be silent about it. It's my way of looking at it and I can't change. I'd rather drop the whole matter. It's hard, of course, to give up my room here and go somewhere else. I love Madison Hall and --  -- "

Jane came to an abrupt stop. She was determined not to break down, yet she was very near to it.

"My dear child, you need not leave Madison Hall unless you wish to do so." Mrs. Weatherbee's frigidity had miraculously vanished. A gleam of kindly purpose had appeared in her eyes.

For the first time since her acquaintance with Jane Allen she found something to admire. For the sake of a principle, this complex, self-willed girl, of whom she had ever disapproved, was willing to suffer injury in silence. The fact that Jane had refused to answer her question lost significance when compared with the motive which had prompted refusal.

"You might easily accuse me of unfairness if I allowed matters to remain as they are," pursued the matron energetically. "As the injured party you have first right to your old room. Miss Noble, the young woman now occupying it with Miss Stearns, applied for a room here by letter on the very next day after I received this letter, supposedly from you.

"I wrote her that I had a vacancy here and asked for references. These she forwarded immediately. As it happens I have another unexpected vacancy here due to the failure of a new girl to pass her entrance examinations. Miss Noble will no doubt be quite willing to take the other room. At all events, you shall have your own again."

"I can't begin to tell you how much I thank you, Mrs. Weatherbee." Jane's somber face had lightened into radiant gratitude. "But I can tell you that I'm sorry for my part in any misunderstandings we've had in the past. I don't feel about college now as I did last year."

Carried away by her warm appreciation of the matron's unlooked-for stand in her behalf, Jane found herself telling Mrs. Weatherbee of her pre-conceived hatred of college and of her gradual awakening to a genuine love for Wellington.

Of the personal injuries done her by others she said nothing. Her little outpouring had to do only with her own struggle for spiritual growth.

"It was Dorothy Martin who first showed me the way," she explained. "She made me see myself as a pioneer, and college as a new country. She told me that it depended entirely on me whether or not my freshman claim turned out well. It took me a long time to see that. This year I want to be a better pioneer than I was last. That's why I'd rather not start out by getting someone else into trouble, no matter how much that person is at fault."

During the earnest recital, the matron's stern features had perceptibly softened. She was reflecting that, after all, one person was never free to judge another. That human nature was in itself far too complex to be lightly judged by outward appearances.

"You know the old saying, 'Out of evil some good is sure to come,'" she said, when Jane ceased speaking. "This affair of the letter has already produced one good result. I feel that I am beginning to know the real Jane Allen. You were right in saying that I never understood you. Perhaps I did not try. I don't know. You were rather different from any other girl whom I ever had before under my charge here."

"I kept up the bars," confessed Jane ruefully. "I didn't wish to see things from any standpoint except my own. I'm trying to break myself of that. I can't honestly say that I have, as yet. I shall probably have a good many fights with myself about it this year. It's not easy to make one's self over in a day or a month or a year. It takes time. That's why I like college so much now. It's helping me to find myself.

"But that's enough about myself." Jane made a little conclusive gesture. "I hope there won't be any -- well -- any unpleasantness about my room, Mrs. Weatherbee. I'd almost rather take that other vacancy than make trouble for you."

"There will be no trouble," was the decisive assurance. "If Miss Noble objects to the change there are other campus houses open to her. I see no reason why she should. She only arrived this morning. She will not be kept waiting for the room. The girl who failed in her examinations left here at noon. I will see about it now."

Mrs. Weatherbee rose to put her promise into immediate effect.

"If you don't mind, I'll join Judith and Adrienne on the veranda. I am anxious to tell them the good news," eagerly declared Jane, now on her feet.

Glancing at the disturbing letter which she held she handed it to Mrs. Weatherbee with: "What shall you do about this letter?"

"Since the star witness in the case refuses to give testimony, it is hard to decide what to do," smiled the matron. "I might hand the letter to Miss Rutledge, yet I prefer not to do so. It is purely a personal matter. Suppose I were to prosecute an inquiry here at the Hall regarding it. It would yield nothing but indignant protests of innocence. If the writer were one of my girls she would perhaps be loudest in her protests."

Though Jane did not say so, she was of the private opinion that the person she suspected would undoubtedly do that very thing.

"A girl who would write such a letter would be the last to own to writing it," she said dryly.

"Very true. Still things sometimes work out unexpectedly. If we have a mischief maker here, we may eventually discover her. Girls of this type often overreach themselves and thus establish their guilt. I shall not forget this affair." The matron's voice grew stern. "If ever I do discover the writer, she will not be allowed to remain at Madison Hall."



Chapter VI

The Plot Thickens


"And Mrs. Weatherbee's gone to oust the disturber of our peace! Oh, joy!"

To emphasize further her satisfaction Judith gave Jane an ecstatic hug.

"You can't be any gladder than I am."

Jane returned the hug with interest.

"But how did it thus happen so beautifully?" questioned Adrienne eagerly.

"It was a mistake --  -- No, it wasn't either. It was --  -- "

Jane paused. She wondered if she had the right to put her friends in possession of what she had so lately learned. Mrs. Weatherbee had not enjoined silence. Adrienne and Judith were absolutely trustworthy. They had forewarned her of the situation. It was only fair that they should be taken into her confidence.

"I've something to tell you girls," she went on slowly. "You must wait to hear it until we are in our room. I'd rather not go into it out here on the veranda."

"All right. We'll be good. I hope the noble Miss Noble will hurry up and move out," wished Judith. "I can imagine how delighted she'll be."

"She may care but little," shrugged Adrienne. "Of a truth, she has not been here so long. But a few hours! It is not much!"

"I don't believe she'll relish it a bit," prophesied Judith. "She looks to me like one of those persons who get peeved over nothing. Isn't it funny, though? Mrs. Weatherbee made a mistake last year about your room, Jane. Do you remember how haughty you were when you found out you were to room with little Judy?"

"Yes. I was a big goose, wasn't I?" Jane smiled reminiscently. "It wasn't Mrs. Weatherbee's fault this time. That's all I'll say until we three go upstairs."

"Wish she'd hurry," grumbled Judith, referring to the usurping freshman. "This evacuation business isn't going along very speedily. I wonder if she's unpacked. She hadn't touched her suitcase when I left her. Her trunk hadn't come yet. Maybe it came while we were out. I hope not. Then there'll be that much less to move."

"Had this Miss Noble examinations to take?" asked Jane.

"No, she told me she was graduated from a prep school last June. Burleigh, I think she said. I really didn't listen much to her. I was so upset over having her thrust upon me, I didn't want to talk to her."

"Poor Judy."

Jane bestowed a sympathizing pat upon Judith's arm.

"All the time I was thinking 'poor Jane,'" laughed Judith. "Oh, dear! Why doesn't Mrs. Weatherbee come back. I'm crazy to hear the weird story of your wrongs, Janie."

It was at least fifteen minutes afterward before the matron descended the stairs, looking far from pleased.

Watching for her, Jane stepped inside the house and met her at the foot of the stairs.

"You may move in as soon as you please, Miss Allen," she informed Jane, her annoyed expression vanishing in a friendly smile.

"Thank you. I sha'n't lose any time in doing it."

Jane returned the smile, thinking in the same moment that it seemed rather odd but decidedly nice to be on such pleasant terms with the woman she had once thoroughly disliked.

"Did you notice how vexed Mrs. Weatherbee looked when she came downstairs?" was Judith's remark as the door of her room closed behind them. "I'll bet she had her own troubles with the usurper."

"First the disturber, then the usurper. You have, indeed, many names for this one poor girl," giggled Adrienne.

"Oh, I can think of a lot more," grinned Judith. "But what's the use. She has departed bag and baggage. To quote your own self, 'It is sufficient.' Now go ahead, Jane, and spin your yarn."

"It's no yarn. It's sober truth. You understand. I'm speaking in strict confidence."

With this foreword, Jane acquainted the two girls with what had taken place in the matron's office.

"Hm!" sniffed Judith as Jane finished. "She's begun rather early in the year, hasn't she?"

"I see we're of the same mind, Judy," Jane said quietly.

"I, too, am of that same mind," broke in Adrienne. "I will say to you now most plainly that it was Marian Seaton who wrote the letter."

"Of course she wrote it," emphasized Judith fiercely. "It's the most outrageous thing I ever heard of. You ought to have told Mrs. Weatherbee, Jane. Why should you shield a girl who is trying to injure you?"

"I could only have said that I suspected her of writing the letter," Jane pointed out. "I have no proof that she wrote it. Besides, I didn't care to start my sophomore year that way. When I have anything to say about Marian Seaton, I'll say it to her. I'm going to steer clear of her if I can. If I can't, then she and I will have to come to an understanding one of these days. I'd rather ignore her, unless I find that I can't."

"You're a queer girl," was Judith's half-vexed opinion. "I think, if I were in your place, I'd begin at the beginning and tell Mrs. Weatherbee every single thing about last year. I'd tell her I was positive Marian Seaton wrote that letter. She'd be angry enough to tax Marian with it, even though she made quite a lot of Marian and Maizie Gilbert last year. If Marian got scared and confessed -- good night! She'd have to leave Madison Hall. We'd all be better off on account of it."

"No, ma chere Judy, you are in that quite wrong," disagreed Adrienne. "This Marian would never make the confession. Instead she would make the great fuss. She would, of a truth, say that Jane had made the plot to injure her. She is most clever in such matters."

"I'm not afraid of anything she might say," frowned Jane. "I simply don't care to bother any more about it. I have my half of this room back and that's all that really matters. If Marian Seaton thinks --  -- "

The sudden opening of the door cut Jane's speech in two. Three surprised pairs of eyes rested on a sharp-chinned, black-eyed girl who had unceremoniously marched into their midst. Face and bearing both indicated signs of active hostility.

"Did I hear you mention Marian Seaton's name?" she sharply inquired of Jane.

"You did."

Jane gazed levelly at the angry newcomer.

"Which of these two girls is Miss Allen?"

This question was rudely addressed to Judith, whose good-natured face showed evident disgust of the interrogator.

"I am Jane Allen. Why do you ask?"

Jane spoke with curt directness.

"I supposed that you were." The girl smiled scornfully. "I only wished to make sure before telling you my opinion of you. It did not surprise me to learn that it was you who turned me out of my room. I had already been warned against you by my cousin, Marian Seaton. No doubt you've been saying spiteful things about her. I know just how shabbily you treated her last year. If she had been here to-day, you wouldn't have been allowed to take my room away from me. She has more influence at Wellington than you have. She will be here soon and then we'll see what will happen. That's all except that you are a selfish, hateful troublemaker."

With every word she uttered the black-eyed girl's voice had risen. Overmastered by anger she fairly screamed the final sentence of her arraignment. Then she turned and bolted from the room, leaving behind her a dumbfounded trio of young women.

"Brr!" ejaculated Judith. "What do you think of that? I'm sure I could have heard that last shriek, if I'd been away over on the campus. Marian Seaton's cousin! Think what Judy escaped!"

"You are very funny, Judy," giggled Adrienne. "And that girl! How little repose; what noise!"

"Yes, 'what noise,'" Judith echoed the giggle. "Really, girls, am I awake or do I dream? First a strange and awful girl comes walking in on me. Then I learn the pleasant news that Jane's deserted me. Along comes Jane, who doesn't know she's lost her home. Enter Marian Seaton as a letter writer. Result Jane and Mrs. Weatherbee become bosom friends. Jane is vindicated and her rights restored. Right in the middle of a happy reunion in bounces the tempestuous Miss Noble. Quite a little like a nightmare, isn't it?"

"It has the likeness to the movie plot," asserted Adrienne mirthfully. "Very thrilling and much mixed."

"I never dreamed coming back to Wellington would be like this."

Jane smiled. Nevertheless the words came with a touch of sadness.

"Don't let it worry you, Jane," counseled Judith. "I was only fooling when I said this afternoon had been like a nightmare. You may not have another like this the whole year. Things always happen in bunches, you know. I move that we re-beautify our charming selves and go down to the veranda. We'll be on hand if any of the girls arrive. There's a train from the east at five-thirty. Dorothy may be on that."

"I hope she is," sighed Jane.

Mention of Dorothy Martin made Jane long for a sight of the gentle, whole-souled girl whom she so greatly loved and admired.

"Go ahead, Jane, and change your gown. I'll unpack your bag for you," offered Judith. "Beloved Imp here may help, if she's very good."

"Thank you, Judy."

Jane began an absent unfastening of her pongee traveling gown, preparatory to bathing her throat, face and hands, dusty from the journey.

While her two friends laughed and chattered as they unpacked her bag, she gave herself up to somber reflection. The events of the afternoon had left her with a feeling of heavy depression. Why, when she desired so earnestly to do well and be happy, must the ancient enmity of Marian Seaton be dragged into her very first day at Wellington. Was this a forerunner of what the rest of her sophomore days were destined to be?



Chapter VII

An Unpleasant Tablemate


Despite the unpropitious events of the afternoon, evening saw a merry little party in full swing in Judith's and Jane's room.

Barbara Temple and Christine Ellis came over from Argyle Hall. The five-thirty train had brought not only Dorothy Martin but Mary Ashton as well. Eight o'clock saw them calling on Judith and Jane, along with Adrienne and Ethel. Of the old clan, Norma Bennett alone was absent, a loss which was loudly lamented by all.

So swiftly did time fly that the party ended in a mad scurry to comply with the inexorable half-past ten o'clock rule.

Jane went to bed that night considerably lighter of heart. Reunion with the girls who were nearest to her had driven the afternoon's unpleasantness from her thoughts, for the time being at least. The friendly presence of those she loved had proved a powerful antidote.

A night's sound sleep served to separate her further from the disagreeable incidents of the previous day. She had two things, at least, to be glad of, she reflected, as she dressed next morning. She was back in her own room. More, she now stood on an entirely different footing with Mrs. Weatherbee than heretofore.

This last was brought home to her more strongly than ever when, in going down to breakfast, she passed the matron on her way to the dining-room and received a smiling "Good morning, Miss Allen."

It was at decided variance with the reserved manner in which Mrs. Weatherbee had formerly been wont to greet her.

"Well, we are once again at the same table," remarked Adrienne as Jane slipped into the place at table she had occupied during her freshman year. "Until last night I ate the meals alone. It was triste."

Adrienne's profound air of melancholy made both Jane and Dorothy laugh.

"What made you come back to college so early, dear Imp?" questioned Dorothy, smiling indulgently at the little girl.

"I had the longing to see the girls," Adrienne replied simply. "This past summer I have greatly missed all of you."

"We've all missed one another, I guess," Jane said soberly. "Often out on the ranch I've wished you could all be with me. Next summer you must come. I'm going to give a house party."

"What rapture!" Adrienne clasped her small hands. "I, for one, will accept the invitation, and now."

Somewhat to Jane's surprise Dorothy said not a word. She merely stared at Jane, a curiously wistful expression in her gray eyes.

"Don't you want to come to my house party, Dorothy?"

Though the question was playfully asked it held a hint of pained surprise.

"Of course I'd like to come. I will -- if I can." This last was added with a little sigh. "Did you bring Firefly East with you, this year, Jane?" she inquired with abrupt irrelevance.

"Yes. Pedro started East ahead of me with Firefly. They haven't arrived yet. Are you going to ride this year, Dorothy?"

Jane was wondering what had occasioned in Dorothy this new, wistful mood. It was entirely unlike her usual blithe, care-free self.

"I'm afraid not." The shadow on Dorothy's fine face had deepened. "Frankly, I can't afford to keep a riding horse here. I don't mind telling just you two that it was a question with me as to whether I ought to come back to college. We were never rich, you know, just in comfortable circumstances. This summer Father met with financial losses and we're almost poor. Both Father and Mother were determined that I should come back to Wellington on account of it being my last year. So I'm here. I've not brought any new clothes with me, though, and I shall have to be very economical."

Dorothy smiled bravely as she made this frank confession.

"Who cares whether your clothes are new of old, Dorothy?" came impulsively from Jane. "It's having you here that counts. Nothing else matters. I'm ever so sorry that your father has met with such misfortune."

"Ah, yes! I too, have the sorrow that such bad luck has come to your father. We are the lucky ones, because you have come back to us," Adrienne agreed impressively.

"You're dears, both of you. Shake hands."

Her eyes eloquent with affection, Dorothy's hand went out to Jane, then to Adrienne.

"We try to be like you, ma chere," was Adrienne's graceful response.

"That's very pretty, Imp," acknowledged Dorothy, flushing. "I'll have to watch my step to merit that compliment. Now that you've heard the sad story of the poverty-stricken senior, I call for a change of subject. Did you know that Edith Hammond isn't coming back?"

"She isn't!"

Jane looked her surprise at this unexpected bit of news.

"No. Edith is going to be married," Dorothy informed. "She was heart-whole and fancy-free when she left here last June. Then she went with her family to the Catskills for the summer. She met her fate there; a young civil engineer. They're to be married in November. She wrote me a long letter right after she became betrothed. Later I received a card announcing her engagement."

"I hope she'll be very happy," Jane spoke with evident sincerity. "I'm so glad we grew to be friendly before college closed last June. It was awfully awkward and embarrassing for us when we had to sit opposite each other at this table three times a day without speaking."

Tardy recollection of the fact that there had also been a time when the wires of communication were down between herself and Dorothy, caused a tide of red to mount upward to Jane's forehead.

The eyes of the two girls meeting, both smiled. Each read the other's thoughts. Such a catastrophe would not occur again.

"I wonder how many new girls there will be at the Hall," Dorothy glanced curiously about the partially filled dining-room. "Let me see. We had four graduates from Madison. Edith isn't coming back. That makes five vacancies to be filled. Do you know of any others?"

The approach of a maid with a heavily laden breakfast tray, left the question unanswered for the moment.

"You forget, la petite," reminded Adrienne as she liberally sugared her sliced peaches. "She will no longer live at the top of the house. She has already made the arrangements to room with Mary Ashton. So there are but four vacancies. I would greatly adore to be with my Norma, but Ethel is the good little roommate. I am satisfied."

Adrienne dismissed the subject with a wave of her hand.

"Norma can have Edith's place at our table," suggested Dorothy. "That will be nice. I'll speak to Mrs. Weatherbee about it right after breakfast."

"Perhaps we should not wait until then."

Adrienne half rose from her chair. Noting that the matron's place at another table was vacant she sat down again.

"Here she comes now!"

Jane followed her announcement with a muffled "Oh!" Mrs. Weatherbee was advancing toward their table and not alone. Behind her walked the aggressive Miss Noble.

"Miss Noble, this is Miss Martin." The matron placidly proceeded with the introductions and rustled off, unconscious that she had precipitated a difficult situation. Her mind occupied with other matters, she had failed to note the stiff little bows exchanged by three of the quartette.

It had not been lost upon Dorothy, however. Greeting the newcomer in her usual gracious fashion, she wondered what ailed Jane and Adrienne.

"Have you examinations to try, Miss Noble?" she asked pleasantly, by way of shattering the frigid silence that had settled down on three of the group.

"No, indeed." The girl tossed her black head. "I am from Burleigh."

"Oh! A prep school, I suppose?" Dorothy inquired politely. The name was unfamiliar to her.

"One of the most exclusive in the Middle West," was the prompt answer, given with a touch of arrogance. "I must say, Wellington doesn't compare very favorably with it in my opinion."

A faint sparkle of resentment lit the wide gray eyes Dorothy turned squarely on the freshman.

"That's rather hard on Wellington," she said evenly. "I hope you will change your mind after you've been with us a while."

"I hardly expect that I shall, judging from what I've already seen of it. That is, if Madison Hall furnishes a sample of the rest of the college."

Turning petulantly to the maid who had come up to attend to her wants she ordered sharply:

"Bring me my breakfast at once. I am in a hurry."

A dead silence ensued as the maid walked away. Signally vexed at the stranger's disparaging remarks, Dorothy had no inclination to court a fresh volley.

Jane and Adrienne were equally attacked by dumbness. They were devoting themselves to breakfast as if in a hurry to be through with it.

"I didn't intend to speak to you ever again," the disgruntled freshman suddenly addressed herself to Jane. "I suppose you think it's queer in me to sit down at the same table with you after what I told you yesterday. I was going to refuse, then I decided I had a perfect right to sit here if I chose. If you don't like it you can sit somewhere else."

"Thank you. I am quite satisfied with this table." Jane's reply quivered with sarcasm. "I sat here at meals last year. I have no intention of making a change."

"It is, of a truth, most sad, that we cannot oblige you," Adrienne cut into the conversation, her elfish black eyes snapping. "It is not necessary, however, that we should say more about it. We are here. We shall continue to be here. It is sufficient."

She made a sweeping gesture as if to brush the offensive Miss Noble off the face of the earth.

The latter simply stared at the angry little girl for a moment, too much amazed to make ready reply. Adrienne's calm ultimatum rather staggered her.

Too courteous to show open amusement of the situation, Dorothy resorted to flight. With a hasty "Excuse me" she rose and left the table. Jane and Adrienne instantly followed suit, leaving the quarrelsome freshman alone in her glory.

Straight toward the living-room Dorothy headed, her friends at her heels. Dropping down on the davenport she broke into subdued laughter.

"You naughty Imp," she gasped. "I know I oughtn't laugh, but you were so funny. Wasn't she, Jane?"

"Yes." Jane was now smiling in sympathy with Dorothy's mirth. A moment earlier she had been scowling fiercely.

"What's the answer, Jane?"

Dorothy's laughter had merged into sudden seriousness.

"Marian Seaton's cousin," returned Jane briefly. "I didn't intend to mention it," she continued, "but under the circumstances I think you ought to know the truth."

Briefly Jane acquainted Dorothy with the situation.

"The whole affair is contemptible," Dorothy's intonation indicated strong disapproval of the cowardly attempt to deprive Jane of her room.

"It looks as though Marian were guilty," she continued speculatively. "She's the only one at Wellington, I believe, who would do you a bad turn."

"You forget Maizie Gilbert," shrugged Jane.

"Oh, Maizie, left to herself, would never be dangerous. She's too lazy to be vengeful. She only follows Marian's lead."

"This Marian well knew that with Mrs. Weatherbee Jane could not agree," asserted Adrienne. "She had the opinion that when Jane arrived here Mrs. Weatherbee would listen to nothing she might say. So she had the mistaken opinion."

"Mrs. Weatherbee always means to be just," defended Dorothy. "She has rather prim ideas about things, but she's a stickler for principle. I am glad she's over her prejudice against you, Jane."

"So am I," nodded Jane. "About this whole affair, Dorothy, I don't intend to worry any more. I'm going to be too busy trying to be a good sophomore pioneer to trouble myself with either Marian Seaton or her cousin. Nothing that she did last year to try to injure me succeeded. As long as I plod straight ahead and keep right with myself I've nothing to fear from her."



Chapter VIII

A Happy Thought


During the week that followed Jane became too fully occupied with settling down in college to trouble herself further about Marian Seaton. Neither the latter nor Maizie Gilbert had as yet returned to Wellington, a fact which caused Jane no regret.

She did not doubt that as soon as Marian put in an appearance she would hear a garbled tale of woe from her belligerent cousin. Whether Marian would take up the cudgels in her cousin's defense was another matter.

Firm in her belief that Marian had written the disquieting letter, Jane was fairly sure that the former's guilty conscience would warn her against making a protest to Mrs. Weatherbee that her cousin had been shabbily treated.

As it happened she was quite correct in her surmise. When, late one afternoon at the end of the week, Marian and Maizie Gilbert arrived at Madison Hall they were treated to a sight that disturbed them considerably.

To a casual observer there was nothing strange in the sight of two white-gowned girls seated in the big porch swing, apparently well pleased with each other's society. To Marian Seaton, however, it represented the defeat of a carefully laid scheme. Sight of Jane Allen, calmly ensconced in the swing and actually laughing at something Adrienne Dupree was relating with many gestures, filled Marian Seaton with sullen rage, not unmixed with craven fear.

"What do you think of that?" she muttered to Maizie as the driver of the taxicab brought the machine to a slow stop on the drive. "I never expected to see her here."

"Maybe Mrs. Weatherbee didn't receive it," returned Maizie in equally guarded tones.

"Something's gone wrong," was the cross surmise. "Watch yourself, Maiz, when you talk, to Mrs. Weatherbee."

"Oh, she couldn't possibly know," assured Maizie. "This Allen snip has just managed to have her own way. You know what a hurricane she is when she gets started."

"Just the same you'd better be on your guard," warned Marian.

"Madison Hall, miss."

The driver was impatiently addressing Marian. Deep in considering the unwelcome state of affairs revealed by Jane's presence on the veranda, neither girl had made any move to alight.

"Oh, keep quiet!" exclaimed Marian rudely. "We'll get out when we are ready."

"Charge you more if you keep me waiting," retorted the man. "Time's money to me."

This threat resulted in the hasty exit of both girls from the machine. Provided with plenty of spending money, Marian thriftily endeavored always to obtain the greatest possible return for the least expenditure.

As the luggage-laden pair ascended the steps, some hidden force drew Marian's unwilling gaze to the porch swing. A quick, guilty flush dyed her cheeks as her pale blue eyes met the steady, inscrutable stare of Jane's gray ones.

Immediately she looked away. She could not fathom the meaning of that calm, penetrating glance.

In consequence Marian could not know that Jane had been seeking confirmation of a certain private belief, which the former's guilty confusion had supplied.

"Do you think she's found out anything?" Marian asked nervously of Maizie, the instant they had entered the house.

"Mercy, no. If she had she'd have glowered at you," reassured Maizie. "She just looked at you as though you were a stranger. You needn't be afraid of her. She's too stupid to put two and two together."

"She must know about the letter, though. What I can't see is how she managed to stick here in spite of it. Every room here was spoken for last June. Mrs. Weatherbee told me so. I'll bet Elsie's had to go to another campus house. It's a shame! That letter was meant to do two things. Get Jane Allen out of the Hall and Elsie in. Don't stop to talk with old Weatherbee, Maizie," was Marian's injunction. "We'll just say 'How do you do. We're back,' and hustle upstairs. Be sure to notice if she seems as cordial as ever. If she is, it will be a good sign that we're safe."

Meanwhile, out on the veranda, Adrienne was remarking under her breath to Jane:

"Did you observe the face of Marian Seaton? Ah, but she is the guilty one!"

"I noticed," replied Jane dryly. "I was determined to make her look at me, and she did. It upset her to see me here. She wasn't expecting it."

"It is the annoyance that she has returned," sighed Adrienne. "All has been so delightful without her."

"I'm going to forget that she's here," avowed Jane sturdily. "Come on, Imp. Let's go over to the stable and see Firefly. I promised him an apple and three lumps of sugar yesterday. I must keep my word to him."

Rising, Jane held out an inviting hand to Adrienne. The little girl promptly linked her fingers within Jane's and the two started down the steps, making a pretty picture as they strolled bare-headed across the campus to the western gate.

"Hello, children! Whither away?"

Almost to the wide gateway they encountered Dorothy Martin coming from an opposite direction.

"We're going to call on Firefly. Want to come along?" invited Jane.

"Of course I do. Firefly is a very dear friend of mine."

"I must stop at that little fruit stand below the campus and buy Firefly's apple," Jane said as the trio emerged from the campus onto the public highway. "I have the sugar in my blouse pocket."

She patted a tiny bulging pocket of her white silk blouse.

"Marian Seaton and Maizie Gilbert have returned," Adrienne informed Dorothy, with a droll air of resignation. "But a few moments past and we saw them arrive. We made no effort to embrace them."

"Miss Howard isn't pleased over their staying away so long," confided Dorothy. "She told me yesterday that every student had reported except those two. She asked me if I knew why they were so late. She hadn't received a word of excuse from either of them. Too bad, isn't it, that they should so deliberately set their faces against right?"

"They walk with the eyes open, yet are blind," mused Adrienne. "I have known many such persons. Seldom is there the remedy. I cannot imagine the reform of Marian Seaton. It would be the miracle."

"You may laugh if you like, but I've wondered whether there mightn't be some way to find the good in her. Dad says there's some good in even the worst person, if one can only find it."

Silent from the moment Adrienne had mentioned Marian's name, Jane broke into the conversation.

"After I read that miserable letter, I felt as though I hated Marian Seaton harder than ever," she went on. "When I saw her to-day I despised her for being what she was. All of a sudden it came to me that I was sorry for her instead. It's a kind of queer mix-up of feelings."

Jane gave a short laugh.

"You have the right spirit, Jane. I'm proud of you for it. You make me feel ashamed. While I've been merely saying that it's too bad about Marian, you've gone to the root of the matter," assured Dorothy earnestly.

"Yet what could one do thus to bring about the reform?"

Adrienne's shrug was eloquent of the dubiety of such an enterprise.

"Begin as Jane has, by being sorry for her," replied Dorothy thoughtfully.

"I am French," returned Adrienne simply. "The Latin never forgets nor forgives."

Having now reached the fruit stand where Jane had stopped to purchase a large red apple for her horse, the subject of Marian Seaton was dropped.

Arrived at the stable the three girls spent a merry session with Firefly, who demanded much petting from them.

"He's the dearest little horse I ever saw, Jane!" glowed Dorothy when they finally left him finishing the apple which Jane had saved as a good-bye solace. "If ever I owned a horse like Firefly I'd be the happiest girl in the whole world."

"There aren't many like him."

Jane turned for a last look over her shoulder at her beautiful pet. Pursing her lips she whistled to him. Instantly he neighed an answer.

"Is he not cunning?" cried Adrienne.

Dorothy admiringly agreed that he was.

Jane smiled in an absent manner. An idea had taken shape in her mind, the pleasure of which brought a warm flush to her cheeks.

In consequence she suddenly quickened her pace.

"What's the matter, Jane? Training for a walking match?" asked Dorothy humorously.

"I beg your pardon," apologized Jane, slowing down. "I just happened to think of a letter I wanted to write and send by the first mail."

"Run on ahead, then," proposed Dorothy. "We'll excuse you this once."

"Oh, it's not so urgent as all that. I just let my thoughts run away with me for a minute."

Nevertheless there was a preoccupied light in Jane's eyes as the three returned across the campus to the Hall.

The instant she gained her room she went hastily to work on a letter, a pleased smile curving her lips as she wrote. When it was finished she prepared it for mailing and ran lightly down the stairs and across the campus to the nearest mail box. She gave a happy little sigh as it disappeared through the receiving slot. How glad she was that the idea had come to her. She wondered only why she had never thought of it before.



Chapter IX

Seekers Of Discord


Fifteen minutes after the arrival of Marian and Maizie a disgruntled trio of girls sat closeted in the room belonging to Marian and Maizie.

"It's all your fault," stormed Elsie Noble, her sharp black eyes full of rancor. "If you'd come here as you promised instead of being a week late you could have used the wonderful influence you say you have with Mrs. Weatherbee to let me keep that room. It's forty times nicer than the one I have."

"I couldn't get here any sooner. Howard Armstead gave a dinner dance specially in honor of me and we had to stay for it."

Marian crested her blonde head as she flung forth this triumphant excuse.

"Of course you did. You're so boy-struck you can't see straight. I might have known it was because of one of your silly old beaux. I'm glad I have more sense."

"You don't show any signs of it," sneered Marian.

"Stop quarreling, both of you," drawled Maizie. "Go go ahead, Elsie, and tell us what happened about the room. That's the thing we want to know. For goodness' sake keep your voice down though. You don't talk. You shout."

"I'd rather shout than drawl my words as if I were too lazy to say them," retaliated Elsie wrathfully.

"All right, shout then and let everybody in the Hall know your business," was Maizie's tranquil response.

"If you came here to fuss, Elsie, then we can get along very well without you. If you expect to go around with us, you'll have to behave like a human being."

Marian's cool insolence had an instantly subduing effect on her belligerent relative. She knew that Marian was quite capable of dropping her, then and there.

"I don't know what happened about the room," she said sulkily, but in a decidedly lower key. "I came here at nine o'clock in the morning. Mrs. Weatherbee sent the maid with me to the room. That Stearns girl said I must have made a mistake. I knew that she wasn't exactly pleased. She said hardly a word to me. She went out and stayed out until just before luncheon. Then she came in for about ten minutes and went downstairs. I didn't see her again."

"She was probably running around the campus telling her friends about it," lazily surmised Maizie. "I'll bet she was all at sea. Wonder if she went to Weatherbee with a string of complaints."

"What happened after that?" queried Marian impatiently.

"What happened?" Elsie pitched the question in a shrill angry key. "Enough, I should say. I unpacked part of my things, then finished reading a dandy mystery story I'd begun on the train. About four o'clock Mrs. Weatherbee sailed in here and made me give up the room."

"What did she say?" was the concerted question.

"She said there'd been a misunderstanding about Miss Allen's coming back to the Hall. That Miss Allen was not to blame and so must have her own room. I said I wouldn't give it up and she said it was not for me, but her, to decide that. She said I could have the other room if I wanted it. If I didn't then she had nothing else to offer me. I said I'd go to the registrar about it. She just looked superior and said, 'As you please.' I knew I was beaten. If I went to the registrar, then Mrs. Weatherbee would have a chance to show her that letter. If I gave in, very likely she'd let the whole thing drop. As long as she'd offered me another room here, I thought it was best to take it."

"I didn't think it would turn out like that," frowned Marian. "Weatherbee couldn't bear Jane Allen last year. I was sure she'd be only too glad to get rid of her. That letter was meant to make her furious, enough so that she wouldn't let this Allen girl into the Hall again. Something remarkable must have happened."

"Weatherbee didn't suspect you, anyway," chimed in Maizie. "She was all smiles when we went into her office."

"Yes, she was sweet as cream. She could never trace it to me anyway. I took good care of that."

"Who wrote it for you?" asked Elsie curiously.

"That's my affair," rudely returned Marian. "If I told you all my business you'd know as much as I do. I'm sorry the scheme didn't work, but, at least, you got into the Hall. I'm certainly glad that girl failed in her exams. As for Jane Allen -- well, I'm not through with her yet. Who is your roommate?"

"A Miss Reynolds. She's a soph --  -- "

"Alicia Reynolds!" chorused two interrupting voices.

"Well of all things!" Marian's pale eyes widened with surprise. "What do you think of that, Maiz?"

"You're in luck, Marian," Maizie averred with a slow smile. "You stand a better chance of getting in with Alicia again. Elsie can help you if she doesn't go to work and fuss with Alicia the first thing."

"What are you talking about? Who is this Alicia Reynolds?" inquired Elsie curiously.

"Oh, we chummed with her last year. She didn't like this Jane Allen any better than we did. Then last spring she went riding and fell off her horse and our dear Miss Allen picked her up and brought her home on her own horse. Alicia wasn't hurt. She thought she was and that the Allen girl was a heroine," glibly related Marian. "She listened to a lot of lies Jane Allen told her about us and now she won't speak to either of us. It's too bad, because we are really her friends and this Allen person isn't. Some day we hope to prove it to her."

"This Jane Allen must be a terrible mischief-maker," was Elsie's opinion. "I told her what I thought of her the afternoon she came."

"You did?" exclaimed Marian.

"Yes, sirree. I went straight to her room and spoke my mind. I was so furious with her. The very next morning Mrs. Weatherbee put me at the same table with her. It was my first meal at the Hall. I went to Rutherford Inn for luncheon and dinner. I was hungry and thought maybe the meals wouldn't suit me. They're all right, though. When I saw her at the table I was going to balk about sitting there, then I changed my mind. I had as much right to be there as she. I told her that, too."

"Some little scrapper," murmured Maizie.

There was cunning significance, however, in the slow glance she cast at Marian.

"What did she say to you?"

Marian had returned Maizie's glance with one of equal meaning.

"Not much of anything. I didn't give her a chance," boasted Elsie. "That little French girl snapped me up in a hurry. She's awfully pretty, isn't she?"

"She's a little cat," retorted Marian. "Look out for her. She's too clever for you. Her mother's Eloise Dupree, the dancer. She dances too. They're friends of President Blakesly's. She's awfully popular here and afraid of nobody. She's devoted to Jane Allen, though, so that settles her with me."

"Is Dorothy Martin at your table?" asked Maizie.

"Yes. I don't like her."

"She's a prig," shrugged Maizie.

"Edith Hammond used to sit there. Do you know her?" queried Marian of Elsie.

"She's not here any more. She's going to be married. I heard this Dorothy talking about her yesterday to Miss Dupree."

"Glad's she's gone. She was another turncoat. Hated Jane Allen and then started to be nice to her all of a sudden."

"This Jane Allen seems to have a lot of friends for all you girls say about her," Elsie asserted almost defiantly. "I detest her, but I notice she's never alone. The first night she came there was a crowd of girls in her room. I heard them laughing and singing."

"They didn't come to see her," informed Marian scornfully. "It's Judith Stearns that draws them. She's very popular at Wellington. Can't see why, I'm sure. Anyway Jane Allen has pulled the wool over her eyes until she thinks she has a wonderful roommate."

"Jane Allen hasn't so many friends," broke in Maizie. "Dorothy Martin, Judith, Adrienne Dupree, Ethel Lacey, she's Adrienne's roommate, and Norma Bennett. That's all. Lots of girls in the sophomore class don't like her."

"Yes, and who's Norma Bennett," sneered Marian. "She used to be a kitchen maid; now she's a third-rate actress. She's a pet of Adrienne's and Jane Allen's. I think we ought to make a fuss about having her here at the Hall. If we could get most of the girls to sign a petition asking Mrs. Weatherbee to take it up it would be a good thing."

"But would she do it?" was Maizie's skeptical query.

"She might if we worked it cleverly," answered Marian. "Adrienne and her crowd would probably go to President Blakesly. We'd have to work it in such a way that Norma wouldn't let her. This Bennett girl is one of the sensitive sort. False pride, you know. Beggars are usually like that. Of course, I don't say positively that we can do it. We'll have to wait and see. Some good chance may come."

"It would be a splendid way to get even with Jane Allen and Adrienne Dupree, too," approved Maizie. "They would have spasms if their darling Norma had to leave Madison Hall and they couldn't help themselves."

"I think it would be rather hard on this Norma," declared Elsie bluntly.

She had pricked up her ears at the word "actress." Unbeknown to anyone save herself she was desperately stage struck. The idea of having a real actress at the Hall was decidedly alluring.

"You don't know what you're talking about," angrily rebuked Marian. "It's hard on the girls of really good families to have to countenance such a person. I've lived at Madison Hall a year longer than you have. Just remember that."

"What we ought to do is to get as many girls as we can on our side," suggested crafty Maizie. "There are forty-eight girls at the Hall, most of them sophs. Last year we let them alone, because they weren't of our class. This year we'll have to make a fuss over them. Lunch them and take them to ride in our cars and all that. It will be a bore, but it will pay in the end. Once we get a stand-in with them, we can run things here to suit ourselves."

"That's a good idea," lauded Marian. "We'll begin this very day."

So it was that while Jane Allen and her little coterie of loyal friends entered upon their college year with high aspirations to do well, under the same roof with them, three girls sat and plotted to overthrow Wellington's most sacred tradition: "And this is my command unto you that ye love one another."



Chapter X

A Vague Regret


"WELL, Jane, it's our turn to do the inviting this year," announced Judith Stearns, as she pranced jubilantly into the room where Jane sat hard at work on her Horace for next day's recitation.

"When is it to be?"

Jane looked up eagerly from her book.

"A week from to-night. The notice just appeared on the bulletin board. You know my fond affection for the bulletin board."

Judith boyishly tossed up her soft blue walking hat and caught it on one finger, loudly expressing her opinion of her own dexterity.

"Sit down, oh, vainglorious hat-thrower, and tell me about it," commanded Jane, laughing.

"That's all I know. It's to be next Wednesday night. I suppose our august soph committee has met and decided the great question. It's the usual getting-acquainted-with-our-freshman-sisters affair. After that comes class meeting, and after that --  -- "

Judith plumped down on her couch bed and beamed knowingly at Jane.

"Guess what comes after that," she finished.

"Basket-ball."

Jane gave a long sigh of pure satisfaction. There was a pleasant light in her eyes as she made the guess. She was anxiously looking forward to making the sophomore team.

"Yes, basket-ball."

Judith echoed the sigh. She also hoped to make the team.

"We'll have to get busy and invite our freshmen to the dance," she said wagging her brown head. "The freshman class is large this year; about a third larger than last year's class. That means some of the juniors and seniors will have to help out. I'm glad of it. It will give Norma a chance to go too."

"There are only four freshmen in this house," stated Jane. "One of them is out of the question for us."

"I get you," returned Judith slangily. "Undoubtedly you refer to the ignoble Miss Noble. Noble by name but not by nature," she added with a chuckle.

Jane smiled, then frowned.

"Honestly, Judy, I'd give almost anything if she weren't at our table. I don't mind her not speaking to any of us. But she always listens to every word we say and acts as if she was storing it up for future reference. Even Dorothy feels the strain."

"It's too bad," sympathized Judith. "There's only one consolation. When it gets too much on your nerves you can always fall back on Rutherford Inn."

"I'm going to fall back on it to-night," decided Jane suddenly. "Let's have a dinner party."

"Can't go. I am the proud possessor of one dollar and two cents," Judith ruefully admitted.

"This is to be my party," emphasized Jane. "I haven't touched my last check yet. I've been too busy studying to partify. Now don't be a quitter, Judy. I want to do this."

Jane had observed signs of objection on Judith's good-humored face.

"All right," yielded Judith. "Go ahead. I'll give a blow-out when my check comes. It'll be here next week."

"We'll invite Norma, Dorothy, Adrienne, Ethel, Mary, Christine Ellis, Barbara Temple, and oh, yes -- Alicia Reynolds. We mustn't forget Alicia."

"Yes, she needs a little recreation," grinned Judith. "Chained to the ignoble Noble! What a fate for a good little soph! Some roommate!"

"You'd better be careful about the pet name you're so fond of giving that girl," warned Jane, laughing a little in spite of her admonition. "You know your failing. You'll say it some time to someone without thinking. Then little Judy will be sorry."

"Oh, I only say it to you and Imp," averred Judith cheerfully. "You're both to be trusted."

"If we're going to have the party to-night we'll have to hurry up about it. How are we going to get word to Alicia? I hate to go to her room on account of Miss Noble. And what about Christine and Barbara?"

Jane laid down her book and rose from her chair.

"I'll go over to Argyle Hall and invite them. Tell Ethel to go in and invite Alicia," suggested Judith. "She's almost as obliging as I am. She rooms next to Alicia and our noble friend. It will be only a step for her. She won't mind doing it."

"I guess I'd better. Tell Christine and Barbara to be at the Inn by six-thirty."

Jane turned and left the room. Walking down the long hall she passed Alicia's door. It was open a trifle. She was tempted to peep in and see if Alicia might perhaps be within and alone. Second thought prompted her to go on without investigating.

Rapping smartly on Ethel's door, her knock was followed by the sound of approaching footfalls from within. Nor was she aware that through the slight opening in Alicia's door a pair of sharp black eyes peered out at her.

"Why, hello, Jane!" greeted Ethel. "Come in."

"Can't stop but a minute."

Jane stepped into the room, careful to close the door behind her.

"I'm giving a dinner party at Rutherford Inn to-night," she briskly began. "All of our crowd are going, I hope. I'm just starting out to invite them. Where's Imp?"

"Downstairs on the trail of her laundry," laughed Ethel. "It went out white linen skirts and silk blouses. It came back sheets and pillow cases. You should have seen her face when she opened the package. She threw up her hands and said: 'What stupidity! Must I then appear in my classes draped like the ghost?'"

Jane joined in Ethel's merry laughter. She had a vision of petite Adrienne trailing into classes thus spectrally attired.

"I want you to do something for me, Ethel." Jane had grown suddenly serious. "Will you go to Alicia and invite her to the party? I'd rather not go myself. You understand why. But it's really necessary to invite her. She might feel hurt if she were left out. I wouldn't have that happen for worlds. Not after what she did for me about basket-ball. She was dining out the night we had the spread so I couldn't invite her to that. I told her so afterward for fear she might have been offended."

"Surely I'll tell her," nodded Ethel. "I don't think she's in now, though. I met her going down the walk as I came up it. She said she had to go to the library for a book she needed. I imagine she'll be back soon."

"Be sure to tell her," Jane impressed upon Ethel. "Thank you ever so much. Tell Adrienne, too. Don't dress up. It's a strictly informal party. Meet me in the living-room at six."

With this Jane departed to go on to Dorothy's room. Passing the door of Alicia's room she noted that it was now closed. As Alicia was out she guessed that Elsie Noble was in. She was now not sorry that she had refrained from approaching it. Undoubtedly she would have met with an unpleasant reception.

Finding her other friends at home, Jane quickly made the rounds and hurried back to her own room.

Judith appeared soon afterward with the information that Christine and Barbara had joyfully accepted and would be on hand at the Inn.

When at six o'clock the party from the Hall gathered in the living-room, first glance about showed her that Alicia was missing.

Going over to where Ethel stood, Jane anxiously asked: "Did you see Alicia, Ethel?"

"Yes. She isn't coming. She said to tell you it was impossible for her to accept. I went to her room a few minutes after you left. I knocked until I was tired but no one answered. So I went back to my room. After a while I tried again and while I was standing at her door she came down the hall with Miss Noble. I asked her to come into my room a minute and told her."

"Funny she didn't give you any reason why she couldn't come," pondered Jane with drawn brows.

"She looked as though she'd been crying," returned Ethel. "I thought maybe she'd had bad news or something so I didn't urge her. She wasn't a bit snippy. She just looked white and a little bit sad."

"I wonder if I ought to run up and see her."

Jane stared at Ethel, her eyes fall of active concern.

"Better wait until to-morrow," advised Ethel. "Whatever's the matter with her, she may feel like being alone. You know how it is sometimes with one."

"Yes, I know."

Jane knew only too well how it felt to be sought out by even her friends when occasional black moods descended upon her.

"We may as well start," she said slowly. "As hostess I mustn't neglect my guests. I'll surely make it a point to see Alicia in the morning."

Nevertheless as the bevy of light-hearted diners left Madison Hall and strolled bare-headed in the sunset toward Rutherford Inn, a vague uneasiness took hold of Jane. She regretted that she had not gone upstairs to see Alicia. Nor did it leave her until after she had reached the Inn, where for the time being the lively chatter of her companions served to drive it from her mind.



Chapter XI

Rejected Cavaliers


One glaring result of Jane's dinner party was the ignoring of the ten-thirty rule that night.

It was eight o'clock when the congenial diners finished an elaborate dessert and strolled gaily out of the Inn. The beauty of the night induced the will to loiter. Some one proposed a walk into Chesterford and a visit to a moving-picture theatre.

When they emerged from it it was half-past nine, thus necessitating a quick hike to the campus. Jane and Judith made port in their room at exactly twenty-five minutes past ten.

Visions of unprepared lessons looming up large, they decided that for once "lights out" should not be the order of things.

As a consequence of retiring at eleven-thirty, both overslept the next morning and dashed wildly off to chapel without breakfast.

Occupied from then on with classes, it was not until she had finished her last recitation of the morning and was on her way to Madison Hall that Jane remembered her resolve to see Alicia.

Determined to lose no more time in putting it into execution, she quickened her pace. Coming to the stone walk leading up to the steps of the Hall, Jane uttered a little cluck of satisfaction. She had spied Alicia seated in a rocker on the veranda, engaged in reading a letter.

"Oh, Alicia!" she called as she reached the foot of the steps. "You're the very person I most want to see!"

Sound of Jane's voice caused Alicia to glance up in startled fashion. She had been faintly smiling over her letter when first Jane glimpsed her. Now her pale face underwent a swift, ominous change. She hastily rose.

"I didn't wish to see you," she said stiffly, and marched into the house.

Jane's primary impulse was to follow her and demand an explanation. The rebuff, however, had stirred again into life the old, rebellious pride which had formerly caused her so much unhappiness.

For a moment she stood still, hands clenched, cheeks flaming with mortification. Then with a bitter smile she walked slowly up the steps and into the house. After that affront Alicia would wait a long time before she, Jane Allen, would seek an explanation.

"Well, it has come," she said sullenly, as she entered her room where Judith sat at the dressing table, recoiling her long brown hair.

"What's come? By 'it' do you mean yourself?"

Judith turned in her chair with a boyish grin.

"No," Jane answered shortly. "Alicia Reynolds has gone back to her old chums."

"You don't mean it!"

Judith's hands dropped from her hair. In her surprise she let go of half a dozen hair pins she had been holding in one hand.

"Now see what you made me do," she laughingly accused. "Get down and help me pick them up."

"Oh, bother your old hairpins!" exclaimed Jane savagely. "I'm awfully upset about this, Judy. I felt last night as if I should have gone to Alicia and asked her what was the matter. This is some of Marian Seaton's work."

"Of course it is," calmly concurred Judith. "I haven't the least idea of what it's all about, but I agree with you just the same. I'll agree even harder when I do find out."

In a few jerky sentences Jane enlightened Judith.

"So that's the way the land lies," commented Judith. "Well, I'm not surprised. Take my word for it the ignoble Noble has had a hand in this. Just the same I don't believe Alicia has gone back to Marion Seaton. She's merely hurt over some yarn that's been told her. You'd better see her, Jane, and have it out with her."

"I won't do it." Jane shook an obstinate head. "Alicia ought to know better than listen to those girls. She knows how badly Marian Seaton behaved last year about basket-ball. She knows that Marian is untruthful and dishonorable. If she chooses to believe in a person of that stamp then she will have to abide by her choice."

It was the stubborn, embittered Jane Allen of earlier days at Wellington who now spoke.

"Only the other day I said to Dorothy that I didn't hate Marian Seaton any longer; that I felt only sorry for her. I said, too, that there must be some good in her if one could only find it. What a simpleton I was!"

The sarcastic smile that hovered about Jane's red lips, fully indicated her contempt of her own mistaken sentiments.

"Adrienne was right," she said after a brief pause. "She said she could never forget nor forgive an injury. I thought I could, but I can't. I mean I don't want to."

Her brows meeting in the old disfiguring scowl, Jane began pacing the room in what Judith had termed her "caged lion" fashion.

"Oh, forget it," counseled Judith, casting a worried glance at Jane's gloomy, storm-ridden face. "Don't let Marian Seaton's hatefulness upset you, Jane. You behaved like a brick about your room and that letter. This isn't half as bad as that mix-up was. You said your own self that you were going to ignore anything she tried to do against you. Now go ahead and keep your word. You've lots of good friends. You should worry."

"I haven't so many," Jane sharply contradicted. "I can count them on my fingers. I don't make friends as easily as you do, Judy."

"Just the same a lot of fuss was made over you last spring when you won the big game for our team," Judith sturdily reminded.

"That's not friendship. That was only admiration of the moment. The same girls who cheered me then would probably be just as ready to turn against me if they happened to feel like it," pointed out Jane skeptically. "No wonder I used to hate girls. Very few of them know what loyalty and friendship mean."

"You're hopeless." Judith made a gesture of resignation.

With a chuckle she added: "Why not challenge Marian Seaton to a duel and demolish her? Umbrellas would be splendid weapons. I have one with a lovely crooked handle. You could practice hooking it around my neck and when the fateful hour came you could bring the double-dyed villain to her knees with one swoop. Wouldn't that be nice?"

"You're a ridiculous girl, Judy Stearns."

Jane was forced to laugh a little at Judith's nonsense.

"You're a goose yourself to get all worked up over nothing," grinned Judith. "I can't say I blame you for throwing up the stupendous labor of hunting out Marian's good qualities. In my opinion 'There ain't no such animal.' But you're a very large-sized goose if you allow her to spoil your sophomore year for you."

"I don't intend she shall spoil it," Jane grimly assured. "I've stood a good deal from her without ever even once trying to strike back. I'm not sure that I've done right in allowing her to torment me as she has without ever asserting myself. There's a limit to forbearance. I may feel some day that I've reached it."

Judith smiled but said nothing. She had too high an opinion of Jane to believe that her proud-spirited roommate would ever descend to the level of her enemies. Given an opportunity for revenge, she believed that Jane would scorn to seize it.

"Have you invited your freshman yet?" she asked with sudden irrelevancy.

"No, I haven't had time to see any one of them yet," Jane answered.

"I asked Miss Lorimer, a cute little girl from Creston Hall, this morning after chapel, but she said she'd already been invited," informed Judith. "I must find out if the three eligible freshmen here have escorts yet. I suppose they have, with so many sophs in the house. The ignoble Noble's not an eligible."

The luncheon bell now interrupted the talk. It seemed to Jane as she took her place at table that spiteful triumph lurked in the sharp glance Elsie Noble flashed at her.

The conversation carried on by herself, Adrienne and Dorothy, centered almost entirely on the coming dance. From Adrienne, Jane learned that the Hall's three freshmen had already received invitations.

When the little French girl announced this, Jane again fancied that she read satisfaction in the sharp features of the quarrelsome freshman.

Though the latter had not addressed a word to her tablemates since her advent among them, she never missed a word they said. All three were well aware of this and it annoyed them not a little.

When just before dinner that evening Judith and Jane compared notes, it was to discover the same thing. Neither had been successful in securing a freshman to escort to the dance.

"I've asked five girls and every one of them turned me down," Judith ruefully acknowledged. "I thought I'd start early, but it seems others started earlier."

"I've asked two different girls, but both have escorts," frowned Jane. "I sha'n't ask any more. I thought Miss Harper, the second girl I asked, refused me rather coolly. I want to do my duty as a soph, but I won't stand being snubbed."

"Let's go and see what luck Ethel and Adrienne have had," proposed Judith.

Indifferently assenting, Jane accompanied Judith to her friends' room.

"Ah, do not ask me!" was Adrienne's disgusted outburst, "These freshmen are, of a truth, too popular. Four this day I have invited, but to no purpose."

"I'm going to take Miss Simmons, a Barclay Hall girl, to the dance," informed Ethel. "I asked her this morning and she accepted."

"Well, we seem out of luck," sighed Judith. "Do you know whether Mary and Norma have invited their freshmen?"

"Mary's going to take Miss Thomas, an Argyle Hall girl. Norma hasn't asked any one yet," was Ethel's prompt reply. "You girls just happened to ask the wrong ones, I guess. Try again to-morrow. There are more than enough freshies to go round this year."

After a little further talk, Jane and Judith went back to their room.

"What do you think about it?" Judith asked abruptly the instant they were behind their own door.

"I don't know. It's probably as Ethel says, 'a happen-so.' I can't think of any other reason, unless --  -- "

Jane stopped and eyed Judith steadily.

"Unless some one in the freshman class has set the freshmen against us," quickly supplemented Judith.

"Yes, that's what I was thinking. It doesn't seem possible in so large a class. Still one girl can sometimes do a good deal of mischief."

"You mean Miss Noble?"

Judith was too much in earnest to use the derisive name she had given the disagreeable freshman.

"Yes," affirmed Jane. "If she helped to turn Alicia against me, she is quite capable of going further. So far as we know, you and Adrienne and I are the only sophs who've been turned down all around. Norma hasn't asked any one yet. Anyway, she's a junior."

"It looks rather queer, so queer that I'm going to make it my business to ask a few questions to-morrow. If there's really anything spiteful back of this, believe me, little Judy will find it out."



Chapter XII

Norma's "Find"


The end of the next day was productive of no better results so far as Adrienne, Judith and Jane were concerned. Playing escort to their freshman sisters seemed not for them.

That evening a quintette of girls gathered in Ethel's room to discuss the peculiar situation. The quintette consisted of Ethel, Adrienne, Jane, Judith and Norma Bennett.

"There's something not right about it," Judith emphatically declared. "I've tried all day to get a clue to the mystery, but nothing doing. Nobody seems to want the pleasure of our company to the dance. What luck have you had, Norma?"

"Oh, I invited a little girl named Freda Marsh. She lives away off the campus," replied Norma. "She and three other girls have rented the second floor of a house and do their own cooking. They are all poor and very determined to put themselves through college."

"When did you discover this find?" Judith showed signs of active interest.

"Miss Marsh sits next to me at chapel," replied Norma. "After chapel this morning I asked her to go to the dance. She seemed awfully pleased. Then she told me where she lived and about herself and her chums. They all hail from a little town in the northern part of New York State."

"Wicked one, why did you not tell me this before?" playfully demanded Adrienne.

"I haven't had a chance, Imp, until now," smiled Norma. "This is the first time I've seen you to-day except at a distance."

"Ah, yes, it is true!" loudly sighed Adrienne. "This noon I came late from the laboratory after a most stupid chemistry lesson. Such hands! They were the sight! I feared I should wash them away before they became presentable. After the classes this afternoon I must of a necessity go to the library. So it was dinner time when I returned, and thus passed the time."

"You're forgiven."

Her blue eyes full of affection, Norma laid an arm over Adrienne's shoulder. She had every reason to adore the impulsive, warm-hearted little girl.

"Norma, do you suppose Miss Marsh's friends have received invitations to the dance?" Jane broke in eagerly.

"I don't know, Jane. I can find out for you in the morning at chapel."

"I wish you would. If they haven't, tell Miss Marsh that we would love to be their escorts and that we'll call on them to-morrow evening. How about it, girls?"

Jane turned questioning eyes from Judith to Adrienne.

"It's a fine idea!" glowed Judith. "I'm sorry I didn't know about them before. The freshman class is so large this year. I know only a few of the girls as yet."

"I am indeed well suited." Adrienne waved an approving hand. "Shall we not go to make the call soon after dinner to-morrow night?"

"Yes, as early as we can," acquiesced Judith. "That is, provided these three girls haven't been asked."

"It would be nice to go and see them anyway," declared Ethel. "We ought to get acquainted with them. Where do they live, Norma?"

"At 605 Bridge Street. It's almost a mile from here. So Miss Marsh said."

"To go back to what you said a while ago, Judy, what makes you think there is any special reason for the girls' refusing you and Adrienne and Jane as escorts?" questioned Norma concernedly.

"Jane and I just think so. That's all. We think some one's to blame for it."

"To blame. Who then is to blame?"

A swift flash of suspicion had leaped into Adrienne's big black eyes.

"Some one not far away, perhaps," replied Judith significantly. "That's the way it looks to me."

"But could it be? She is but one among many," reminded Adrienne.

She understood quite well whom Judith meant.

"She's the only freshman who would be interested in making trouble," argued Judith. "She has probably been egged on by others who are not freshmen."

"Still it's not fair to lay it to her when we don't know anything definite," remarked Ethel.

"I'm only supposing," explained Judith. "I'm not saying positively that I think she's guilty. I'm only saying that it seems probable."

"I doubt it." Ethel shook a dubious head.

"I may be wrong," Judith admitted. "Anyway, it won't matter, if these three girls accept our invitation. It will show the plotters, if there really are any, that they haven't bothered us a bit."

"I'm sorry, girls, but I'll have to go." Norma rose from her chair. "I haven't looked at my books yet and I must study to-night."

"You're not the only one," cheerfully commented Judith, getting to her feet. "Come on, Jane. We have our own troubles in the study line."

With this the talking-bee broke up, Norma promising faithfully to be sure to deliver next morning the message intrusted to her.

Directly after dinner the following evening the five friends set out for 605 Bridge Street. Greatly to the delight of the three most interested parties, Norma had given out the pleasant news that the trio of girls they were to call upon were without special invitations to the coming dance.

The beauty of the soft autumn night made walking a pleasure. Five abreast, the callers strolled through the twilight, making the still air ring with their fresh voices and light, happy laughter.

The house where the four freshmen lived was an unpretentious dwelling, built of wood and painted a dull gray. A straggling bit of uneven lawn in front by no means added to its appearance. Even in the concealing twilight it had a neglected look. It was in glaring contrast to stately Madison Hall with its green, close-clipped lawns and wide verandas.

"What cheerlessness!" exclaimed Adrienne under her breath.

Grouped about the door, Norma rang the bell. A tired-eyed, middle-aged woman answered it. Yes, Miss Marsh was in, she declared listlessly.

A clear, pleasant voice from above stairs affirmed that information. Next instant a sweet-faced, brown-eyed girl had reached the landing and was greeting her callers with a pretty cordiality that was infinitely pleasing.

"Do come upstairs to our house," she invited. "It's a very unpretentious place, but home-like, we think."

Norma introducing her friends to Miss Marsh, the five girls followed their hostess up the narrow stairway and were ushered into a good-sized living-room. A rag rug covered a floor, stained dark at the edges. An old-fashioned library table, a quaint walnut desk with many pigeon holes, a horse-hair covered settee and a few nondescript, but comfortable-looking chairs completed the furniture.

On the table, strewn with books, a reading lamp gave forth a mellow light. The walls, papered in tan with a deep brown border, were dotted with passe-partouted prints, both in color and black and white. The whole effect, though homely, was that of a room which might indeed be called a living room.

"Please help yourselves to seats," hospitably urged their winsome hostess. "Excuse me for a moment while I call the girls. They are just finishing the washing of the supper dishes and getting things in shape for breakfast. We get everything ready the night before so as not to be late in the morning," she explained. Then, with a smiling nod, she left her guests.

"It's a comfy old room, isn't it?" was Judith's guarded observation. "This house-keeping idea of theirs is a clever one."

"That Miss Marsh is a dear," murmured Ethel. "I've seen her once or twice before on the campus, I think."

"I have the feeling that we shall like these girls," commented Adrienne. "This Miss Marsh has the sweet face and the courteous ways."

The entrance of their hostess and her chums prevented further exchange of opinion.

"These are my pals, Ida Leonard, Marie Benham and Kathie Meddart," smiled Freda, going on to name each of her callers as she performed the introduction. "You see I remembered all your names and to whom they belonged."

When a number of girls have the will to become acquainted it does not take them long to do so. Almost immediately a buzz of animated impersonal conversation began.

"We came here to deliver our invitations in person," Jane finally said with a smile. "Miss Leonard, I'd love to be your cavalier for the freshman frolic."

"Thank you. I'd love to go to it with you, I'm sure," accepted Ida Leonard, a tall, thin girl with fair hair and a plain, but interesting face.

Jane having set the ball rolling, Adrienne promptly invited Marie Benham, a slim little girl with an eager, boyish face, framed in curly brown hair.

This left Kathie Meddart, an extremely pretty girl of pure blonde type, to Judith.

Considerable merriment arose over the extending and acceptance of the invitations. Poverty had not robbed the four young hostesses of a cheery, happy-go-lucky air that charmed their more affluent guests.

For an hour the congenial company talked and laughed as only girls can. Kathie finally excusing herself, disappeared kitchenward, presently returning with a huge, brown pitcher of lemonade and a plate piled high with crisp little cakes, which she assured were of her own making.

Needless to say, they disappeared with amazing rapidity, the guests loudly acclaiming their toothsome merits.

"I'm glad you like them," declared Kathie, pink with pleasant confusion. "I took a course in cookery at a night school at home last year. I often used to make this kind of cakes for parties. I had lots of orders and made enough money to pay my tuition fees at Wellington for this year."

"How splendid!" approved Jane. Her approval was echoed by the others.

"I'm hoping, after I get acquainted here in college, to do a little of that sort of thing," confided Kathie rather shyly. "I could spare an hour or so a day to do it. Only I don't know how to go about it."

"Would you -- could you -- would you care to make some for me, some day?" hesitated Jane. "They would be simply great if one were giving a spread."

"Why, that's ever so kind in you," glowed Kathie. "When I just spoke of it I wasn't fishing for an order. I mentioned it before I thought."

"It's a good thing you did. I'll order two dozen for my own special benefit the minute my check comes," laughed Judith. "I sha'n't give Jane Allen one. I'll sit in a corner of our room and gobble them all up."

"I adore those cakes!" Adrienne clasped her small hands. "Would it then be possible that I might have some to-morrow? Perhaps two dozen? Ah, but I am not the greedy one. I will share with my friends, even most selfish Judy."

This provoked a laugh at Judith's expense. So it was, however, that Kathie received her first order which she agreed to deliver the next day.

As a matter of fact, she had been the only one to demur when Freda had announced that the Madison Hall girls were coming there that evening. She had advanced the argument that "those rich Madison Hall girls won't care to ask us to the dance when they see how poor we are." Now she wondered how she could ever have so misjudged such a delightful lot of girls.



Chapter XIII

The Explanation


When at length the quintette of callers regretfully agreed that they must be getting back to the Hall, Freda said rather nervously:

"Please don't go just yet. I -- we -- there is something we think we ought to tell you."

"Very well, tell us," invited Judith gaily.

She had an idea that the something might relate to the all-important question of gowns. If Freda were worrying over that, Judith proposed to dismiss the subject lightly. Precisely the same thought had occurred to Jane, who noted Freda's sudden flush and evident confusion.

"Something -- well -- not very pleasant happened this afternoon," Freda continued. "A -- we had a caller -- a girl --  -- Why shouldn't I be frank? This girl was of the freshman class. We saw her at class meeting the other day, but we have never been introduced to her. She brought a paper with her and asked us to sign it. It was about three of you girls; Miss Allen, Miss Dupree and Miss Stearns, and --  -- "

"About us?" chorused a trio of astonished voices.

"Yes," nodded Freda, her color heightening. "It began, 'We, the undersigned,' I can't recall the exact words, but it was an agreement not to accept an invitation from any one of you to the dance or to notice you throughout the year, because of the discourteous and hateful way you had treated a member of the freshman class. There were --  -- "

"How perfectly disgraceful!" burst indignantly from Judith. "What did I tell you, girls? I knew there was something wrong. We didn't expect to find it out in this strange way, though. Well, 'murder will out,' as the saying goes."

"You said the paper began, 'We, the undersigned'?" questioned Jane in a clear, hard voice. "How many names were signed to it?"

"I can't say positively." Freda looked distressed. "You see, it made me so disgusted that I handed it back the instant I had read it. The girl offered it to my chums, too, but they wouldn't look at it. She said that nearly all the members of the class had signed it. I know better. I believe not half the class had signed."

"Would you object to telling us the name of the girl who brought you the paper to sign?" steadily pursued Jane.

"I wouldn't object; no. Why should I? A girl like that deserves no clemency," Freda returned spiritedly. "The trouble is, I don't know her name. She is small and dark, with sharp black eyes and a pointed chin. She's very homely, but dresses beautifully. She --  -- "

"Thank you. We know who she is," interrupted Judith. "Her name is Elsie Noble, and she lives at Madison Hall."

"Ah, but she is the hateful one," sputtered Adrienne. "It was most kind in you, Miss Marsh, and your friends also, to thus refuse to sign this hideously untruthful paper. We have done this girl no harm. Rather, it is she who would harm us because we have respected our own rights."

"I suspected it to be a case of spite work," asserted Freda. "It is not usual for a class in college to adopt such harsh measures."

"We were rather surprised at her coming to us with the paper," put in Kathie. "We've seen her with a crowd of girls who don't appear to know that we are on the map. She said she understood that you girls were going to invite us to the dance and felt it her duty to call on us and object to our accepting your invitations."

"But how could she possibly know that?" cried out Ethel Lacey. "No one except the five of us knew it until Norma told you this morning."

"I hope you don't think --  -- " began Freda.

A hurt look had crept into her soft, brown eyes.

"How could we possibly think such a thing?" cut in Jane assuringly. "We can readily understand that Miss Noble's call must have been a complete surprise to you. On the contrary, we are very grateful to you and your friends for not signing the paper."

"Yes, indeed," nodded Judith. "Frankly, we suspected that something unpleasant was in the wind. When first we heard about the dance, we each invited freshmen whom we knew. Every one of them turned us down. We didn't think anything of that in the beginning. We supposed we had just happened to invite the wrong ones. Afterward we thought differently."

"I am sorry we didn't make it our business to get acquainted earlier with you girls. We really should have, you know," Judith apologized. "We were so busy getting started in our classes that we hadn't had time yet to be sociable. Jane and I had both agreed to try to know every girl in the freshman class this year. I'm glad it has turned out like this. I'm sure we'll all have a splendid time at the dance, no matter whether some people like it or not."

"I'm very sure of it, too," declared Kathie Meddart. "I can't understand how a girl could be so contemptible as to deliberately set out to injure others."

"Oh, well, she hasn't succeeded," reminded Judith, "so why should we care? We've invited our freshmen in spite of her."

"What are you going to do about that paper?" Ida Leonard asked a trifle curiously. "If I were you girls, I think I would make a fuss about it. We'll stand by you if you do."

"Indeed we will," echoed Marie Benham. "I wouldn't allow such a document to travel about college."

"It's hard to decide what to do," Jane said gravely. "It might be wiser to ignore the whole thing. I don't know. We'll have to think it over, I guess. I thank you girls for your offer to stand by us."

Aside from Freda's opinion that spite had actuated the circulation of the damaging paper, she and her chums had exhibited an admirable restraint concerning it. They had evidently accepted Adrienne's sketchy explanation of it at its face value.

This courteous disinclination to pry had been especially noted and approved by Jane. It added to the high opinion she already cherished of the four freshmen. They had been moved solely by a sense of duty to inform herself and her companions of the outrageous paper.

Jane felt strongly that an explanation was due them, yet she hated to make it. It would be too much like gossiping, she thought.

"Adrienne told you, a little while ago, that we had done Miss Noble no harm," she said slowly. "That is really all that I think ought to be said about this affair. Are you satisfied to leave it so?"

"Perfectly," replied Freda. "I'd rather it would be that way. I can see no good in dragging up unpleasant things. We'd rather not hear about them."

"The paper itself speaks for those who drew it up," smiled Marie. "It's easy to place the blame where it belongs."

Ida and Kathie's warmly expressed opinion coincided with that of their companion.

"Shall we not speak of more pleasant things? What of the dance? At what time shall we come for you?"

Adrienne had addressed herself to Freda.

Glad to get away from the distasteful topic they had been discussing, the girls began to make their arrangements for the freshman frolic. After a little further talk, the five callers took their leave.

"Well, what are we going to do about it?" demanded Judith, the moment they had reached the street. "I agree with that nice Miss Benham. We can't afford to have a paper like that going the rounds of the college."

"I will of my own accord go to the Prexy. He is of mon père the old friend. He will not allow that such mischief should be done."

Adrienne threateningly wagged her curly head, as she made this vengeful announcement.

"Good for you, Imp!" lauded Judith.

"I think either Prexy or Miss Rutledge ought to be told," concurred Ethel. "It would nip the whole business in the bud. There'll be more of this sort of thing if it isn't stopped right away.

"Did you hear what I said, Jane?" she questioned over her shoulder to Jane, who was walking behind her with Norma. Ethel, Adrienne and Judith had taken the lead.

"Yes, I heard. Let's wait until we get back to the Hall to talk this over," Jane grimly proposed. "We'll have time to settle it before the ten-thirty bell."

"Come on, then. Forward march!" ordered Judith. "The sooner we get there the longer we'll have to talk."

This important point settled, a brisk hike to the Hall became the order.

"Don't stop to talk to anyone," commanded Judith, as they scampered up the front steps. "Make a bee-line for our room. I'll hang out a 'Busy' sign, so that we won't be disturbed."

Five minutes later the "Busy" sign was in place and the key turned in the lock.

"Three of us can sit on my couch. That means you, Imp and Ethel. Now, Jane and Norma, draw up your chairs. Ahem!" Judith giggled. "What is the pleasure of this indignation meeting? You know what we think, Jane. Let's hear from you and Norma."

"Oh, I haven't any voice in the matter," smiled Norma. "That is, I've no right to decide anything."

"Neither have I, but I'm speaking just the same," laughed Ethel. "I say, 'On to Prexy with the horrible tale.'"

"I think we'd best handle this affair if we can without the faculty's help," Jane said quietly. "If we went to anyone it ought to be Miss Rutledge. I'd rather not tell even her. I hate telling tales."

"I don't," disagreed Judith. "If we let it go without saying a word, we'll have trouble right along. It ought to be stamped out now."

"I intend that it shall be," Jane tersely assured.

"How?"

Judith's query rang with skepticism.

"By going straight to Miss Noble and ordering her to stop it," was Jane's determined reply. "I shall ask her to give me that paper."

"A lot of good that will do." Judith gave a short laugh. "You might as well tell the wind to stop blowing."

"It will do this much good," retorted Jane. "We shall give Miss Noble her choice between giving up that paper or being reported to the faculty."

"Who's going to tell her all this?" demanded Judith in a slightly ruffled tone.

"I am," returned Jane composedly.

"And I. I shall be there also," instantly supported Adrienne.

"Very fine. It looks as though I'd be there myself."

Judith's annoyed expression vanished in a wide grin.

"When do we do this valiant stunt?" she inquired facetiously. "When does the great offensive take place?"

"We'll have to put it off until to-morrow," Jane answered. "It's too late to do it to-night. We'll go to her just before dinner, or else right after. There won't be time enough in the morning or at noon."

"Suppose she won't let us inside her room?" argued Judith.

"She isn't rooming alone," was Jane's reminder. "I intend to see Alicia Reynolds to-morrow and find out just why she wouldn't talk to me the other day. I promised myself that I'd never ask her. But something I saw to-day makes me feel that I must. This Miss Noble has been making trouble between us. I'm convinced of that. It can't go on. The tangle between Alicia and me must be straightened out by a frank understanding of what caused it. Once that is done, Alicia will stand by us, I believe."

"But you said yourself that she'd gone back to Marian Seaton."

Judith looked amazement of Jane's sudden change of opinion.

"So I thought," admitted Jane, "until I saw her pass Marian on the campus to-day without speaking. It came to me right then that only Miss Noble was to blame for the snub Alicia gave me. But I was too proud to run after Alicia and have it out with her. Now I'm going to do it."



Chapter XIV

Openly And Aboveboard


When Jane awoke the next morning her first thought crystalized into a determination to interview Alicia Reynolds before the day was over. Speculating as to her best opportunity, she decided that it should be at the end of the morning recitations.

For once she would cut her recitation in Horace, which came the last hour in the morning. Alicia had no recitation at that hour. She would probably be in her room and alone. Jane also knew that Elsie Noble was occupied with a class at that time.

If looks could have killed, Jane and Adrienne would undoubtedly have been carried lifeless from the dining room that morning. At breakfast Elsie Noble's thin face wore an expression of spiteful resentment, which she made no effort to conceal. She was inwardly furious over her failure to rally the four Bridge Street freshmen to her standard. In consequence, she was more bitter against Jane and Adrienne than ever.

It further increased her rancor to hear Adrienne prattling with child-like innocence to Dorothy Martin of the coming dance.

Knowing very well what she was about, the little girl kept up a tantalizing chatter that was maddening in the extreme to the defeated plotter.

Unacquainted with the true state of affairs, Dorothy's genuinely expressed interest in the Bridge Street girls merely added fuel to the fire.

"Ah, but they are indeed delightful!" Adrienne wickedly assured, her black eyes dancing with mischief. "We shall be proud of our freshmen, when we escort them to the dance. Shall we not, Jeanne?"

"Yes, indeed. You must meet them, Dorothy. You'll like them all immensely. They're a splendid, high-principled lot of girls."

Signally amused by Adrienne's tactics, Jane could not resist this one little fling at her discomfited tablemate. She hoped it would serve to enlighten the latter in regard to at least one thing.

Her second recitation, spherical trigonometry, over, Jane hurried across the campus toward the Hall, keeping a sharp lookout for Alicia. It was just possible she might meet the latter on the campus.

Reaching the veranda, Jane lingered there. If she could waylay Alicia as she came in, so much the better. With this idea paramount, she sat down in a high-backed porch rocker and waited.

She could not help reflecting a trifle sadly that thus far her sophomore year had run anything but smoothly. She had looked forward to peace, whereas she was in the midst of strife. And all because Marian Seaton did not like her. That dislike dated back to her initial journey across the continent to Wellington. If she had not antagonized Marian then, she wondered if she and Marian would have become enemies. She decided that they must have. They had nothing whatever in common.

Light, hurrying feet on the walk brought Jane's retrospective musings to an end. She saw Alicia a second before the latter saw her. Promptly rising, she headed Alicia off neatly as she gained the steps.

"I want to speak to you, Alicia," she greeted evenly. "You must listen to me."

"I have nothing to say to you. Please let me alone."

A dull flush mantled Alicia's pale cheeks as she thus spoke. Her tones indicated injury rather than anger.

"But I have something to say to you," persisted Jane. "I must know positively why you have turned against me. It's not fair in you to keep me in the dark. Do you think it is? What have I done to deserve such treatment?"

Stopping on the step below Jane, Alicia stared hard at the quiet, purposeful face looking down on her.

"I believed in you, Jane," she said sadly, with a little catch of breath. "You made me admire you. Then you spoiled it all. It hurt me so. I -- I -- don't want to talk about it."

She took an undecided step to the right, as though to pass Jane and flee into the house.

"Don't go, Alicia. Let's get together and straighten things out." Jane laid a gentle hand on the other girl's arm. "I'm sure we can. You promised last year to be my friend. Have you forgotten that?"

"How can I be the friend of a girl who talks about me?" Alicia cried out bitterly. "A girl who only pretends friendship?"

"So, that's it. I thought as much. Now tell me what I said about you."

Something in Jane's steady glance caused Alicia's eyes to waver.

"You told Ethel Lacey that you wished you didn't have to invite me to go with you girls to the Inn the other night, but you felt that you could hardly get out of it. That I expected you to do it. You know that's not true. I'd never intrude where I wasn't wanted."

"Did Ethel tell you this?" Jane asked composedly.

"No. Someone else overheard you say it," retorted Alicia.

"And that 'someone else'?"

"I won't tell you. I promised I wouldn't."

"You don't need to tell me, because I know." Jane emphasized the know. "It's not true. I didn't say that. This is what I said."

As well as she could recall it, she repeated the conversation that had taken place between herself and Ethel.

"I asked Ethel to invite you because I didn't want you to go to your room," she explained. "Miss Noble and I are not on speaking terms. Did you know that?"

"Yes, I knew it," Alicia admitted. "I was told it was your fault. I didn't believe it until --  -- "

She paused, uncertainty written large on every feature. She had begun to glimpse the unworthiness of her doubts.

"Until Miss Noble came to you with this untruthful tale about me," finished Jane.

Alicia was silent. She could not truthfully contradict this pertinent statement.

"Which of us do you believe, Alicia?"

Jane put the question with business-like directness.

Alicia mutely studied Jane's resolute face. Honesty of purpose looked out from the long-lashed, gray eyes. She mentally contrasted it with another face; dark, spiteful and furtive.

"I believe you. Forgive me, Jane."

Her lips quivering, Alicia stretched forth a penitent hand.

"There's nothing to forgive."

Jane was quick to grasp the hand Alicia proffered.

"I ought to have come straight to you," quavered the penitent.

"I wish you had. Thank goodness, it's all right now. Let's sit down in the porch swing, Alicia. There are several things yet to be said and this is the time to say them."

Her hand still in Alicia's, Jane gently pulled her toward the swing. When they had seated themselves, she continued:

"I don't like to say things behind anyone's back, but in this case it's necessary. Miss Noble has started her freshman year as a trouble maker. She is very bitter against me for several reasons. When I came back to college, I found that Mrs. Weatherbee had given her my room. She understood that I was not coming to Madison Hall this year. I'm telling you this because I suspect that it is news to you."

"It certainly is." Alicia showed evident surprise. "I supposed Elsie Noble had been assigned to room with me from the start. She never said a word about it to me."

"She didn't want you to know it. I don't wish to explain why. I'll simply say that Mrs. Weatherbee decided I had first right to the room. It made Miss Noble very angry. She came back to the room after she had left it. Adrienne, Judith and I were there. She made quite a scene. I hoped it would end there, but it hasn't. Since then she has tried to set not only you against me, but others also. She has circulated a paper among the freshmen against Judith, Adrienne and I which some of them have signed."

"How perfectly terrible!" was Alicia's shocked exclamation. "She certainly has kept very quiet about it to me. I never suspected such a thing."

"I can't see that it has done us much harm," Jane dryly responded. "It's come to a point, however, where we feel that we ought to assert ourselves. We are here for study, not to quarrel, but we won't stand everything tamely."

"I don't blame you. I wouldn't, either. I'm sure Marian Seaton is behind all this," declared Alicia hotly. "Ever since I came back to the Hall she's been trying to talk to me. Small good it will do her. When I broke friendship with her last year it was for good and all."

"When you wouldn't speak to me the other day, I thought you had gone back to her," confessed Jane. "Just a little before that Dorothy and I had been saying that we thought we ought to try to make Marian see things differently. Afterward I was so angry I gave up the thought as hopeless. It may not be right to say to you, 'Let Marian alone,' when one looks at it from one angle. The Bible says, 'Love your enemies.' On the other hand, it seems wiser to steer clear of malicious persons. Marian is malicious. She's proved that over and over again. No one but herself can make her different."

"I know it's best for me to keep away from her," asserted Alicia. "My influence wouldn't be one, two, three with her. Whenever I tried last year to be honest with myself she just sneered at me. It's either be like her or let her alone, in my case. There's no happy medium. So I choose to let her alone."

"We all have to decide such things for ourselves," Jane said reflectively. "It seems too bad that Marian's so determined to be always on the wrong side. I've decided to let her stay there for the present. If this affair of the paper involved only myself, I'd probably do nothing about it. But it's not right to let Judith and Adrienne suffer for something that's really meant for me."

"What are you going to do?" inquired Alicia.

"That's what I've been leading up to. With your permission I intend to have a reckoning with Miss Noble in your room. I'd like you to be there when it happens. Judith and Adrienne will be with me. Are you willing that it should be so?"

"Yes, indeed," promptly answered Alicia. "When is the grand reckoning to be?"

"This afternoon just before dinner. I can say my say in short order. Of course if she's not in, I'll have to postpone it until later."

"I can let you know as soon as she comes in from her last class," volunteered Alicia.

"No, I'd rather not have it that way." Jane smiled whimsically. "It's had enough to have to go to work and deliberately plan this hateful business. It has to be gone through with. That's certain. We'll just take our chance of finding her in. When you hear us knock, I wish you'd open the door. It's all horrid, isn't it? I feel like a conspirator."

Jane made a gesture indicative of utter distaste for the purposed program.

"It's honest, anyhow. It's not backbiting and underhandedness," Alicia stoutly pointed out.

"No, it isn't," Jane soberly agreed. "That's the only thing that reconciles me to do it. It's dealing openly and aboveboard with treachery and spite."



Chapter XV

The Reckoning


"Voila! We are ready. Let us advance!" proclaimed Adrienne with a smothered chuckle, when at ten minutes to six a determined trio left Adrienne's room on the fateful errand to the room next door.

"Don't you dare giggle when we get in there," warned Judith in a whisper, as Jane rapped sharply on the door. "We must make an imposing appearance if we can," she added with a grin. "Who knows? I may giggle myself."

True to her word, it was Alicia who admitted them with, "Hello, girls! Come in."

As the three entered, a figure lolling in a Morris chair by the window sprang up with an angry exclamation.

"I will not have these people in my room, Alicia Reynolds! Do you hear me? I won't!"

Elsie Noble had turned on Alicia, her small black eyes snapping.

"Half this room happens to be mine," tranquilly reminded Alicia. "Have a seat, girls."

"No, thank you. We won't stay long enough for that." Jane's tone was equally composed. "We came to see you, Miss Noble."

"I won't stay," shrieked the enraged girl, and started for the door.

Alicia reached it ahead of her. Calmly turning the key, she dropped it into her blouse pocket.

"Yes; you will stay, Elsie," she said with quiet decision. "You tried to make trouble between Jane and me. We've found you out. Now, you'll listen to what Jane has to say to you. If you don't, you may be sorry."

Her back against the locked door, Elsie Noble glared at her captors for an instant in speechless fury. Then she found her voice again.

"I'll report every one of you for this! It's an outrage!" she shrilled.

The threat lacked strength, however. A coward at heart, she already stood in fear of the accusing quartette which confronted her.

"Just a moment, Miss Noble. We have no desire to detain you any longer than we can help." Jane's intonation was faintly satirical. "We came here for two purposes. One is to tell you that you must stop making trouble for us among your classmates. You know what you have done. So do we. Don't do it again. I will also trouble you for that paper you have been circulating among the freshmen."

"I don't know what you're talking about," hotly denied the culprit. Her eyes, however, shifted uneasily from those of her accusers.

"Oh, yes you do." Judith now took a hand. "You ought to know. Don't you remember? You began it, 'We the undersigned,' and ended your little stunt with the names of as many freshmen as were foolish enough to listen to you."

"You seem to think you know a whole lot," sneered Elsie. "I'm very sure not one of you ever saw such a paper as you describe."

"We did not see it, but we know four girls who did," Jane informed with quiet significance. "They were asked to sign it and refused. They are quite willing to testify to this should we see fit to take the matter to President Blakesly or Miss Rutledge."

"You wouldn't dare do such a thing!" the cornered plotter cried out defiantly. "He -- you -- he wouldn't listen to such a -- a -- story as you're trying to tell. He has something better to do than listen to gossiping sophomores. Miss Rutledge wouldn't listen, either."

"I don't think either President Blakesly or Miss Rutledge would refuse to listen to anything that had to do with one student's attempt to injure another," was Jane's grave response. "However, that is not the point. You must make up your mind either to give me that paper and your promise to stop your mischief-making, or else defend yourself as best you can to the faculty. Naturally, we would prefer to settle the matter here and without publicity. If it is carried higher, it will involve not only you, but all the others who signed the paper. If this concerned me alone, I would not be here. But I cannot allow my friends to suffer, simply because they are my friends."

Jane delivered her ultimatum with a tense forcefulness that admitted of no further trifling.

"I can't -- I won't -- I --  -- " floundered Elsie, now more afraid than angry. "How do I know that you wouldn't take it to President Blakesly if I gave it to you?" she demanded desperately.

"Ah! She admits that she has it!" exclaimed Adrienne triumphantly. The little girl had hitherto kept silent, content to let Jane do the talking. "She is of a truth quite droll."

"Yes, I have it!" Elsie fiercely addressed Adrienne. "I'm going to keep it, too, you horrid little torment."

It was Jane who now spoke, and with a finality.

"A moment more, please. I want to ask you two questions, Miss Noble. The first is: 'How did you happen to overhear the private conversation between Miss Lacey and myself that you repeated so incorrectly to Alicia?' The second is: 'How did you know that we intended to invite the Bridge Street girls to the freshman frolic?' We had mentioned it to no one outside, except Miss Marsh, who certainly did not tell you."

"I won't answer either question," sputtered Elsie. "You can't make me tell you. You'll never know from me."

"I was sure you wouldn't answer." Jane smiled scornfully. "I asked you merely because I wanted to call your attention to both instances. That's all. I'm sorry we can not settle this affair quietly. If you will kindly stand aside, Alicia will unlock the door."

"I -- you mustn't tell President Blakesly!"

There was a hint of pleading in the protesting cry. Thoroughly cowed by the fell prospect she was now facing, Elsie crumpled.

"You're mean, too -- mean -- for -- anything!" she wailed, and burst into tears. "You -- ought to be -- ashamed -- to -- come -- here -- and -- bully me -- like -- this. I'll give you -- the -- paper -- but -- I'll hate you as long as I live, Jane Allen!"

Sheer intensity of emotion steadied her voice on this last passionate avowal.

Handkerchief to her eyes, she stumbled across the room to the chiffonier. Jerking open the top drawer, she groped within and drew forth a folded paper. Turning, she threw it at Jane with vicious force. It fluttered to the floor a few feet from where she stood.

Very calmly Jane marched over and picked it up. Unfolding it, she glanced it over.

"Please read it, girls," she directed, handing it to Judith.

The latter silently complied and passed it to Adrienne, who in turn gave it to Alicia.

Alicia's face grew dark as she perused it. An angry spot of color appeared on each cheek.

"How could you?" she said, her eyes resting on her roommate in immeasurable contempt.

"You did perfectly right in coming here, Jane," she commented, as she returned the paper to the latter. "I am ashamed to think I ever allowed this girl's spite to come between us. I should have known better."

"It's all past. It won't happen again, Alicia. Now --  -- "

With a purposeful hand Jane tore the offending paper to bits. Stepping over to the waste basket she dropped them into it.

"This incident is closed," she sternly announced to the sullen-faced author of the mischief. "You understand that there are to be no more of a similar nature involving us or any other girls here at Wellington?"

"Yes," muttered Elsie.

"Thank you."

Jane had intended the "Thank you" to be her last word. Something in the expression of abject defeat that looked out from that lowering face stirred her to sudden pity.

"I'm sorry this had to happen, Miss Noble," she said, almost gently. "There's only one thing to do; forget it. We intend to. Won't you? I'm willing to begin over again and --  -- "

"Don't preach to me! I hate you! I'll never forgive you!"

Out of defeat, resentment flared afresh. Darting past the group of girls, Elsie Noble gained the door which was now unlocked. She flashed from the room slamming the door behind her with a force that threatened to shake it from its hinges.

"Some little tempest," cheerfully averred Judith. "Jane, let me congratulate you. You did the deed."

"Don't congratulate me." Jane scowled fiercely. "I feel like -- well, just what she said I was -- a bully. She's not so much to blame. She's a poor little cat's-paw for Marian Seaton."

"She's to blame for letting herself be influenced by Marian," disagreed Judith. "How do you suppose she found out about our going to invite the Bridge Street freshmen to the dance?"

"She must have, of a certainty, listened at our door," declared Adrienne.

"I don't believe she could hear a thing that way," disagreed Judith. "These doors are heavy. The sound doesn't go through them. Besides, she couldn't stand outside and eavesdrop long without being noticed by some one passing through the hall. Girls are always coming and going, you know."

"Yet how could she otherwise know these things?" insisted Adrienne.

"Give it up." Judith shook her head. "It's a mystery. She knew them. Maybe some day we'll know how she learned. We'll probably find out when we least expect to. Just stumble upon it long after we've forgotten all about it."



Chapter XVI

Playing Cavalier


That evening after dinner, Jane indulged in one of her dark, floor-tramping moods. The disagreeable interview of the afternoon had left a bad taste in her mouth. She had done what she had deemed necessary, but at heart she was intensely disgusted with herself.

She wondered what Dorothy Martin would have done, given the same circumstances. She longed to tell Dorothy all about it, yet she felt that it belonged only to those whom it directly concerned.

"Do sit down and behave, Jane," admonished Judith. "You make me nervous. Your tramp, tramp, tramp gets into my head and I can't study. You act as though you'd committed a murder and hidden the body in the top drawer of the chiffonier."

"Excuse me, Judy. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you. I guess the whole affair has gotten on my nerves."

With this apology, Jane sought a chair and made a half-hearted attempt at study. Gradually she drew her mind from unpleasant thoughts and proceeded to concentrate it upon her lessons for the next day.

It was not until she and Judith were preparing for bed that the latter re-opened the subject.

"Adrienne and I tried a little stunt of our own after dinner to-night," she confessed somewhat sheepishly. "Imp went into her room and I stood outside the door. She read a paragraph out loud from a book, but I couldn't understand a word she said. I could just catch the sound of her voice and that was all."

"Humph!" was Jane's sole reply.

"Yes, 'humph' if you want to. It goes to show that the ignoble Noble never got her information that way. The question is, 'How did she get it?'"

"I don't know and I don't care," returned Jane wearily. "Please, Judy, I want to forget the whole thing."

"I don't. I'm going to be an investigating investigator and solve the mystery. Watch slippery Judy, the dauntless detective of Madison Hall. Leave it to her to puzzle out the puzzle."

"Better forget it," advised Jane shortly.

"Oh, never! Let me have at least one worthy object in life, won't you?" was Judith's blithe plea. "Never mind, Imp will support and admire my ambition, even if you don't."

Judith was not in the least cast down by the defeat of an unworthy foe. She was glad of it. Brought up among girls, she was too much used to such squabbles to take them to heart.

For the next three days she and Adrienne amused themselves by planning wild schemes to entrap the "ignoble Noble" and wring from her a confession of her nefarious methods. So wild, indeed, were their projects that the mere discussion of them invariably sent them into peals of laughter.

As a matter of fact, neither could devise a plausible scheme by which they might discover what they burned to know. Both were agreed that chance alone would put them in possession of the much desired information.

Wednesday evening of the following week saw Jane, Adrienne, Judith and Norma set off in a taxicab for 605 Bridge Street to escort their new friends to the freshman frolic.

Due to the demand for taxicabs for that evening, they had been able to secure only one, whereas they needed two. They had decided to overcome this difficulty by having the driver make two trips, carrying four girls at each trip.

According to Judith, "We could all squeeze into one taxi, but I have too much respect for my costly apparel to risk it."

The quartette of escorting sophomores made a pretty picture that evening as they trooped down the steps of the Hall to the waiting taxicab.

Jane had chosen a particularly stunning frock of silver tissue, worn over a foundation of dull green satin. In lieu of flowers, a single beautiful spray of English ivy trailed across one white shoulder. The gown was the handsomest she owned and she had originally intended to save it for a later festivity. Realizing that she must inevitably become a target for the displeased eyes of those who disliked her, she had decided that so far as apparel went she would leave no room for criticism.

Adrienne, who loved daring colors, had elected to appear in a chiffon creation, the exact shade of an American Beauty rose. It set off her dark, vivid loveliness to perfection. Designed by herself, it had been fashioned by a French woman who attended to the making of her distinguished mother's gowns. In consequence, it was a triumph of its kind. As a last touch, a cluster of short-stemmed American Beauties nestled against the low-cut bodice of the gown.

Judith looked charming in a white net over apricot taffeta with a bunch of sunset roses tucked into the black velvet ribbon sash that completed the costume.

Norma was wearing the becoming blue and white gown Jane had given her the previous year. Since that first eventful freshman dance, when Jane had played fairy godmother to her, she had worn the exquisite frock only once. Now it looked as fresh and dainty as it had on that immemorial night. Trimmed as it was with clusters of velvet forget-me-nots, Norma wore no natural flowers.

Though she had by her summer's work in the stock company earned immunity from drudgery, she had earned no more than that. With the exception of this one gown, she dressed almost as simply as in the old days. She confined her wardrobe to one or two serviceable one-piece dresses, a coat suit and a quantity of dainty white silk blouses and lingerie. These last were fashioned and laundered by her own clever fingers.

"I hope we're not too fine for our girls," Norma remarked anxiously as the four skipped, one after the other, from the taxicab at the Bridge Street address.

"I thought of that, too, but I decided that they'd like it if we looked our very smartest. They are too independent to feel crushed by a mere matter of fine clothes," was Jane's opinion.

The frank admiration with which the four freshmen exclaimed over their gorgeous escorts served to point to the accuracy of her opinion.

"You're regular birds of Paradise!" laughed Freda. "We are certainly lucky to capture such prizes. We're not a bit splendiferous, ourselves. But then, why should we be? It wouldn't match with our humble status."

"You look sweet, every one of you," praised Judith. "Your gowns are dear. They are wonderfully becoming."

"We made them ourselves last summer," explained Kathie with a little air of pride. "We clubbed together and bought a bolt of this white Persian lawn. Ida crocheted these butterfly medallions set in Freda's gown and mine. Then Marie embroidered the designs on hers and Ida's gowns. Each dress is a little different from the other, yet they all look pretty much alike."

"They are all beautiful," Jane warmly assured.

She could say so in absolute truth. Simple, graceful lines, combined with dainty hand-wrought trimmings had produced four frocks which would have sold at a high price in an exclusive city dress shop.

"Ah, but you are the clever ones!" bubbled Adrienne. "It is we who must be proud of you. I would that ma mère could see these frocks. She would, of a certainty, rave with the delight. Ma mère, you must know, is the true Frenchwoman who appreciates highly the beautiful handwork such as this."

"You rather take us off our feet," smiled Marie. "We were not expecting it, you know."

The brightness in her own eyes was reflected in that of her chums. Girl-like, they found exquisite happiness in being thus appreciated.

"We'd better be starting," Jane presently proposed. "We could get only one taxi, so four of us will have to go first and four more in a second load."

Jane's anxiety to be starting lay not entirely in her natural impatience of delay. She was not quite easy in mind regarding the reception awaiting them. Marian Seaton had been chosen to stand in the receiving line. That in itself was sufficient to make her believe that the earlier the ordeal of formal greeting could be gone through with the better it would be for all concerned.

She did not doubt that Marian was in full possession of the facts concerning her cousin's recent defeat. It would be exactly like Marian to create a disagreeable scene. If this had to happen, she preferred that it should take place before the majority of the crowd arrived.

She had expressed this fear to Judith who had scouted at the idea on the grounds that Marian "wouldn't be crazy enough to make an idiot of herself before everybody."

"You and Adrienne go first with your ladies, Judy," she continued. "If you don't mind, I wish you'd wait in the corridor for the rest of us. We'll be only a few minutes behind you."

"It's just like this, girls," she turned to the four freshmen. "I'm not borrowing trouble, but if any of the sophs in the receiving line act -- well -- not very cordial, you needn't be surprised. It will be because of that paper you girls wouldn't sign. I hadn't mentioned it before, but --  -- " Jane paused. "The girl gave it to us. We destroyed it," she added with a briefness that did not invite questioning.

"I'm glad you destroyed it," congratulated Freda.

"So am I," came in concert from her three chums.

"We're not a bit sensitive," lightly assured Ida Leonard. "We aren't going to let a few snubs spoil our good time."

"I guess we'll be sufficient unto ourselves," predicted Kathie optimistically. "Now we'd better get our flowers, pals, so as not to keep our distinguished cavaliers waiting."

Excusing themselves, the quartette of freshmen repaired to the tiny back porch, where the four bouquets of roses sent them by their escorts had been carefully placed in water to keep them fresh against the time of use.

"They are awfully thoroughbred, aren't they?" commented Judith in an undertone. "Never a question about that ignoble Noble mix-up. Honestly, Jane, do you think Marian will behave like a donkey?"

Laughter greeted this inquiry. Jane immediately grew grave.

"It wouldn't surprise me," she shrugged. "We can't expect, naturally, that she will notice us as we pass her in the receiving line. Certainly we sha'n't notice her. If only she doesn't say something hateful to us that will attract attention. I mean, about our freshmen."

The return into the room of the latter, each laden with a big bouquet of fragrant roses, cut short the conversation.

Half an hour and the eight girls were reunited in the corridor leading to the gymnasium. Each cavalier gallantly offering an arm to the freshman of her choice, they walked two by two into the gymnasium, which had been transformed for the night into a veritable ball room. It was already fairly well filled with daintily gowned girls, who stood about, or sat in little groups, talking animatedly.

Near the entrance to the room, the reception committee were lined up in all their glory. Jane's quick glance discerned Marian Seaton, resplendent in an elaborate gown of pale blue satin, standing at the far end of the line. Her usually arrogant features wore an expression of fatuous complacency. It took wing the instant she spied Jane and her friends.

"Now it's coming," was Jane's mental conviction, as she noted the swift lowering change in the other girl's face.

Heading the little procession with Ida Leonard, Jane suddenly saw her way clear. She could only hope that the others of her group would take their cue from her.



Chapter XVII

The Eavesdropper


Politely responding to the greetings extended to herself and Ida as they advanced down the line, they came at last to the girl who stood next to Marian. The instant Jane had touched hands with the former she drew Ida's arm within her own and turned abruptly away, without giving Marian time to do more than glare angrily after her. Jane realized very well that what she had done was in the nature of a rudeness, yet she felt that under the circumstances it was justifiable.

To her great relief, Judith, Adrienne and Ethel did precisely the same thing.

"Well, we came through with our heads still on," congratulated naughty Judith in Jane's ear, the moment they had won clear of the fateful receiving line. "Clever little Janie. I saw and I heeded. Our dear Marian looked ready to bite. I think she would have snapped anyway, if we'd given her half a chance. Good thing she was on the end. I'm sure nobody noticed."

"I hope no one did," Jane sighed. "I hated to do it. I think, too, she intended to be hateful. I saw it in her face, so I just slid away without giving her a chance. I'm glad that ordeal's over. Now I must find some partners for Ida. The dancing will soon begin."

This proved an easy task. Whatever might be freshman opinion of Jane Allen, she had more friends among the sophomores than she had believed possible. In touch socially with her class for the first time since her return to Wellington, she was amazed at the smiling faces and gay greetings which she met at every turn.

It had a wonderfully cheering effect on her, coming as it did on the heels of the recent freshman demonstration of ill-will. It gave her a thrill of intense happiness. She resolved to put away every vexatious thought and enjoy the frolic with all her might.

That she had successfully put her resolution into effect was evidenced by her bright eyes and laughing lips when, two hours afterward, she and Judith seated themselves on a wicker settee after a one-step which they had danced together for old time's sake.

"I'm having a splendiferous time!" glowed Judith. "You can see for yourself how much that old paper amounted to. Most of these freshmen have been lovely to me. I've steered clear of the ones who looked doubtful. I've had a few scowls handed to me. It's been easy to pick out the ignoble Noble's satellites by their freezing stares. I wonder who escorted our noble little friend? Cousin Marian, no doubt," she added, with her ever-ready chuckle.

"No doubt," was Jane's dry repetition. "Let's go and get some lemonade, Judy," she proposed irrelevantly. "Just watching that crowd around the punch bowl makes me thirsty."

"I'm in need of a few cups of lemonade myself," concurred Judith amiably.

Attempting to rise, an ominous ripping sound informed Jane that Judith had been unconsciously sitting on a fold of the silver tissue overdress to her gown.

"Oh, what a shame! I didn't know I was sitting on your overskirt, Jane. That's too bad!"

Judith hastily got to her feet to ruefully inspect the amount of damage she had done.

"It's nothing," Jane assured lightly. "Let's drink our lemonade and then go over to the dressing room. I can pin this tear so it will stay, I guess. The gathers are only ripped out a little."

Having drunk two cups of lemonade apiece, they strolled on toward the dressing room. It was the little side room the freshman team had used the previous year when playing basket-ball.

Nor were they aware, as they crossed the wide room, arm in arm, that a certain pair of pale blue eyes jealously watched them. As they disappeared through the dressing-room door, Marian Seaton hurried after them, disagreeable purpose written on her face.

Quite oblivious to the fact that she was one of a welcoming committee, she had fully intended to say something cutting to Jane when the latter should arrive that evening in the gymnasium. Having missed one opportunity she did not propose to miss a second. This time Jane Allen should hear what she had to say.

At the slightly opened door she heard words which brought her to an abrupt halt. It was not the first time she had listened at that selfsame door. Edging close, she turned her back to it.

Facing the big room, her pale eyes roved over it with studied carelessness. Her ears, however, were sharply trained to catch the sound of two voices that drifted plainly out to her.

Meanwhile Judith, unaware of listeners, was gayly remarking as she pinned up the tear in Jane's overdress:

"This reminds me of the tear in the white lace dress that caused such a fuss last year. It was a good thing you were around to help Norma out of that mix-up. If it hadn't been for you, Edith Hammond would have gone straight to Mrs. Weatherbee and told her that it was Norma who stole her dress. I must say, Edith acted splendidly about it afterward. I never thought she had it in her to do as she did."

"Things looked pretty black for poor Norma that day until I made things right with Edith," reminisced Jane. "She was determined to make Norma give back her dress when all the while --  -- "

"It was Judy Stearns who had really stolen it," merrily supplemented Judith.

"I'll never forget Edith's face when I told her I was sorry to say that the real thief was Judith Stearns," laughed Jane.

"I was the thief, all right enough, but only a few people knew it. Alas, my fatal failing!" grinned Judith. "There! I guess that will stay. Let's go. I hear the enlivening strains of a fox trot. That means us."

It also meant to the listener outside that her time of eavesdropping was up. Before the two occupants of the dressing room had reached the door Marian Seaton had hurried away from it, her original intention quite forgotten.



Chapter XVIII

Dividing The Honors


Once the sophomores had done their duty in the way of entertaining their freshmen sisters, they promptly turned to their own affairs.

Following the freshman frolic a busy week of sophomore electioneering set in. It was succeeded by a class meeting that barely escaped being a quarrel.

At least a third of the class had, it appeared, enlisted under Marian Seaton's banner. These ardent supporters who had espoused her cause in the previous year and had been defeated, again came to the front with belligerent energy. Though lacking in numbers, they were strong in disagreeable opposition.

Christine Ellis' nomination of Judith Stearns for president, which was seconded by Alicia Reynolds, caused one after another of Marian's adherents to rise to their feet in hot objection. For five minutes or more the chairman of the nomination committee had her hands full in subduing the rebels.

Stung by the insult, Judith arose, white with righteous wrath, to decline the nomination. Repeated cries of, "Sit down, Judy. We want you for our president!" "What's the matter with Judy? She's all right!" and, "Judy Stearns or nobody!" drowned the refusal she strove to utter. In the end she threw up her hands in a gesture of despair and sat down, amid approving cheers from her triumphant supporters.

The nomination of Alicia Reynolds as vice-president was hardly less opposed by the other faction, though it was carried in spite of protest. With deliberate intent to shame, Barbara Temple calmly nominated Maizie Gilbert as treasurer, thereby astounding the objectors to momentary dumbness. They soon rallied, however, and one of their number hastily seconded the nomination, which was carried.

Emboldened to action, Maizie promptly nominated Leila Brookes, one of her friends, for secretary. This nomination was avidly seconded by another of Marian's adherents and also carried. Having won their point against unworthy opposition, the majority could afford to be generous.

The final result of the election found honors equally divided between the two sets of girls, a condition of affairs which promised anything but a peaceful year for 19 -- .

Gathered at Rutherford Inn that evening for a spread in honor of Judith, given by Christine and Barbara, the latter expressed herself frankly in regard to the afternoon's proceedings.

"That class meeting was as nearly a riot as could be," she declared disgustedly. "I expected to engage in hand-to-hand combat before it ended. I thought the best way to shame that crowd was to give them the chance, they didn't want to give us."

"They snapped at it, too," Christine Ellis said scornfully.

"I'll never forgive you girls for making me president when I didn't want to be," was Judith's rueful assertion.

"We would never have forgiven you if you had backed out," retorted Ethel Lacey.

"I didn't have the least word to say about it. Nobody would listen to me."

Judith's comical air of resignation provoked a laugh.

"You should thus be pleased that you are well-liked, Judy," asserted Adrienne. "And Alicia, here, we were delighted with your success, ma chere."

"I never dreamed of being nominated." A faint color stole into Alicia's pale face. "I'd much rather it had been one of you girls."

"I'm heartily glad I was out of it all," declared Jane with emphasis. "There's only one thing I really want this year in the way of college honors."

"To make the sophomore team?" asked Christine.

"Yes."

An eager light sprang into Jane's gray eyes.

"You'll make it, Jane," predicted Barbara. "You can outplay us all. Some of us are going to lose out, though. There are five of us here who are going to try for it. Judy, Adrienne, you, Christine and I. Of course we can't all make it. Quite a lot of sophs are going to try for it this year besides us. Marian Seaton will be one of them, I suppose."

"She'll make it, if any of her friends happen to be judges at the try-out," commented Judith sagely. "I hope Dorothy Martin will be chosen as one of the judges. She can be depended upon to do the fair thing. Miss Hurley was awfully unfair last year. I wish Dorothy'd be chosen as our manager."

"We ought to do a little practicing, girls," urged Jane. "Let's start in to-morrow afternoon, provided we can have the gym. I understand the freshman team have been monopolizing it ever since their try-out last week."

"Who's on the freshman team?" asked Ethel curiously.

"I don't know. Haven't been over to see them work," Jane replied. "Have any of you?" She glanced about the round table at her friends.

A general shaking of heads revealed the fact that no one had.

"It's queer, but somehow I can't get interested in the freshmen," confided Barbara Temple. "A lot of them acted awfully stand-offish toward me on the night of the dance."

"I noticed the same thing!" exclaimed Christine in surprise. "I thought it was my imagination. Those four girls you folks brought were sweet, though."

"They are dandy girls," interposed Judith hastily, and immediately launched forth in praise of the Bridge Street freshmen.

Though she could have very quickly explained the strained attitude of the freshman class to Christine and Barbara, she held her peace. She decided, however, to have a talk that night with Jane. It was not fair that these two loyal friends should be kept in the dark about what bade fair to affect them unpleasantly.

That she was not alone in her opinion became manifest when, toward nine o'clock, Alicia, Ethel, Adrienne, Jane and herself bade Christine and Barbara good night and went on across the campus toward Madison Hall.

"Jane," began Judith abruptly, "I think we ought to tell Christine and Barbara about that freshman business. I didn't want to say a word until I'd put it up to you girls."

"Yes, I suppose we ought to tell them." Jane spoke almost wearily. "I didn't say anything about it to-night because I hated to drag it all up again. If you see either of the girls to-morrow, Judy, you'd better explain matters. I don't want to. I'm sick of the whole business."

"I'm heartily sick of my roommate. I can tell you that," said Alicia. "If I had known when that girl walked into my room that she was Marian Seaton's cousin I should have refused to room with her. She's completely under Marian's thumb. Whatever Marian tells her to do she does. You'd think after what happened the other day that she'd be too angry ever to speak to me again. Well, she isn't. She tries to talk to me whenever we're together. She told me yesterday that I had made a terrible mistake in giving up Marian for you girls."

"Marian put her up to that," declared Judith.

"Of course she did," nodded Alicia. "Elsie had the nerve to tell me that Marian felt dreadfully over the horrid way I'd treated her. She blames Jane for it, and says she'll get even with her for it. I blame myself for being so hateful last year. Jane showed me how to be the person I'd always wanted to be, but was too cowardly then to be it."

"Jane is of us all the loyal friend," broke in Adrienne. "Sometimes she wears the fierce scowl and has the look of the lion, yet I am not afraid of her. See, even now she scowls, but she will not eat us. She scowls thus to hide the embarrassment."

The bright moonlight betrayed plainly the deep scowl between Jane's brows to which Adrienne had called attention.

"Imp, you're a rascal." Jane's brows immediately smoothed themselves. "You know altogether too much about me. I was embarrassed. That's a fact. What Alicia said made me feel rather queer because I don't think I deserved it. I can't be the person I want to be myself, let alone showing anybody else. That's what has been bothering me right along. I'd like to be able to rise above caring whether or not Marian Seaton tries to get even with me."

"You can't do it, Jane, and be just to yourself," Alicia said very positively. "I know Marian a great deal better than I wish I did. She'll never stop trying to work against you as long as you're both at Wellington. She'll never let a chance slip to make trouble for you. I'd advise you to be on your guard and the very next time she tries anything hateful, go to Miss Rutledge with the whole story of the way she's treated you ever since you came to college."

"I couldn't do that. Not for myself, I mean. If it were something hateful she'd done to one of you girls, I could. I would have truly gone to Miss Rutledge or even Prexy with that paper, because it was injurious to Judy and Imp; not because of myself."

"Never mind, Jane. I am here to protect you," Judith reminded gaily. "I'd fight for you as quickly as you'd fight for me. Just remember that."

Judith began the little speech lightly. She ended with decided purpose.

"I know it, Judy."

Walking as she was beside her roommate, Jane slipped an affectionate hand within Judith's arm.

"If Marian plays on the team with you girls, then look out," further advised Alicia. "She'll do something to stir up trouble, you may depend upon it. I know I'm croaking, but I can't help it."

"Wait till she makes the team," grinned Judith. "She may find herself outplayed at the try-out. If she does, little Judy won't weep. No, indeed. I'll give a grand celebration in honor of the joyful event."

"I, also, will shed few tears," Adrienne drily concurred. "Ah, but I shall look forward to that most grand celebration! So at last this very wicked Marian shall perhaps be the cause of some little pleasure to us."

Jane could not resist joining in the laugh that greeted this naïve assertion. She wished she could feel as little concern about the matter as did Judith and Adrienne. Alicia's warning against Marian had taken hold on her more strongly than she could wish.

To Jane it seemed almost in the nature of a prophesy of disaster. She found herself inwardly hoping with her friends that Marian would not make the team. Instantly she put it aside as unworthy of what she, Jane Allen, desired to be. A good pioneer must forge ahead, surmounting one by one each obstacle that rose in the path. Again it came to Jane in that moment, out under the stars, that it could make no difference to her what Marian Seaton did or did not do to her, so long as she, an intrepid pioneer, steadily kept to work at clearing her own bit of college land.

She had earlier expressed this conviction to Dorothy. Later it had been swept away by bitter doubts as to whether she could continue to maintain a lofty indifference toward Marian's spiteful activities. Would she be obliged eventually to descend to Marian's level and fight her with her own weapons? She had more than once, of late, darkly considered the question. Now she knew that so long as Marian's spleen directed itself against her, and her alone, she could never do it. She would fight for her friends, but never for herself.



Chapter XIX

Rank Injustice


At half-past four o'clock on the Wednesday following the sophomore class elections, the sophomore basket-ball try-out took place in the gymnasium. Twenty girls of the sophomore class had elected to enter the lists, while the usual number of freshmen and upper class spectators lined the walls of the big room.

Among the ten bloomer-clad girls who were finally picked for the deciding tussle, five wore the dark green uniforms that had identified them the previous year as the official freshman team. They were Judith, Jane, Adrienne, Christine Ellis and Marian Seaton. Among the other five contestants, Barbara Temple and Olive Hurst, both of last year's practice team, had survived. The other three girls were disappointed aspirants of the previous year's try-out, who had sturdily returned to the lists for a try at making the sophomore team.

When the shrill notes of the whistle sent the ten into deciding action, it became immediately evident that it would be nip and tuck as to the winners. In every girlish heart lived the strong determination to be among the elect. In consequence, the zealous ten treated the spectators to a most spirited exhibition of basket-ball prowess.

When it had ended, the players ran off the floor, breathlessly to await the verdict. With the exception of two of them, opinion was divided. Regarding these two, there was no doubt in the minds of the watchers that Jane Allen and Adrienne Dupree, at least, had made the team. They were distinctly eligible.

Each in her own fashion had shown actual brilliancy of playing. The others had done extremely well. How well was a matter which must be left to the three judges to decide.

While the ten impatiently waited for the decision, over in the judges' corner a spirited discussion was going on between Dorothy Martin and the two seniors who were officiating with her in the capacity of judges. One of them, Selina Brown, had already been appointed as basket-ball manager of the teams for the year.

"I do not agree with you, Miss Brown," Dorothy was protesting, her fine face alive with righteous vexation. "In my opinion, Miss Stearns has completely outplayed Miss Seaton. In fact she has always been the better player of the two. Granted, Miss Seaton is an excellent player, but Miss Stearns outclasses her. I say this in absolute fairness. Try them out again and you will see, even if you don't now."

"I am sorry to be obliged to differ with you regarding Miss Stearns, but Miss Seaton must be my first and last choice. Miss Nelson quite agrees with me. Do you not?"

She turned triumphantly to the third judge for corroboration.

"I -- really -- yes, I think Miss Seaton is the better player."

The reply, begun hesitatingly, went on to firmness. Laura Nelson had the grace to color slightly, however, as she made it. Indebted to Marian Seaton for several rides in the latter's limousine, as well as hospitable entertainment at Rutherford Inn, she felt compelled to stand by at the critical moment. She had been privately given to understand beforehand that Marian was to make the team, whoever else failed.

"The majority rules, I believe, Miss Martin."

A disagreeable smile hovered about Miss Brown's thin lips as she said this.

"It does, but --  -- " Patent contempt looked out from Dorothy's steady eyes.

"But what?" sharply challenged Selina Brown.

"It is an unfair majority," was the quiet accusation. "As the other four players have been chosen, I will leave you to make the announcement."

So saying, Dorothy turned abruptly and walked away, too greatly incensed to trust herself longer in the company of the pair whom she had flatly accused of unfairness. Straight across the gymnasium she walked to where Judith, Jane, Christine, Barbara and Adrienne stood, an eager group.

"Girls," she said, in a wrathfully impressive voice, "I'm going to stand here beside you. When the announcement of the team is made you'll understand why."

"What's the matter, Dorothy?" anxiously questioned Christine.

Four pairs of eyes riveted themselves wonderingly on Dorothy's flushed, indignant face. None of the quartette had ever before seen sweet-tempered Dorothy Martin so manifestly angry. Something of an unusual nature must have happened.

"Don't ask me now. Listen!"

A loud blast from the whistle, held to Selina Brown's lips, was now enjoining silence. Immediately after the sound had died away, a hush fell upon the great room as the senior manager stepped forward and announced:

"For the official sophomore team the following players have been chosen: Adrienne Dupree, Barbara Temple, Christine Ellis, Jane Allen, and Marian Seaton. To act as subs: Olive Hurst and Marjory Upton."

Immediately she went on with a speech, meant to be politely consoling to the defeated contestants.

A faint, concerted gasp arose from the little group collected about Dorothy. This, then, was the explanation of Dorothy's indignation.

"It's an outrage! I'm going to protest!" muttered Jane, her tones thick with wrath. "No, I'm going to refuse to play on the team."

"And I also," echoed Adrienne hotly.

"Let's do it!" urged Christine, catching Barbara by the arm. "Right now, before that Miss Brown gets through with her hypocritical speech."

"No, girls, you mustn't. I -- I -- don't -- want you to," quavered Judith.

"We've got to, Judy! It's rank injustice, piled high!" declared Christine tempestuously.

"If you do -- I'll hate all of you!" Judith desperately threatened. "You've got to stay on the team, simply because I'm not on it. I'm not blind and neither are you. One of us had to go to make room for Marian Seaton. It would have been Jane, I'm sure, if she hadn't played so well. They didn't quite dare do it. So I had to take it. We don't know what's back of it. Maybe it's been done on purpose to bring about the very thing you want to do. I say, don't give in to it. Stick to the team."

"Judy's right, girls," interposed Dorothy. "Don't resign. You might only be pleasing a number of persons by doing so."

Further counsel on her part was cut off by a flock of sophomores who had come up to congratulate the winners. The latter were wearing their triumph far from exultantly. Jane was scowling in her most ferocious fashion. Adrienne's piquant features were set and unsmiling. Christine and Barbara appeared constrained and ill at ease. Judith alone had conjured up a brave little smile with which to mask the hurt of her defeat.

"It's a shame you didn't make the team, Judy!" sympathized one tactless sophomore.

"Judy did make the team, by rights," Dorothy defended, unflinching purpose in the calm assertion. "I want it distinctly understood that she was my choice."

"We thought, too, that she should have been chosen," exclaimed Alice Kirby, another sophomore, with a vigorous nod of her head. "It seems funny --  -- "

"It's anything but funny," Dorothy cut in sharply. "Pardon me, Alice, I didn't intend to be rude to you. I'm dreadfully disgusted over this affair. I'll leave you to guess the reason."

"It's not hard to guess," retorted Alice significantly. "With Judy a better player than Miss Seaton and yet not even chosen to sub, something's twisted at Wellington. I rather think it will stay twisted, too, as long as a certain person has two out of three judges on her side."

Alice had been one of Judith's most ardent supporters at the recent class election.

"Well, I'm glad you have such a clear idea of things," grimly returned Dorothy. "Kindly pass it on. I'm not saying that vindictively, either. I want everybody I know to understand that I consider this an unfair decision and that I absolutely refuse to countenance it. Miss Brown recently asked me to act as referee in the games this year. I accepted. Now I'm going straight to my room to write her my resignation."

"You mustn't do that, Dorothy," Judith again protested. "It's dear in you. I surely appreciate it. Really, I don't mind so very --  -- "

Judith stopped, the wistfulness in her blue eyes contradicting her unfinished denial.

"But if you resign, Dorothy, there'll be no one to stand by us later," reminded Christine gloomily.

"I've thought of that, too, but it doesn't sway me. This is a matter of principle. I could not be Judith's friend if I accepted this injustice to her."

"It is indeed wise that Dorothy should do this," Adrienne sagely wagged her curly head. "First, it is but fair to you, Judy. Again we shall gain rather than lose for this reason. Soon all must know why Dorothy has thus resigned. She wishes it to be no secret. Voila! For the rest of the year these two most unfair seniors must have a care. The eyes of many will be upon them. The pitcher may go once too often to the well. N'est ce pas?"

She turned to her listeners for corroboration. Wily child that she was, she had decided to impress this view on those present, knowing that it would be accepted and remembered.

"We had thought, the four of us," she impressively continued, including her three teammates and herself in a sweeping gesture, "to resign from the team. Because Judy does not desire it, we shall remain only to please her. Judy has the great heart and the broad mind. She has not the narrow soul of some persons of whom I might speak, only that these names leave the bad taste in my mouth."

"Hurrah for Judy! Three cheers for Adrienne!" enthusiastically proposed one of the highly impressed sophomores.

The hearty burst of acclamation which suddenly rent the air was anything but welcome to a number of girls still lingering in the gymnasium.

Surrounded by a coterie of her own adherents, which included Leila Brooks, Elsie Noble, Maizie Gilbert, and a number of upper class girls, Marian Seaton's pale eyes darted a spiteful glance at the noisy worshippers of the girls she detested.

"Boisterous things!" she exclaimed disdainfully. "The idea of their setting up such a howl about that Judy Stearns when she didn't even make sub, let alone making the team. If they knew what I know about her, not one of those sophs outside of her own crowd would ever speak to her again."

"What do you know about her? Don't be stingy, Marian." "Why not let us into the know?" were some of the cries that greeted Marian's dark insinuation.

"I'll keep what I know to myself for the present. I am too charitable to make trouble for that girl, even if she has done her utmost to injure me. I'll never tell anyone unless there comes a time when I feel it necessary to speak."

Marian assumed an air of virtuous tolerance that caused Maizie Gilbert to eye her with reluctant admiration. She alone knew what her roommate was driving at.

"I'm really relieved because you girls haven't carried on like wild Indians about my making the team," she continued sweetly. "I hate being made conspicuous."

She was inwardly furious because her supporters had failed to become wildly jubilant over her success.

"Three cheers for Marian!" hastily proposed Elsie, realizing that it was not yet too late to save herself from Marian's private displeasure.

Far from being disgusted with the belated mead of praise, for which she had fished, Marian beamed patronizingly as the cheers were given.

These sounds of requisitioned acclamation were wafted to the ears of Selina Brown and Laura Nelson, who were in the act of leaving the gymnasium.

"Well, she partly got what she wanted," remarked Selina Brown grimly as they left the building and set off for Creston Hall where both lived.

"I expect that she'll be peeved because things didn't go entirely her way. I made a fatal mistake in asking Dorothy Martin to be one of the judges," pursued Selina. "I had forgotten about her being so thick with that Allen girl. Marian never mentioned it, either, until afterward. Then she made a big fuss, but it was too late to renege. Last year I let basket-ball alone. I'd had enough of it the first two years here at Wellington. I wasn't in touch with these girls that Marian's so down on. Roberta Hurley was managing the teams then, you know. She recommended me to Miss Rutledge as her successor. I wish now I'd refused to act as manager."

"I'm sorry I had anything to do with it," regretted Laura Nelson. "Of course, Marian has been lovely to both of us. I was stupid enough to mistake it for real friendship until she came right out the other night and asked us to keep those three girls off the team. Then I knew she'd only been getting an axe ready for us to grind."

"Oh, I saw through her from the first, but I thought I'd humor her. We've had a good many rides and dinners at her expense. I supposed it would be easy enough to keep those three off the team. When I saw them play I knew differently. That Jane Allen is a wonder with the ball; the little French girl, too. If I had dropped either of them the sophs would have raised the roof. I had to save my own reputation. It didn't matter so much about the Stearns girl. She and Marian were pretty evenly matched."

"She's a better player than Marian," frankly disagreed Laura. "As it is, I think we are in for trouble. We've antagonized Dorothy Martin. You heard what she said to us. She won't hesitate to say it to anyone else who claims Miss Stearns ought to have made the team. Dorothy's always stood high at Wellington. She has lots of friends."

"Oh, she'll calm down," predicted Selina. "She hates to be crossed. Personally, I don't admire her. She poses too much. She's either a prig or a hypocrite. A little of both, I guess. When Marian raged about my asking her to act as judge she said she knew for a fact that Dorothy's father had lost all his money and that Dorothy was hanging on to Jane Allen and this French girl, I never can remember her name, because they took her around with them and spent lots of money on luncheons and dinners."

"Then she's no better than we are!" exclaimed Laura, looking relief at this piece of news.

"Of course she isn't," retorted Selina. "As nearly as I can make out it's nip and tuck between Marian and this Jane Allen as to which of them will run the sophomore class. One has about as much principle as the other. Marian has been nice to us. The Allen girl has never bothered herself to get acquainted with us. I understand she's very haughty. I should have really enjoyed keeping her off the team, but I didn't dare do it."

"Then you think we ought to stick to Marian?" Laura asked rather dubiously.

"Yes. Why not? So long as it suits us to do it. We can easily handle her if she shows her claws. She won't, though. She knows that I could drop her from the team if I chose. She won't dare say a word because the rest of the team are against her. I'll very quickly remind her of it if she is wrathy about to-day's affair."

"Suppose anything -- well -- disagreeable for us -- should come of it?"

Despite Selina's assurances, Laura was not quite satisfied.

"What do you mean?" queried Selina impatiently.

"Suppose Miss Stearns' friends should take it up and raise a regular riot about it? A lot of sophs went over to her after the try-out. You saw them and heard them cheering her. Dorothy Martin was there with the crowd. She went straight to them from us. I tell you, I don't like it, Selina. I think we were foolish to lay ourselves open to criticism. We're seniors, you know, and so are supposed to set a good example for the other classes."

"Oh, stop worrying about it," roughly advised Selina. "Wait and see what happens. If the sophs start to fuss, I can soon settle them."

"How?" demanded Laura incredulously.

"By taking Marian off the team and putting the Stearns girls on," promptly informed Selina. "If I lose Marian's friendship by it, I'll gain Dorothy Martin's and Jane Allen's. As I'm not devoted to any of these girls, I'm not particular which side I'm on, so long as it's the side that does the most for me."



Chapter XX

The Rise Of The Freshman Team


Returned to Madison Hall that afternoon, Dorothy Martin went directly to her room to put into effect the spoken resolution she had made in the gymnasium.

The brief note she dashed off in a strong, purposeful hand, read:

"My Dear Miss Brown:

"Kindly appoint someone else in my place as referee for the coming games. I must firmly decline to act in that capacity.

"Yours truly,

"Dorothy Martin."

Deciding to send it through the regular mail channels, she stamped and addressed it, and promptly consigned it to the mail box.

When it presently came into the hands of Selina Brown, it cost the latter some moments of uneasy speculation. She had not reckoned on Dorothy's going thus far.

As it happened the note came as a climax to a trying session she had spent with Marian Seaton on the previous evening. Marian had come over to Creston Hall after dinner with blood in her eye. She was decidedly out of sorts over the partial failure of her scheme and did not hesitate to take Selina to task for it.

Selina, as her elder and a senior, had vast ideas of her own regarding the proper amount of respect due her from a mere sophomore. Armed with a dignity too great to descend to open quarrel, she soon reduced angry Marian to reason.

"You ought to be thankful to me for putting you on the team," she had coldly reminded. "Goodness knows Laura and I have had trouble enough over it already. I proved my friendship for you. Now be good enough to appreciate it and stop criticizing me. I consider it in very bad taste."

After Marian had finally departed in a more chastened frame of mind, Selina pondered darkly concerning the "friendship" she had flaunted in Marian's face. She decided that Marian would have to show more appreciation if she expected any further favors.

Dorothy's note served again to arouse in Selina renewed resentment toward Marian. She was now at odds with one of the most popular girls at Wellington, and what had she gained? A few automobile rides and dinners, bestowed upon her by a girl in whom gratitude was a minus quality. Selina was distinctively aggrieved. She could only hope, as she carefully reduced Dorothy's note to bits and dropped them into the waste basket, that this was the end of the matter. It had all been aggravating in the extreme.

Three days passed and nothing more happened. She had half expected that the four friends of Judith who had made the team might send in their resignations. She wished they would. A new team would be far less likely to give trouble later on.

But no resignations arrived. In fact, a visit to the gymnasium on the third afternoon revealed the sophomore team at practice. She wondered how Marian had the temerity to go calmly to work with four girls whom she detested, and who in turn must heartily detest her.

Aside from Marian, who beamed and nodded to her, no one else on the team appeared to note her presence. It was mortifying, to say the least. But the end was not yet.

Though Dorothy had made no secret of her resignation from basket-ball activities, it took the news several days to reach the ears of the freshman class.

"Too bad Dorothy's given up referee's post this year, isn't it?" was the casual remark that set the ball of reinstatement rolling.

It was made to a member of the freshman team by Alice Kirby. There was a purposeful gleam in her eye despite the apparent carelessness of the comment. It immediately provoked a volley of questions, which Alice answered with prompt alacrity. The effect upon the freshman was electrical. She left Alice post haste to gather up her teammates and hold a council of war.

The very next afternoon the council waited upon Miss Rutledge with a most amazing story. They wanted to play basket-ball that year. Oh, very much indeed! Still, they didn't care to play without Dorothy Martin as referee. Yes, Dorothy had been appointed by Miss Brown, but she had resigned. No, it was not because she was too busy. Yes, they knew the reason. They could not blame her. Nevertheless they wanted her back.

It did not take long after this to explain that Dorothy had resigned because Judith Stearns had been unfairly treated. Everyone who had been at the try-out must know that Judy Stearns had outplayed Marian Seaton. She had not been chosen but Marian had. Dorothy had protested to Miss Brown. It had done no good. So she had resigned.

Miss Rutledge had listened patiently to the tale poured forth by the justice-seeking quintette. When it had ended she quietly promised them that she would look into the matter and see what could be done.

On the following morning, Dorothy, Laura Nelson and Selina each found a note awaiting them in the house bulletin board, requesting them to call on Miss Rutledge at four-thirty that afternoon.

Dorothy was frankly puzzled over her note. Having a clear conscience she could think of no reason for the summons. Selina, however, was apprehensive. Immediately she jumped to the conclusion that Dorothy had reported her to Miss Rutledge. Laura was also of the same opinion.

As the two Creston Hall girls walked dejectedly down a corridor of Wellington Hall to the dean's office that afternoon, sight of Dorothy just ahead of them confirmed their worst fears.

Invited by Miss Rutledge to take seats, the three bowed distantly to one another.

"I sent for you three young women," began Miss Rutledge, "because of a rather peculiar story which has come to my ears concerning the recent basket-ball try-out. The freshman team is up in arms because you have given up referee's post, Miss Martin. They wish you to keep the position. They have requested me to take the matter up with you in their behalf."

Selina and Laura both looked amazement at this statement. It was certainly not what they had expected. Dorothy too showed marked surprise. An amused little smile hovered about her lips.

"It is nice in them to want me," she said gravely. "I appreciate their loyalty. That is all I can say."

"That is hardly enough to satisfy them or me," replied the dean. "I must ask you to tell me why you resigned your post."

"I would rather not answer that," Dorothy said with gentle firmness.

"Very well. I will ask you another question. Did you resign because you considered that Miss Stearns had been unfairly treated at the try-out?"

Dorothy hesitated, then answered with a low, "Yes."

"Please explain in what way she was unfairly treated," relentlessly pursued the dean.

"Miss Stearns made a better showing at the try-out than Miss Seaton. She was one of the five best players. Miss Seaton would have ranked eighth in my opinion. She was chosen instead of Miss Stearns."

"You were one of the judges, I believe?"

"Yes. My choice was Miss Stearns."

"You were also one of the judges, Miss Brown?"

The dean had now turned to Selina.

"Yes."

"And you, Miss Nelson?"

"Yes." A guilty flush dyed Laura's cheeks.

"Two against one in favor of Miss Seaton?" commented Miss Rutledge. "Let me ask you two young women this. Were you both satisfied in your own minds that Miss Seaton was the better player?"

"I was," declared Selina boldly.

"I -- I --  -- "

The scrutiny of the dean's steady eyes disconcerted Laura. She could not bring herself to look into them and utter a deliberate untruth.

"I -- it was hard to judge between them," she finally faltered. "They -- they were almost equally matched in my opinion."

"Still, you must have thought Miss Seaton a little the better player, else you would not have chosen her," asserted Miss Rutledge smoothly.

"We had the right to our opinion," broke in Selina quickly, determined to save Laura from crumpling to the point of blurting forth the truth.

"That is true," agreed the dean, "provided it was a fair opinion. Miss Martin states that it was not."

"Miss Martin has no business to say that," retorted Selina hotly.

"She has, if that is her opinion. She has the same privilege that you have," was the grave reminder. "According to the statement just made by Miss Nelson, she was not at all sure of Miss Seaton's playing superiority over that of Miss Stearns. In that case, why did you not order the game resumed, especially to test out these two players? That would have been the best method of procedure."

"Because it wasn't necessary. Miss Nelson gave her decision at once in favor of Miss Seaton."

"She seemed decidedly uncertain just now about it," said the dean dryly. "As it happens, the members of the freshman team are of the same opinion as Miss Martin. They claim that Miss Stearns completely outplayed Miss Seaton. That it was too evident to be overlooked. I might investigate this affair more thoroughly, but I do not wish to do so. As seniors, all of you should be above reproach. Each knows best, however, what is in her heart."

Laura wriggled uncomfortably, looking ready to cry. Selina put on an air of studied indifference. Dorothy presented the calm serenity of one whose integrity cannot be assailed.

For a long silent moment the dean's eyes traveled from face to face. Then she said:

"We shall settle this matter by another try-out to-morrow afternoon at half-past four. I shall attend it. When you leave here, Miss Brown, kindly post a notice in the bulletin board calling the sophomore team to practice to-morrow. State that it is by my order. Miss Martin, please notify Miss Stearns that I wish her to be there, also, ready to play. I will appoint two seniors to act with me as judges. I am familiar, as you know, with the game. This try-out will not affect the other members of the team. We shall drop one of them temporarily to give Miss Stearns the opportunity of playing against Miss Seaton. I rarely interfere in the matter of college sports, but in this instance I feel compelled to take action."

"I suppose, if Miss Stearns wins, it will mean the loss of my position as senior manager!" exclaimed Selina.

She was too thoroughly disgruntled to realize to whom she was speaking.

"Why should it? You have assured me of your honesty of purpose," flashed back the dean.

Selina's discourteous manner of addressing her she could ignore. The import of the speech was, however, another matter. It contained self-condemnation. Selina herself realized her mistake the instant Miss Rutledge replied. She turned red as a peony.

"I -- I -- just thought you might wish to appoint someone else," she said lamely.

"If you had admitted to me that you treated Miss Stearns unfairly, it would certainly become necessary to appoint another manager," replied Miss Rutledge. "You have not done so. In fact you have stated quite the opposite. On the contrary, I must also accept Miss Martin's word that she is speaking the truth as she sees it."

"Thank you, Miss Rutledge," was Dorothy's sole comment.

"If Miss Stearns wins against Miss Seaton at the new try-out it will be by pure luck," declared Selina, with a desperate attempt at retrieving her previous incautious remark.

"There will, at least, be no question of unfair treatment involved."

The blunt reply should have warned Selina that she was not bettering her case. Instead, her belated attempt at caution flew away on the wings of anger.

"I think it's very unfair to Marian Seaton to hold another try-out!" she exclaimed. "She won her position on the team fairly enough. This whole affair is nothing but a plot to put Miss Stearns on the team and drop Miss Seaton from it. Miss Stearns has four friends on the sophomore team who have persuaded the freshman team to do what they themselves don't dare do. As Miss Martin has frankly accused both Miss Nelson and myself of unfairness, I will say plainly that I think her a party to the plot. I dare say Miss Stearns knows all about it."

"Miss Brown, you are not here to criticize my methods," sternly rebuked the dean. "Granted that you are entitled to your own opinion, harsh as it is, you must either be in a position to prove your accusations or else not make them. Can you prove them?"

"No, I can't. Neither can Dorothy Martin prove hers."

"I can obtain the signatures of at least thirty girls who were of the same mind as myself at the try-out."

It had come to a point where Dorothy refused longer to remain mute. Incensed by Selina's bold attempt to malign her friends and herself, she now turned to Miss Rutledge and said:

"I wish you to know, Miss Rutledge, that the four sophomores chosen, besides Miss Seaton, to make the team fully intended to resign from it because of their loyalty to Miss Stearns. She begged them not to do so. She was very brave over the disappointment. I am positive that neither she nor her friends would be guilty of asking the girls of the freshman team to take up the matter. Certainly I would not."

"I know you would not," quietly reassured the dean. "We will drop this discussion where it now stands. It is unbecoming, to say the least. I am greatly annoyed that it should have arisen among members of the senior class. It is ended. Let it be forgotten. The try-out to-morrow will decide the question. I would prefer you not to give up your position as referee, Miss Martin. Will you reconsider your resignation?"

"I will, since you desire it." Dorothy bowed acquiescence.

"Then the matter is settled," was the concluding announcement. "I shall expect all three of you to be present at the try-out to-morrow afternoon."

This was virtually a command. Had Selina dared, she would have coldly declined to obey it. As it was she said nothing. Miss Rutledge's tones indicating that the interview was concluded, she rose, bade the dean a chilly "Good afternoon," and departed, accompanied by Laura.

Dorothy also rose to go, but the dean detained her with a kindly:

"Just a moment, Dorothy. I wish a private word with you. I know you too well to believe you to be at fault in this matter."

"I am not at fault, Miss Rutledge," was the composed answer. "I thank you for believing in me."

"There seems to be a great deal more behind this affair than appears on the surface," the dean said significantly.

"That is true," Dorothy affirmed. "Since the beginning of last year a struggle has been going on here at Wellington between right and wrong. The girl who represents right is too noble to complain. She will fight things out unaided, and she will win."

"You refer to Judith Stearns?" interrogated the dean.

"No; not Judith." Dorothy shook her head. "Judith has merely been used as a scapegoat. I would prefer not to say more. The girl who is in the right would not wish it. She has been advised to come to you, but refuses to do so. She is very determined on that point."

"And you approve of her stand?" The dean eyed Dorothy quizzically.

"Yes." Dorothy's affirmative came unhesitatingly. "I should feel the same under similar circumstances."

"Then you would advise me not to go too deeply into things?"

There was a decided twinkle in the dean's eyes as she said this. She had known Dorothy too long not to feel the utmost confidence in her.

"I can't imagine myself as advising Miss Rutledge," she said prettily, her sober face lighting into a smile.

The smile, instantly returned, indicated perfect understanding.

"I think you are right, Dorothy. I shall not interfere, except in the matter of a new try-out, unless I am approached by the girl of whom you speak. Frankly, I have no idea of whom she may be. These disagreements among the students at Wellington seldom reach my ears. When they do I always endeavor to see justice done the wronged party."

When Dorothy had presently left her, however, Miss Rutledge sat pondering over the intricacies of girl nature. Hailing from the far West she was inclined to view the world from a man's standpoint. She was, therefore, wholly in sympathy with a girl who could sturdily fight her own battles without asking help of anyone. She could almost wish that the identity of such an one might some day be revealed to her.



Chapter XXI

Reinstatement


Outside Wellington Hall, Laura and Selina stopped long enough to hold a hurried conversation. As a result they both set their faces toward Madison Hall to inform Marian Seaton of what was in store for her.

"It's simply outrageous!" she stormed, when Selina had gloomily finished relating the dire news. "I won't go to the gym to-morrow. Miss Rutledge has no right to interfere with the teams."

"She seems to think she has," shrugged Selina. "You'll have to do one of two things. Either resign now from the team, or go to the try-out to-morrow and take your chance of winning against Miss Stearns."

"I won't do either," flatly declared Marian. "I made the team and I won't be cheated of my position on it."

"Do you think you can outplay Miss Stearns?" asked Laura anxiously. "You didn't the other day, you know."

"You'd best resign," cut in Selina sharply, without giving Marian time to answer Laura's question. "If you go to the gym to-morrow it's going to create a lot of gossip about Laura and me. Dorothy Martin hasn't made a secret of her opinion of the other try-out. With Miss Rutledge there to-morrow as one of the judges and neither Laura nor I acting with her, it's going to look pretty bad for us."

"I tell you I sha'n't be there to-morrow," snapped Marian.

"Then you'll get yourself into trouble with Miss Rutledge and lose your position anyway," returned Selina with equal asperity. "I've already told you that I have received instructions to post a notice calling the sophomore team to practice by her order. If you resign now, that will end the whole thing. Of course the Stearns girl will get your position on the team. Still you can save your own dignity and ours by pretending in your resignation that you are deeply hurt. You can say, too, that you would have been very willing to give up your position on the team to Miss Stearns if you'd understood that she wanted it so much."

"But I'm not willing to do any such thing," angrily contended Marian. "I'll take my chance against Judith Stearns to-morrow before I'll tamely resign like that. Come to think of it, it would be much more dignified on my part to go to the gym. You, not I, have been accused of unfairness. You put me on the team, you know."

"Yes, and why did I?" flung back Selina hotly. "Because you asked me to do it. Now you think you can hang the unfairness on my shoulders and slip free of it yourself. Well, you can't. I know that Judith Stearns can outplay you. If I thought she couldn't, I'd say go ahead. But she can. As you won't resign of your own accord, I'm going to demand your resignation. If you don't give it to me in writing, I'll go straight back to Miss Rutledge and tell her the whole thing. I'd rather confess to her than have everybody down on Laura and me after to-morrow."

"You wouldn't do that. You can't scare me," sneered Marian.

"Oh, wouldn't I? Wait a little. You'll see."

"You'd be expelled from college. Just remember that. You'd find yourself worse off than if you kept still," triumphantly prophesied Marian.

"We wouldn't be expelled. You probably would be. We'd be severely reprimanded and Miss Rutledge would be down on us for the rest of the year. But you started the whole thing. You're the real offender. It would go hard with you."

"I'm sorry I asked you to help me, Selina Brown!" Marian exclaimed bitterly. "You're a treacherous snake! After all I've done for you, you turn against me like this."

For the next five minutes she continued to express her candid and very uncomplimentary opinion of Selina.

When she paused to take breath, Selina's only retaliation was, "Come on, Laura. We'll have to hurry if we expect to catch Miss Rutledge in her office. I suppose we'd best go to her house and wait for her. We'll be surer of seeing her then."

It had the desired effect. Marian crumpled, shed a few tears of pure rage, but finally wrote the resignation which Selina dictated.

"It worked!" was Selina's relieved exclamation, the moment they were out of Madison Hall. "She's a great coward, for all her boldness. She gave in more easily than I'd expected. You can imagine me confessing anything like that to Miss Rutledge, now can't you?"

Selina accompanied the query with a derisive laugh. It was echoed by Laura, though rather nervously.

"It was horrid to have to bully her." Laura made a gesture of distaste. "I'm glad we're safely out of it. We'd best keep out of such tangles hereafter, and let the sophs alone."

"I intend to," Selina said with grim decision. "I shall keep the managership of the teams, but I'll steer clear of trouble after this. Now let's hustle home. I must write Miss Rutledge a note and enclose Marian's resignation. I'll ask her to answer, stating whether it is satisfactory and asking what I am to do. I'll pretend that I found the resignation waiting for me at Creston Hall."

Half an hour later, Selina had written her letter and dispatched it to Warburton Hall, the faculty house where Miss Rutledge lived, by the small son of Mrs. Ingram, the matron of Creston Hall.

When the dean had read and re-read the two communications, she looked decidedly grave. After a brief interval of thoughtful meditation, she wrote Selina the following reply:

"Dear Miss Brown:

"Kindly write to Miss Seaton and accept her resignation from the sophomore team. Do not post the notice I requested you to post. It will not be necessary. Write to Miss Stearns notifying her that Miss Seaton has resigned from the team and that I wish her to accept the position thus left vacant.

"Yours truly,

"Gertrude Rutledge."

When the next morning's mail brought Judith the amazing news, unwillingly penned by Selina Brown, she was literally dumfounded. The mail arriving while she was at breakfast, she garnered the note from the house bulletin board on her way upstairs from the dining-room.

"For goodness' sake, read this!" she almost shouted, bursting in upon Jane, who was preparing to go to her first recitation. "I don't know what to make of it!"

A slow smile dawned on Jane's lips as she perused the agitating note.

"Marian never resigned by her own accord," she said. "It looks as though her scheme had somehow proved a boomerang. Someone stood up for you, Judy, mighty loyally. Miss Rutledge's name being mentioned in the note tells me that. Was it Dorothy, I wonder? No; it wasn't. She promised us that she wouldn't go to Miss Rutledge about it."

"It's a mystery to me," declared Judith. "I don't know what to do. I wonder --  -- "

A rapping at the door sent her scurrying to open it.

"Why, Dorothy!" she exclaimed. "How did you know I wanted to see you?"

"I didn't know. I came because I have a special message for you from Miss Rutledge. She sent for me to come to her last night after dinner. I spent the evening with her and arrived here too late to see you. I was dying to tell Jane this morning at breakfast, but couldn't, of course, until I'd seen you. I'm glad you're both here. By the way, Judy, did you receive a note from Selina Brown?"

"I certainly did," emphasized Judith. "What's the answer to all this, Dorothy? I was never more astonished in all my life than when I read her note. What made Marian Seaton resign from the team, and why does Miss Rutledge want me to take her place? I'd just about made up my mind to go and ask her, when you came."

"You needn't," smiled Dorothy. "She has asked me to explain things to you in confidence. I'm going to take the liberty of including Jane. I'll explain why presently."

"I won't feel hurt if you don't, Dorothy," Jane said earnestly. "Perhaps you'd really rather tell Judy alone."

"No. I want you to hear the whole thing," Dorothy insisted. Whereupon she recounted what had occurred on the previous afternoon in the dean's office.

"I wanted you to know, Jane, just why I told Miss Rutledge that this affair was a hang-over from last year. I know she has no idea of whom I meant by the girl who was standing up for right. She may suspect Marian as being the other girl. I can't say as to that. I'm glad she knows now that there is such a condition of affairs at Wellington. She will not forget it if anything else comes up. She will be very well able to put two and two together, if need be."

"I'd never go to her of my own accord," Jane said with an emphatic shake of her russet head.

"You might be sent for some day, just as I was yesterday," returned Dorothy.

"But you haven't yet explained why Marian resigned, Dorothy," reminded Judith. "What did Miss Rutledge say about it?"

"She said that she had received a note from Selina, with Marian's resignation enclosed. Marian's reason for resigning was that she had learned you were dissatisfied over her appointment on the team. She preferred to give you her position rather than have you continue to make trouble about it."

Dorothy's lips curled scornfully as she said this.

"Then I won't accept it!" Judith blazed into sudden anger. "The idea of her writing such things about me! How can Miss Rutledge ask me to replace Marian after that? I won't do it."

"Yes, Judy, you must," Jane declared quietly. "Marian wrote that hoping you'd hear of it and refuse. She knew you'd insist on learning the particulars before you accepted. Miss Rutledge has shown her faith in you by asking you to replace Marian on the team."

"Selina Brown is behind the whole thing," asserted Dorothy.

"I believe it," quickly concurred Jane. "It's easy to see through things. She didn't want another try-out; so she made Marian resign. She must have used a pretty strong argument to do it. It was a case of the biter being bitten, I imagine."

"Exactly," Dorothy agreed. "Selina Brown and Laura Nelson ought to have more principle than engage in anything so dishonorable. They've managed to wriggle out of it at Marian's expense, but they have both lost caste by it. Depend upon it, a great many girls here will have their own opinion of the whole affair and it won't be complimentary to Marian, Selina and Laura."

"Someone may say that I am to blame for Marian's resigning," advanced Judith doubtfully.

"Someone undoubtedly will," concurred Jane, "but it won't carry much weight. You have too many friends, Judy, to bother your head about the spiteful minority. You were unfairly dealt with at the try-out. That's generally known. Now you've come into your own through a hitch in Marian's plans. She couldn't get back on the team again under any circumstances. You're not standing in her way. Don't stand in your own."

"I guess I'd better accept," Judith reluctantly conceded. "From now on I shall go armed to the teeth. Marian Seaton is apt to camp on my trail," she added with a giggle. "Good gracious, girls! Look at the time! We'll be late to chapel."

Absorbed in conversation, the trio had completely forgotten how swiftly time was scudding along.

"Late to chapel! Chapel will be over before ever we get there if you don't hurry!" exclaimed Jane ruefully.

Accordingly the three made a hasty exit from the room and the Hall, hurrying chapelwards at a most undignified pace.

That afternoon Judith sent her letter of acceptance to Selina Brown. The next day she reported in the gymnasium for practice with her old teammates. It was a joyful reunion, made more conspicuous by the attendance of a goodly number of sophomores, who had got wind of the news and who cheered Judith lustily when she appeared. The freshman team, who had so loyally fought for her, also made it a point to drop in on the practice and offer their congratulations.

The jubilant majority was undoubtedly heart and soul for Judith. Whatever the "spiteful minority," as Jane had put it, thought of her, she quite forgot in the delight of being at last really and truly on the official team.

"We certainly are a fine combination!" exulted Christine at the end of an hour's spirited work with the ball. "The freshmen will have to look out. And to think they were the ones to give Judy back to us!"

Christine, Adrienne and Barbara were among the few who knew that the freshman team had protested to Miss Rutledge. The five freshmen themselves had kept the matter fairly quiet. They had been sent for and privately informed by Miss Rutledge that Miss Seaton had resigned from the sophomore team of her own accord and that Miss Stearns was entitled to the vacancy.

They had also been gravely charged to let that end all discussion of the subject. Their point gained, they obeyed orders, except for a certain amount of curious speculation among themselves as to how it had come about.

In the end they agreed that Marian must have heard of their visit to Miss Rutledge and resigned out of pure mortification.

Jane, Judith and Dorothy kept the greater knowledge of the affair to themselves. Not even Adrienne knew the true facts. Selina Brown and Laura Nelson also found wisdom in silence. They were not hunting further trouble. They had had enough.

Selina had been allowed to keep her managership of the teams, and was shrewd enough to appreciate that another slip would be decidedly disastrous to her. Thereafter she became such a stickler for fair play as to prove decidedly amusing to at least three girls.

Marian Seaton found refuge in the "hurt feelings" policy as dictated to her by Selina. To her particular satellites she posed as a martyr and affected a lofty disdain for "certain girls who have no principle."

Inwardly she was seething with resentment against Judith. She confided to Maizie, her stand-by, that she didn't know which of the two she hated most, Judith Stearns or Jane Allen. She laid her latest defeat, however, at Judith's door. She believed that Judith had been the secret means of inciting the freshman team to protest and she was determined to be even. Furthermore, she confided to Maizie that it would be only a matter of time until Judith Stearns must lose every friend she had.



Chapter XXII

Making Other People Happy


Following on the heels of Judith's advent into the team came an unheralded and wonderful surprise for Dorothy Martin.

One crisp Saturday afternoon in early November, Jane Allen ran up the steps of Madison Hall, her face radiant. Attired in riding clothes, she had just come from the stable, where she had left Firefly after a long canter across country.

Into the house and up the stairs she dashed at top speed, bound for Dorothy Martin's room.

"Come," called a cheerful voice, in answer to her energetic rapping.

"Oh, Dorothy!" Jane fairly bounced into the room. "Get on your hat and coat and come along. I've something to show you."

"What is it? Where is it?" gaily queried Dorothy. "To mend or not to mend, that is also the question. Shall I go on mending my pet blouse that's falling to pieces altogether too fast to suit me, or drop it and go gallivanting off with you?"

"There's no question about it. You must come. If you don't, you'll be sorry all the rest of the year," predicted Jane. "Now sit and mend your old pet blouse if you dare!"

"I dare -- not," Dorothy laughed. Rising she laid aside the silk blouse she was darning and went to the wardrobe for her wraps. "I'm a very poor senior these days," she added. "I can't buy a new blouse every day in the week. I have to make my old ones last a long time."

"You always look sweet, Dorothy," praised Jane, "so you don't need to care whether your blouses are old or new. They're never anything but dainty and trim."

"Thank you for those glorious words of praise," was Dorothy's light retort.

"You're welcome, but do hurry," urged Jane.

"Where do we go from here?" quizzed Dorothy as they started down the drive.

"I sha'n't tell you. Wait and see, Miss Impatience. This is a very mysterious journey."

In this bantering strain the two continued on to the western gate of the campus, passed through and started down the highway.

"I know where we're going!" finally exclaimed Dorothy. "We're going to the stable to see Firefly! Funny I didn't guess it before, with you in riding clothes. You're going to show me some new trick you've taught Firefly. There! Did I guess right?"

"Yes, and no. That's all I'll tell you. Come on. One minute more and you'll see the great sight."

Jane caught Dorothy's hand and rushed her toward the stable. Still keeping firm hold on her friend, she led her straight to the roomy box-stall which accommodated Firefly.

"Oh, Jane!" Dorothy cried out in sudden rapture. "What a beautiful horse. Why, he looks almost enough like Firefly to be his brother. Where did you get him? What in the world are you going to do with two horses?"

"He's not mine," Jane replied. "He is --  -- " She stopped, her gray eyes dancing. "He belongs to a dear friend of mine. Her name is Dorothy Martin."

Dorothy stared, as though wondering if Jane had suddenly taken leave of her senses.

"Wake up, Dorothy!" Jane laid an affectionate hand on Dorothy's shoulder. "He's yours. Dad sent him to you. He's come all the way from Capitan to see you. Aren't you going to say 'How de do' to him?"

"Jane -- I --  -- "

Dorothy turned and hid her head against Jane's shoulder.

"This is a nice way to welcome poor Midnight," laughed Jane, as her arm went round Dorothy. Her own voice was not quite steady.

"I -- I -- it's too much," quavered Dorothy, raising her head. "I can't believe that beauty is for me. It's too wonderful to be true. I must be dreaming."

"But it is true. If you don't believe me, read this."

Jane drew a square, white envelope from the pocket of her riding coat and offered it to Dorothy.

"It's for you, from Dad," she explained. "I've been keeping it until Midnight came. This is the outcome of a plot. A real plot between Dad and me."

Dorothy took the letter, her eyes still misty.

"We'll read it together, Jane," she said.

Arms entwined about each other's waists, the two girls read Henry Allen's letter to his daughter's friend.

"DEAR MISS DOROTHY," it began. "Jane has written me that Firefly complains a great deal about being lonely. He misses Midnight, an old chum of his. So I decided that Midnight might come East, provided he had someone to look after his welfare. Jane has told me so much about you, and that you resemble one who, though gone from us, grows ever dearer with years.

"Because of this, and because of your many kindnesses to my girl, I hope you will accept Midnight for your own special pet. He is very gentle and, in my opinion, quite as fine a little horse as Firefly. You cannot, of course, expect Jane to say that. I send him to you with my very best wishes and trust that you and Jane will have many long rides together.

"My sister and I look forward to meeting you next summer. Jane tells me that she will surely bring you home with her when college closes next June. We shall be delighted to welcome you to El Capitan. My sister joins me in sending you our kindest regards.

"Yours sincerely,

"Henry Allen."

"It's just like good old Dad!" Jane cried out enthusiastically. "You'll love Midnight, Dorothy. Come and get acquainted with him. I've a whole pocketful of sugar for him and Firefly."

In a daze of happiness Dorothy followed Jane into the roomy stall and was soon making friendly overtures to Midnight, who responded most amiably.

There was still one more feature of the program, however, which Jane hardly knew how to bring forward.

"Dorothy," she began rather hesitatingly. "I hardly know how to say it, but -- well -- this stall is large enough for both Midnight and Firefly. They were chums at home and will get along beautifully together. Won't you let me look after them both? You know what I mean?"

"I'm glad you came out frankly with that, Jane." Dorothy's color had heightened. "No, I couldn't let you do that. I shouldn't feel right about it. I've been thinking hard ever since I read your father's letter. I believe it's right for me to accept Midnight, because you both want me to have him and have gone to so much trouble to bring him here. I've thought of a way out of the difficulty. Only yesterday a freshman came to me and asked me to tutor her in trigonometry. She's been conditioned already and needs help. I told her I'd let her know. I wasn't sure whether I wanted to do it. I've never tutored and I could get along without the extra money. But now, it will come in just beautifully. I can earn enough to pay for Midnight's keep. You understand how I feel about it."

"Yes. I know I'd feel the same," nodded Jane. "That's why I hated to say anything. I want you to do whatever you think best. Anyway, Firefly and Midnight can be in the same stall and that will help some. You must let me do that much."

"It will help a great deal. I'm not sure that I ought to let you do even that," demurred Dorothy.

"Of course you ought," Jane said sturdily. "You must mind Dad, you know. He depends on you to look after Midnight's welfare. This is the largest, nicest stall in the stable. Now you must see your saddle. It's Mexican and almost like mine. I put it in the locker with mine. They're too valuable to be left lying about loose."

Lingering for some little time while Dorothy made further acquaintance with her new possession, the two girls strolled back to the Hall through the November dusk.

Dorothy was exuberantly joyful over the wonderful thing that had happened to her, and correspondingly grateful to those responsible for it. Jane was also brimming with quiet happiness. She wished every other day of her sophomore year could be as delightful as this one. What splendid rides she and Dorothy would have together!

Jane left Dorothy at the door of the latter's room and went on to her own in a beatific state of mind. It was certainly far more blessed to give than to receive.

"Well, how did the gift party come off?" was Judith's question, as Jane closed the door behind her. Judith was the only one who had been let into the secret.

"Oh, splendidly!" Jane exclaimed. "She fell in love with Midnight the minute she saw him. I wish you rode, Judy. I'd have Dad send you a horse, too."

"Of course you would, generous old thing," was the affectionate reply. "But I'm not to be trusted with a noble steed. Neither would I trust said steed. I can admire Firefly, but at a safe distance. I'd rather stick to the lowly taxi or my two feet to carry me over the ground. By the way, did you look at the bulletin board on your way upstairs?"

"No; I didn't stop. I saw a couple of the girls reading a notice. What's happened?"

"Our dear Marian has met with a loss." Judith's grin belied her mournful accents. "Not her position on the team. Oh, my, no! She's not advertising that. She's lost a valuable diamond ring, and has offered twenty-five dollars reward to the finder. The very idea! Just as if a Wellington girl would accept a reward if she happened to find the ring. I call that an insult."

"It's bad taste, to say the least." Jane looked slightly scornful. "Does the notice state where she believes she lost the ring?"

"Yes; it says, 'Somewhere between Madison Hall and the library, or in Madison Hall.' Between you and me, I wonder if she really did lose a ring? It would be just like her to start this new excitement about herself on purpose to get sympathy. She must be awfully peeved yet over basket-ball. I feel almost like a villain at practice. Still, it certainly wasn't my fault."

"I'm thankful there's no one here at the Hall she could lay suspicion upon," frowned Jane. "Norma's beyond reach of injustice now. I'd rather hope it was a real loss than a camouflage."

"Well, she might say that I had stolen it. Wouldn't that be a glorious revenge?" Judith jokingly inquired.

"Don't be so ridiculous, Judy Stearns." Jane's frown changed to a smile at this far-fetched supposition on Judith's part.

"Oh, she'll probably find it again one of these days, after everyone's forgotten about it and gone on to some other great piece of news," Judith unfeelingly asserted. "You see how sympathetic I am."

"I see. I also see the clock. It's time I changed these riding togs for a dress. I'll barely have time before the dinner gong sounds."

Jane rose from the chair she had briefly occupied while listening to Judith, and began hurriedly to remove her riding habit.

Quickly rearranging her thick, curling hair, she dived into the closet that held her own and Judith's dresses. Selecting a fur-trimmed frock of dark green broadcloth, she hastily got into it.

As she hooked it a little smile played about her lips. The news of Marian's loss already forgotten, Jane was again thinking of the pleasant little scene enacted in the boarding stable, where Firefly and Midnight now stood side by side.

"You must go down to the stable with us to-morrow and look Midnight over, Judy," she suddenly remarked, then went on with an enthusiastic description of Dorothy's new treasure.

*    *    *    *    *

While she thus dwelt at length upon Midnight's good points, in a room not far distant two girls were conducting a most confidential session.

"How long do you think we ought to wait before -- well, you know?" Marian Seaton was asking.

"Oh, about three weeks, I should say," lazily returned Maizie Gilbert. "We'll have to go slowly. It will take three or four months to do the thing properly. If we rushed it, it wouldn't be half as effective as to take our time. What about Elsie?"

"We'll tell her about the dress business, but no more than that. She mustn't know a word about the rest. She has a frightful temper, you know. If she happened to get good and mad at me, she'd tell everything she knew to the very first person she ran across. She'll be properly shocked when she hears about the dress. We'll tell it to her as a great secret," planned Marian. "I won't say anything outright about the ring. I'll leave it to her to draw her own conclusions. She's rabid about Judy Stearns. It seems she has heard that Judy nicknamed her the 'ignoble Noble.'"

"That's a funny one!"

Maizie appeared to derive signal enjoyment from this revelation.

"I fail to see anything funny about it." Marian stiffened perceptibly. "Please remember, Maiz, that Elsie is my cousin."

"Oh, I haven't forgotten it. That's a funny nickname, just the same."

Maizie calmly declined to be thus easily suppressed.

"It suits me to know that Elsie heard about it," Marian said, after an instant's vexed silence.

She knew better than to continue to oppose Maizie. For one of her sluggish temperament, Maizie could turn decidedly disagreeable when she chose.

"Yes, it comes in very nicely just now," drawled Maizie. "Elsie needs a spur to keep her going. Keep her in a rage and she's a fine little mischief-maker. Let her calm down and she's likely to crumple. She really has some idea of principle, only she doesn't know it. I wonder if she'll ever find it out."

"Do you mean to insinuate that I haven't?" demanded Marian crossly.

"No; I say it plainly. Neither you nor I have any principle," declared Maizie with her slow smile. "We might as well be honest about it. We never are about anything else, you know. It doesn't worry me. It's rather interesting, I think. Keeping things stirred up relieves the dull monotony. There's always the chance that we may win. We have never won yet, you know. We're still here, though, and that's a consolation. This latest idea of yours ought to amount to something in the long run."

"Really, Maiz, you are the most cold-blooded girl I ever met!" Marian cried out in exasperation. "Sometimes I feel as if I didn't understand you at all."

"I don't pretend to understand myself," returned Maizie tranquilly. "It would be too much trouble to try. Besides, self-analysis might be fatal to my comfort. I might dig up a conscience, and that would be a bore. I'd rather take it easy and smile and be a villain still. Changes are so disagreeable. You'd find that out, if one came over me. You'd be minus a valuable ally."

"Do you mean that as a threat?"

Marian laughed. There was, however, a note of anxiety in her question. She had no desire to lose so valuable an ally as Maizie.

"A threat? No. Don't be scared. I'm still wandering along under the Seaton banner. I suppose I'm rather fond of you, Marian. Don't know why, I'm sure. You're thoroughly selfish, and we quarrel continually. That's the real reason for it, I suspect. You keep things going. That's your chief charm. Then, too, you've been fair enough with me. Whatever you may do to others isn't my concern. I don't intend that it shall be. If I were to start in the other direction I couldn't stop halfway. I'd keep on going. Then where would you be? As I said before, 'Changes are disagreeable.' So I'm going to stay on your side and, take my word for it, it's a mighty good thing for you."



Chapter XXIII

A New Friend


In spite of the peculiarly sinister talk between Marian Seaton and Maizie Gilbert, nothing unusual occurred during the next few weeks to disturb the peace of either Judith or Jane.

Thanksgiving came and went with the usual round of college gaieties. Four days being too short a holiday to permit the majority of the Wellington girls going home, they remained at college and did much celebrating.

On Thanksgiving Day the first in the series of three basket-ball games was played between the sophomores and the freshmen. The sophomores won, though the freshmen gave them a hard tussle, the score standing 22-18 in favor of the sophs when the hotly contested game ended. Both teams made a fine appearance on the floor. Neither team had adhered to class colors that year in choosing their basket-ball suits. The freshmen wore suits of navy blue, decorated with an old rose "F" on the front of the blouse. A wide rolling sailor collar of the same color further added to the effect. The sophomores had elected to be patriotic, and wore khaki-colored suits, unrelieved by a contrasting color. It was a decided innovation of its kind and they liked it.

Afterward the sophomore team privately agreed that the girls of the freshman team were real thoroughbreds. They accepted their defeat in the most good-humored fashion and heartily congratulated their opponents on their playing.

As Right Guard, Jane proved herself worthy of the position. She played with a dash and skill that was noticeable even above the good work of the other players. Her mind was too fully centered on the contest to realize this until at the end of the game she was mobbed by a crowd of enthusiastic sophs. They marched her in triumph twice around the gymnasium to the cheering, ringing accompaniment of "Who's Jane Allen? Right, right, right Guard!"

Jane never forgot that stirring cry of "Right Guard!" It conveyed to her a higher meaning than mere basket-ball glorification. It fell upon her ears as an admonition to do well. To do right, to be right, and to stay right. It was almost as if she had been elected by her own soul to be a guardian of right.

That night the losing freshman team did something unprecedented in the history of Wellington. They entertained their conquerors at dinner at Rutherford Inn. More, Jane was amazed to find herself the guest of honor and had to respond to the highly complimentary toast, "Right Guard Jane," given by Florence Durham, the freshman captain.

So Jane's Thanksgiving holiday came and went in a blaze of well-earned glory. Happy in this unexpected appreciation of herself, which appeared to be steadily growing, she came to feel that things had at last begun to take an upward turn.

With Christmas rapidly approaching and everything still serene, pleasant immunity from the disagreeable was still hers. Neither had Judith met with anything disturbing to her happiness, beyond an occasional spiteful glance from Marian Seaton when she chanced to encounter the latter in the Hall or on the campus.

"I guess Marian has given up the ghost," Judith suddenly remarked to Jane one evening before dinner, as the two sat in their room going over their long Christmas lists. "I believe I ought to send her a consolation present. A wooden tiger on wheels would be nice. I saw some lovely ones in the Ten-Cent Store at Chesterford. All painted with dashing yellow and black stripes and fixed so that they waggle their heads when you touch 'em."

"Don't mention her," grimaced Jane. "You'll break the spell. We've had absolute peace and rest since her last uprising. I wonder if she ever found her ring?"

"I don't believe so. A girl told me not long ago that she saw Marian take the notice from the bulletin board and tear it up. She overheard her say that she might just as well have not posted it, for all the good it had done. That she had hoped that the reward she offered might count. But evidently it hadn't. Now what did she mean by that?"

"Nothing or everything," shrugged Jane, and again turned her attention to her list of names.

"More likely everything," Judith declared uncharitably. "She probably meant something dark and insinuating. I guess that the only person who could earn the reward would be herself. I can just imagine her returning the ring to herself and paying herself twenty-five dollars reward."

Judith chuckled as she mentally visioned Marian Seaton graciously bestowing a reward upon herself.

Jane smiled a little, also, but made no comment. Engaged in the delightful occupation of planning pleasure for her friends, she did not wish the subject of Marian Seaton to intrude upon it.

"I don't have to worry about my present-buying this year," she presently remarked. "Aunt Mary will buy everything for me that I need. All I have to do is to send her a list of the presents I'm going to give and she will shop for me."

"It was splendid in your father and your aunt to come to New York for the holidays," approved Judith warmly.

"They both knew how disappointed I was last year because I couldn't go home for Christmas," Jane answered. "They are doing this for my special benefit. I surely appreciate it, for Dad loathes the East, and Aunt Mary hates railway traveling. I'm awfully sorry that neither you nor Dorothy can be with us. We'd love to have you, but I know that you want to be with your father, and Dorothy, of course, wants to be at home with her folks."

"Yes, Father wants me at home this year. I'm glad we are to have the full three weeks' vacation. I don't imagine that twelve days business last year worked very well. The girls made such a fuss about it, and a lot of them came back late. I'm going to ask my aunt to give a house party for me at Easter. Then I'll invite all our crowd and we'll have a great old celebration. Christmas is a bad time for a college girl house party. Everyone's anxious to be at home with her own people. Easter's different."

"Yes, that's true," nodded Jane. "What are you going to give our four freshmen, Judy?"

"Long white gloves; a pair apiece," was the prompt reply. "They have none, I know, or they would have worn them at the freshman frolic."

"That will be nice. I know what I'd like to give them. I believe they'd be pleased, too."

"What?" Judith eyed Jane interestedly.

"Furs. Not the most expensive, of course. I wouldn't care to overwhelm them. I thought of black fox muffs and scarfs for Kathie and Freda, and gray squirrel for Ida and Marie. None of them have furs. I have four or five sets and a fur coat, too. I feel selfish to have so much, when they have nothing."

"That's perfectly sweet in you, Jane," lauded Judith. "You're always a generous old dear, though."

"Why shouldn't I be generous?" demanded Jane. "Dad wants me to be. He never cares how much money I spend, but he likes to have me think about others. He's a great old giver himself. He says that the only way to take the curse off of having a lot of money is to use it in helping to make the other fellow happy. I wish I could take time to tell you all the kind things he's done with his money. It seems as though the more he gives the more he has."

"If everyone who had money were like him we'd have an ideal world, I guess," declared Judith. "I have quite a lot of money coming to me when I'm twenty-one. I was named for my grandmother and she left it to me. When I get it I shall try to do as much good with it as I can. I don't want to be selfish. I'm afraid I think too much about my own pleasure, though."

Jane smiled at this rueful confession. Judith was generous to a fault. She was always far happier in giving than in receiving.

"You're not selfish, Judy," she assured. "We all think a good deal more about our own fun than we should, perhaps. We spend lots of money on spreads and dinners and treats. I've been thinking seriously about it lately. After Christmas, I'm going to invite our crowd to our room some evening and propose something that I believe we might agree to do. You needn't ask me what it is, for I sha'n't tell you."

"All right, don't," grinned Judith. "I've enough on my mind now to keep me busy until after the holidays. I was never curious, even in my infancy. If I was, I don't recall it. In fact, I don't remember much about that particular period of my young life. I was born absent-minded, you know, and have never outgrown it."

"You've done pretty well this year," smiled Jane. "You haven't committed a single crime, so far, along that line."

"Shh!" Judith warned. "Praise is fatal. I'll surely do something now to offset it. I'm on the verge. Only yesterday noon I laid my little leather purse on my wash stand. After classes I met Mary Ashton on the campus and invited her to go to the drugstore with me to have hot chocolate. When I went to pay for it, I took my little silver soap dish out of my coat pocket. I'd grabbed it up and stuffed it in there instead of my purse. You can imagine how silly I felt! Mary had to pay for our chocolate. So I know that I'm on the verge. This Christmas rush has gone to my head. I'm going to make you censor every last package I send. I'm not to be trusted," Judith ended with a deep sigh.

"I'll keep my eye on you," promised Jane, much amused at the affair of the soap dish.

"Thank you; thank you!" Judith responded with exaggerated gratitude. "Now I must leave you. I promised Mrs. Weatherbee to go to her room before dinner. She just finished a perfectly darling white silk sweater she's been knitting for her niece. It has a pale blue collar and it's a dream. She wants to try it on me. I am about the same build as her niece."

With this Judith departed, leaving Jane in rapt contemplation of her Christmas list. She was well satisfied with the selection of gifts she purposed to lay on the altar of friendship. She hoped she had forgotten no one. She decided to write at once to her Aunt Mary, who was already in New York, and enclose a list of the articles she wished her aunt to purchase for her.

Judith presently returned to dwell animatedly on the beauties of the silk sweater.

"It's the sweetest thing ever," she glowed. "It's awfully becoming to me. It's all finished and after dinner I'm going to take it out to mail for Mrs. Weatherbee. I told her I didn't know whether I could be trusted with it or not. I might run away with it."

"Are you going to take it to the postoffice?" asked Jane. "If you are I have a letter I wish you'd mail there for me. I'd go with you but I have a frightfully long translation in French prose for to-morrow. I can't spare the time."

"Oh, I'm only going as far as the package box at the east end of the campus. Mrs. Weatherbee's going to weigh and stamp the package here and send it special delivery instead of registering it."

"Then you can drop my letter in the post box. That is, if I finish it before the dinner gong rings."

Glancing up at the clock, which showed a quarter to six, Jane hastily resumed her writing. The gong sounding before the letter was completed, Judith obligingly volunteered to "hang around" after dinner until it was ready for mailing.

"Now don't put this letter in your coat pocket, Judy," cautioned Jane, when half an hour after dinner she delivered it into Judith's keeping. "If you do, you'll forget it, mail the package and come marching back to the Hall with my letter still in your pocket. I'm anxious for it to be collected to-night; then Aunt Mary will get it some time to-morrow."

"I'll mail it. Don't you worry," Judith assured. "I'll carry it in my hand every step of the way. It's raining. Did you know it? I hope it will turn to snow by to-morrow. I like the weather good and cold around Christmas time."

"Oh, well, it's over a week until Christmas. We'll probably have plenty of snow by then," Jane commented. "Better take your umbrella."

"Never!" refused Judith. "One package and a letter are about as much as I can safely carry at a time. I might jam the umbrella into the package box and come home with Mrs. Weatherbee's package held over my head. Let well enough alone, Jane. I'll wear my raincoat and run for it."

Slipping on her raincoat and pulling a fur cap over her head, Judith took the letter and started off, stopping in the matron's room for the package she had offered to mail.

"Whew!" was her salutation on reappearing in her room perhaps twenty minutes later. "Maybe it isn't raining, though, and it's as dark as can be. I put your letter and the package under my coat and made a mad dash for the mail box. Got rid of them both in a hurry, and made a still madder dash back home. Another time, I'll consult the weather before I offer my noble services as runner. Any way, your letter is on its way. So is the sweater, and the girl who gets it is lucky."

"I'm ever so much obliged to you, Judy. I hope Aunt Mary sends my stuff right away, so that I'll have it on hand to give before I go to New York. It won't take more than two days to buy it. Allowing three for it to arrive, I'll have it in good season, I guess."

The next few days were fraught with considerable anxiety for Jane, until the arrival of numerous huge express packages, set her doubts at rest. Then a busy season of wrapping and beribboning gifts ensued. The blessed fever of giving was abroad at Wellington and the cheerful bustle and stir of Christmas pervaded every nook and corner of college.

Two evenings before Christmas, Jane and Judith invited their particular chums to their room for a good-bye spread. The party spent a jubilant evening, feasting and exchanging gifts and good wishes. On the next day, Jane and Judith bade each other an affectionate farewell and departed for their respective destinations.

Adrienne and Norma accompanied Jane to New York, there to spend the holidays with the Duprees. Adrienne's distinguished mother was filling a long engagement at a theater there, and the Duprees had opened their home in New York for the time being. Norma expected to fill a two-weeks' engagement in a stock company, obtained for her by Mr. Dupree, and was to be the guest of the kindly Frenchman and his little family.

The three girls were delighted at this state of affairs, as Jane looked forward to meeting the Duprees and Adrienne was equally eager to know Jane's father and aunt. In consequence, the trio had made countless holiday plans which they purposed to carry out.

All in all, it was a red-letter three weeks for the three Wellington girls. Jane found New York a vastly different city when peopled by those dear to her. During her brief shopping trip there the previous winter she had not liked New York. Now she discovered that it was a most wonderful place in which to spend a holiday.

In spite of the constant round of theaters, dinners, luncheons and sight-seeing into which she was whirled, she took time to look sharply about her for those to whom Christmas meant only a name. Accompanied by Mrs. Dupree, she and Adrienne made several visits to poverty-stricken sections of the great city, leaving substantial good cheer behind them.

She also discovered a special protégé in a meek-faced young girl who occupied the position of public stenographer in the hotel where the Allens were staying. Dressed in deep mourning, the girl at once enlisted Jane's sympathy. She promptly made her acquaintance and the two girls became instantly friendly. It needed but the information that Eleanor Lane had recently, lost her mother to strengthen the bond of acquaintance to actual friendship.

Democratic Henry Allen and his sister quite approved of Jane's interest in the lonely little stranger, and Eleanor was invited frequently to dine or lunch with them.

"It seems odd," she said to Jane one afternoon near the end of the blissful holiday as Jane lingered beside her desk, "but your name has sounded familiar to me from the first. I've heard it before but I can't think when or where. I only know it's familiar. It bothers me not to be able to place it."

"It's awfully aggravating to have a dim recollection of something and not be able to make it come clear," Jane agreed. "My name isn't an uncommon one. There may be dozens of Jane Allens in the world, for all I know."

"Yes, there may be. I hear and see so many names, I wonder that I can ever keep any of them straight in my mind," smiled Eleanor. "Perhaps it will come to me all of a sudden some day. If it does, I'll write you about it."

"Yes, do. You know we are going to correspond. When I come to New York again I shall surely look you up," declared Jane. "And you must come and spend a week-end with me at Wellington."

Girl-fashion, the two had advanced to the "visiting" stage of friendship. Sad little Eleanor regarded Jane as a bright and wonderful star that had suddenly dawned upon her gray horizon.

Jane liked Eleanor for her sweet amiability and pleasant, unassuming manner. She also admired her intensely, because Eleanor was actually engaged in successfully earning her own living. This, in itself, seemed quite marvelous to Jane, who had never earned a penny in her life.

"Girls are really wonderful, after all, Dad," she confided to her father, as the two sat side by side on a big leather davenport in the sitting room of the Allens' private suite, indulging in a confidential talk.

It was the last night of Jane's stay in New York. The next day would find her saying fond farewells to her father and aunt. They intended to remain in New York for a few days after Jane's departure for Wellington College, then make a brief tour of the larger eastern cities before returning to the West.

"It seems queer to me now that I used to dislike them so much," Jane continued, shaking a deprecating head at her former adverse opinion of girls in general. "I wouldn't know what to do now without my girl friends. I seem to be making new ones all the time, too. There's Eleanor, for instance. I've grown ever so fond of her. I think it would be fine to have her make me a visit next summer. She never goes anywhere in particular. She just works hard all the time. Dorothy thinks she can't come to Capitan until August, so I could have Eleanor there in July."

"Invite whom you please, Janie. The more the merrier. All I want is to see my girl happy," was the affectionate response.

"And I am happy, Dad," Jane ardently assured. "You and Aunt Mary have given me the finest Christmas I could possibly have. I'll go back to Wellington feeling as if I owned the earth. After such a glorious vacation as this has been, I'll have every reason in the world to be a good pioneer. I'll re-tackle my bit of college land for all I'm worth, and improve it as much as I can through the rest of my sophomore year. It looks a lot better already than it did last year."

Jane spoke with the glowing enthusiasm of perfect happiness. The joy of Christmas had temporarily driven from her mind even the vexatious memory of Marian Seaton and her petty spite.

Quite the contrary, Christmas had not reduced Marian to any such beatific state. She accepted it as a mere matter of course, and spent it in Buffalo, as the guest of Maizie Gilbert. Privately, she wished it over and done with. For once, she was impatient to return to Wellington, there to further a certain enterprise of her own from which she expected to gain decided results.



Chapter XXIV

The Listener


Returned to Wellington, Jane and Judith both agreed that in spite of their holiday fun, each had missed the other dreadfully. They had plenty to talk about and much to show each other in the way of beautiful gifts which had fallen to their lot.

Judith was jubilant over the acquisition of a knitted white silk sweater, which she assured Jane was an exact counterpart of the one Mrs. Weatherbee had knitted for her niece.

"My Aunt Jennie made it for me," she explained, as she proudly exhibited it to Jane. "I bought the silk and she did the work. I told her about the one Mrs. Weatherbee made for her niece and dandy Aunt Jennie offered to knit one for me like it. Wasn't that nice in her? I'm going to show it to the girls and then put it away until Spring. It will be sweet with a white wash satin skirt. I'm going to have some made just to wear with it. Let's give a spread, Jane, to the crowd. Then we can show them our Christmas presents. It will give you a chance, too, to get that great secret idea of yours off your mind. You see I haven't forgotten about it."

Jane smilingly agreed that it would be a good opportunity and the spread was accordingly planned for the next evening. Christine, Barbara, Dorothy, Norma, Alicia, Adrienne, Ethel and Mary Ashton were the chosen few to be invited.

It was not until the little feast provided by Judith and Jane had been eaten and the ten girls still sat about the makeshift banqueting board, that Jane, urged by Judith to "Speak up, Janie," began rather diffidently to speak of her cherished new idea.

"I don't know whether you'll agree with me or not," she said. "If you don't, please say so frankly, because if we should decide to do what I'm going to propose we'll all have to be united in thinking it a good idea.

"It's like this," she continued. "We all spend a good deal of money on luncheons and dinners and spreads. We feel, of course, that we have a perfect right to do as we please with our allowance checks. So we have. Still, when one stops to think about quite a number of girls at Wellington who are straining every nerve to put themselves through college, it seems a little bit selfish to spend so much on one's own pleasures.

"Suppose we agreed to give only two spreads a month. There are ten of us here. We could each put a dollar a month into a common fund. That would give us ten dollars to spend on the two spreads, five dollars on each. During the month we'd see how much of our allowances we could save. Whatever we had left at the end of the month would go into the common fund. No one of us would be obliged to give any particular sum. Whatever we gave would be a good-will offering. One of us would be treasurer. We'd buy a toy-bank and the treasurer would take charge of it. Whenever one of us wanted to give something we'd go to her and drop the money in the bank. Not even she would know what we gave. The first of every new month she'd take the money out, count it and put it in the Chesterford Trust company for us."

"But suppose we save quite a lot, what would we do with it?" asked Barbara Tennant. "We wouldn't need it for ourselves. We'd have to --  -- "

"That's what I'm coming to," interposed Jane. "We'd start a fund to help the poorer Wellington students along. There is no College Aid Society here. I don't know why none has ever been organized. I suppose there haven't been so very many poor girls at Wellington. Until three years ago there were no scholarships offered. There are only two now. There will be three soon. My father has promised me that."

Jane's lips curved in a tender little smile, as she quietly made this announcement. There was no hint of boastful pride in her tones; nothing save becoming modesty and deep sincerity.

"This money we collected would be open to any student to draw upon who made requisition for it," she explained.

"But would the girls who need it ask for it?" questioned Norma. "You see I know how it feels to be very, very poor. If I hadn't found such a splendid way to earn my tuition fees and board, I'm afraid I could never bring myself to ask for help in that way. It would seem like begging."

"Oh, we'd loan the money; not give it," promptly assured Jane. "We'd loan it without interest, to be repaid at convenience. You know the 'Beatrice Horton' books. Well, in those stories the girls at Exley College started such a fund. They gave entertainments and shows to help it along. Then they received money contributions from interested persons, too.

"I don't know whether we'd ever do as they did. I like the idea of the self-denial gifts from just the crowd of us. We could let the money pile up this year and if we had enough by next October we could start our Student's Aid Fund."

"We could keep up the good work during our vacations, too," enthusiastically suggested Mary Ashton. "A little self-denial then wouldn't hurt us, I guess, I think it would be fun for each of us to pledge ourselves to earn at least ten dollars this summer to put into the fund. Norma and Adrienne are the only ones of us here who ever earned a dollar. Dispute that if you can."

"I dispute it," grinned Judith. "My father once gave me a silver dollar for keeping quiet a whole hour. I was only five at the time I earned that fabulous sum."

"I've earned lots of dollars for churches and hospitals at bazaars," declared Christine. "I suppose most of us have. But that's not like earning money for ourselves."

"Well, everybody here is going to earn ten dollars this coming summer," stated Judith positively. "It would be still more fun if we each agreed to write a poem telling how we earned our ten dollars. We'd have a grand reunion as soon as we were all back in college and each of us would read her own poetic gem right out loud, so that we could all appreciate it."

Judith's proposal was greeted with laughter and accepted on the spot. The girls were no less enthusiastic over Jane's worthy plan and each expressed herself as ready and willing to do her bit toward furthering its success. Before the ten-thirty bell drove the revelers from the scene of revelry, Adrienne had been appointed to act as treasurer. Jane had been unanimously chosen, but declined, suggesting Adrienne in her stead.

Thus from one girl's generous thought was presently to spring an organization that would grow, thrive and endure long after Jane Allen had been graduated from Wellington College to a wider field in life.

That evening's jollification was the last for the participants until fateful mid-year, with its burden of examinations should come and go. The nearer it approached the more devoted became the Wellingtonites to study. Even basket-ball practice fell off considerably. The second game between the freshmen and sophomore teams was set for the third Saturday in February. This meant ample time for practice after the dreaded examinations were out of the way.

On the whole January seemed fated to pass out in uneventful placidity so far as Jane and Judith were concerned. Elsie Noble continued to glower her silent disapproval of her tablemates three times a day, but that was all. Since the disastrous failure of the scheme to leave Jane, Judith and Adrienne in the lurch at the freshman frolic, she had made no further attempts at unworthy retaliation for her supposed grievances.

Marian Seaton also appeared to be too fully occupied with her own affairs to undertake the launching of a new offensive against the girls she so greatly disliked. In fact, she behaved as though she had forgotten their very existence. For this they were duly grateful.

Only one incident occurred during the month which brought Marian's name up for discussion between Judith and Jane.

Judith arrived in her room late one afternoon with the news that Maizie Gilbert had lost a valuable sapphire and diamond pin. Notice of the loss had appeared on the main bulletin board at Wellington Hall. It was worded almost precisely as had been the notice previously posted by Marian regarding the loss of her diamond ring.

Judith again confided to Jane her sturdy disbelief concerning Maizie's loss. As in the case of Marian, she attributed it as a silly determination to attract undue attention. Jane frowned reflectively at Judith's supposition, but refused to commit herself.

"I don't want to talk or even think about either Marian or Maizie," she said shortly. "I've been living in perfect peace since Christmas and I hate to break the spell. I'm trying to keep my mind on study just now. Are you aware, Judy Stearns, that exams begin to-morrow?"

"I am. I am prepared -- in a measure. Ahem!" Judith snickered, adding: "A very small measure."

"Are you going to study to-night?" Jane demanded. "If you're not, then away with you. I'm going to be fearfully, terribly, horribly busy. Don't interrupt me. That means you. Alicia is coming in after dinner to-night. We are going to conduct a review."

"All right, conduct it," graciously sanctioned Judith. "I'm not going to study to-night. I never do the last evening before exams. I just try to keep what I already know in my head and let it go at that. Guess I'll inflict my charming self upon Adrienne and Ethel. They're not going to study, either."

"Do so; do so," approved Jane with smiling alacrity. "I'm sure they'll love to have you."

"Certainly they will. I am always welcome everywhere -- except here, on the dread eve of the stupendous ordeal which we shall presently be called upon to endure."

Judith struck an attitude and continued to declaim dramatically.

"Who am I that I should desire for a moment to remain where I am not desired. I will flee to the welcome haunt of my true friends. We'll make merry and make fudge at the same time. And I sha'n't bring you a single speck of squdgy, fudgy fudge," she ended in practical tones.

"I can live without it," informed Jane drily. "Be as merry as you please, but be quiet about it. Remember, a lot of girls will be trying to study."

"Oh, we won't get ourselves disliked," airily assured Judith. "We'll be as quiet as can be. We know how to behave during such times of stress."

Jane merely smiled. Judith and Adrienne together meant much hilarity.

Dinner over, Alicia appeared to hold student vigil with Jane. Judith as promptly betook herself to Adrienne's room for an evening's relaxation. There she found Norma, who had also elected to eschew study for fudge.

It may be said to the quartette's credit that, though hilarity reigned during the fudge making, it was of a subdued order. When the delicious concoction of chocolate and walnut meats was at last ready for sampling, the four girls sat down to eat and talk to their hearts' content.

The conversation drifting to the all-important subject of dress, Adrienne exclaimed in sudden recollection:

"Ah, Judy, but I must show you the sweet frock which I have this day received from ma mère. It is, of a truth, the dream. But wait one moment! You shall thus see for yourself."

Springing up from her chair, the little girl darted to a curtained doorway, the entrance to a roomy closet, containing her own and Ethel's gowns.

It was at least five minutes when she reappeared, minus the new gown, an angry light in her big, black eyes.

"What's the matter, Imp?" questioned Ethel concernedly.

For answer, Adrienne laid a warning finger to her lips with a mysterious wag of her curly head toward the curtained doorway.

Her finger still on her lips, she picked up a pencil from the writing table and scribbled industriously for a moment or two on a pad of paper. Silently she handed the pad to Judith, who read it, opened her eyes very wide and passed the pad to Ethel. Ethel, in turn, handed it to Norma.

Suddenly Adrienne broke the silence; speaking in purposely loud tones.

"I have the great secret to tell you, girls. It is of a certainty most amazing. Wait until I return. I shall be absent from the room but a moment. Then you shall hear much that is interesting."

Flashing to the door, she paused, frantically beckoning her friends to follow her. Next instant the four had made a noiseless exit into the hall and were grouped before the door of the next room.

Very cautiously, Adrienne's small fingers sought the door knob and turned it. Slowly, soundlessly, she opened the door and stepped cat-footed into the room. A little line of three, emulating her stealthy movement, tip-toed after her into a room empty of occupants.

Straight to a curtained doorway Adrienne flitted, followed by her faithful shadows. Sweeping the chintz curtain aside with a lightning movement of her hand, she paused.

Looking over her shoulder, three girls saw a motionless figure lying flat on the closet floor. In that fraction of a second the figure suddenly acquired motion and speech. A scramble, an appalled "Oh!" and a very angry and thoroughly frightened girl was on her feet, confronting Adrienne. Her companions had now fallen back a little from the doorway. The listener now made a futile attempt at composure.

"What -- why --  -- " she gasped.

"Come out of this closet, dishonorable one," commanded Adrienne sternly. "Ah, but it is I who had the luck to discover you in the act of listening. Had you not too hastily shut the register when you heard me enter the closet on the other side, I should never have guessed. Come out instantly."

The imperious repetition of the command served its purpose. Adrienne backed out of the closet into the room, followed by Elsie Noble. The latter's small black eyes refused to meet those of her accuser. The blazing red of her cheeks betrayed her utter humiliation.

For a brief instant no one spoke. Then Elsie recovered speech.

"Get out -- of -- my -- room, you -- spies!" she stammered in a furious, rage-choked voice.

"Ah, but it is you who are the great spy!" scornfully exclaimed Adrienne. "There is no longer the mystery. So you must have listened often to Ethel and myself as we privately talked. Have you then no shame to be thus so small -- so contemptible?"

"No, I haven't. I --  -- "

Elsie's attempt to brazen things out ended almost as soon as it began. Her guilty, shifting gaze had come to rest on Norma's grave, sweet face. It wore an expression of wondering pity. Elsie turned and bolted straight for her couch bed. She threw herself downward upon it, beating the pillows with her clenched fists, in a fury of tempestuous chagrin.

"I think we'd best go, girls." It was Norma who spoke. "Alicia will soon be in. I don't believe we'd care to have even her know about this. Perhaps it would be just as well for us to forget that it's happened."

This charitable view of the matter brought Elsie's head from the pillow with a jerk. She sat up and stared hard at Norma, as if unable to credit the latter's plea for clemency in her behalf.

"I am satisfied to have thus solved a mystery. Now I wish to forget it." Adrienne made a sweeping gesture, as though to blot out the disagreeable incident with a wave of her hand.

"It certainly wouldn't be a pleasant memory," dryly agreed Judith. "Anyhow, we know now something we've wanted to know for a long time. That's about all that one feels like saying, except that one hopes it won't happen again."

"I guess it won't. Let's go, girls," was all that Ethel said.

Without another word the quartette turned to the door, leaving Elsie to her own dark meditations. She could hardly believe that she had thus easily escaped. It appeared that these girls whom she had been so sure she despised, had no mind for retaliation. They were simply disgusted with her. For the first time, a dim realization of her own unworthiness forced itself upon Elsie.

It was not strong enough to impel her to run after those who had just disappeared and apologize for her fault. Nevertheless, Adrienne's accusing question, "Have you then no shame to be thus so small; so contemptible?" rang in her ears. It dawned painfully upon her that she was ashamed of herself. More, that she was done with eavesdropping for good and all.

Early in the year she had stumbled upon the discovery that the register in the dress closet could be efficiently used as a listening post. Its position, low in the wall between the two closets, made it possible for her to hear plainly the conversation of those in the next room when both sides of the register stood open. This state of matters had existed when first she made the discovery. More, the side opening into the dress closet belonging to Adrienne and Ethel had remained open.

This proved conclusively to Elsie that she was alone in her discovery. Fearful lest Alicia should note the sound of voices proceeding from the next room, she had been careful to keep the register closed whenever Alicia was present in their room. At times when the latter was absent, Elsie had noiselessly opened it and taken up her position in the closet as an eavesdropper. Now she began miserably to wish that she had never done it.

Meanwhile, Adrienne's first move on re-entering her room was to dash into the adjoining closet and close the treacherous register with an energetic hand. To block further listening, she promptly stowed a suitcase on end against it.

"Voila! I have now remedied the trouble," she announced, as she emerged from the closet. "We shall not need that register to give the heat to us. I have closed it and placed against it the suitcase. Strange we never before noticed."

"Better late than never," commented Judith. "Funny the way our little mystery was solved, wasn't it?"

"I should never have known, had she not made the noise in closing the register on her side," explained Adrienne. "I had but bent over to lift the box containing my new gown when I noticed the register, heard the sound and, of a sudden, grew suspicious. I recalled that it could not be Alicia. So I was most determined to know if my suspicion was the idle one. It was not. You saw for yourselves. It was all most disagreeable. I had the feeling of shame myself to thus discover this girl listening."

"So had I," echoed Ethel.

"It was rather horrid," declared Judith. "Maybe it will teach her a much-needed lesson. The ignoble Noble is a splendid name for her. I'm proud of myself for having thought of it."

"I think she was really ashamed of herself," Norma said quietly. "I couldn't help feeling a little bit sorry for her. She pretended to be very defiant, when all the time she looked humiliated and miserable. I believe she was truly sorry, but couldn't bring herself to say so."

"She will too soon forget," shrugged Adrienne. "A few minutes with her cousin, that most detestable Seaton one, and her regrets will vanish. Once you said, Judy, that we should solve our little mystery when we least thought. So you are indeed the prophet. We can expect no gratitude from this girl, because we have thus overlooked her fault. Still, I have the feeling that she will trouble us no more. Voila! It is sufficient."



Chapter XXV

The Accusation


Adrienne's prediction that a few moments with Marian Seaton would effectually banish Elsie Noble's remorse, provided she felt remorse, proved not altogether correct. The beginning on next day of the mid-year examinations served as a partial escape valve for Elsie's feeling of deep humiliation.

By the end of the week she was divided between remorse and resentment. The latter over-swaying her, she fell back on Marian for sympathy. Marian's sympathy was not specially satisfying. She actually laughed over Elsie's aggrieved narration of the affair of the dress closet, and coolly informed her cousin that she should have locked her door before attempting any such maneuver.

The only grain of consolation which she bestowed was, "You needn't feel so bad about what those sillies think of you. They'll have something more serious to think about before long. It's high time Maiz and I took a hand in things."

"What are you going to do?" Elsie sulkily demanded.

"You'll know when the time comes," was the brusque reply.

A reply that sent Elsie back to her room, sullenly wondering what Marian was "up to" now. Strangely enough, Marian's vague threat awoke within her a curious sense of uneasiness. She was not so keen for retaliation now. She darkly surmised that Marian intended somehow to make trouble for Judith Stearns and Norma about the last year's affair of the stolen gown. Once she had been ready to believe Marian's assertion that Judith had been guilty of theft. She was not nearly so ready now to believe it.

As for Norma! Elsie could still see Norma's sweet face, with its gentle blue eyes pityingly bent on her. Marian might say all she pleased. Norma Bennett was fine and honest to the core. She had always secretly admired Norma for her wonderful talent. Now she admired Norma for herself. If Marian undertook to injure Norma --  -- Elsie set her thin lips in a fashion denoting decision.

Mid-year came and went, however, with nothing to disturb the outward serenity of Madison Hall. A brief season of jubilation followed the trial of examinations. The new college term began with the usual flurry accompanying the rearranging of recitation programs and getting settled in classes. Basket-ball ardor was revived and practice resumed by the freshman and sophomore teams, pending the second game to be played on the third Saturday in February.

On the Monday evening before the game, Marian Seaton and Maizie Gilbert held a private session with Mrs. Weatherbee. It lasted for half an hour and when the two girls emerged from the matron's office, they left behind them a most shocked and perplexed woman. The story which they had related to her would have seemed preposterous, save that it touched upon a private matter of her own that had of late vaguely annoyed her.

For some time after the two had left her office, she wrestled with the difficulty which confronted her. Nor had she decided upon a course of action when she retired that night. For two days she continued in doubt, before she was able to make up her mind regarding the handling of the troublesome problem.

After dinner on Wednesday evening she sent the maid upstairs with certain instructions and promptly retired to her room.

"Mrs. Weatherbee wants to see us in her room?" marveled Judith, addressing Molly, the maid who had delivered the message. "Are you sure she said her room?"

"Yes, Miss Judith. That's what she said," returned Molly positively. "She said please come right away."

"That means us." Judith turned to Jane as Molly vanished. "Now why do you suppose she wants to see us in her room? She must have something very private to say or she'd talk with us in her office."

"I don't like it at all!" Jane exclaimed with knitted brows. "Something's gone wrong. But what? Can you think of any reason for it?"

"No, I can't. We haven't committed any horrible crimes that I can recall," returned Judith lightly. "Come on. We might as well go and find out the meaning of this thusness. We should worry. We haven't done anything to deserve a call-down."

One look at Mrs. Weatherbee's grave face as she admitted them to her room convinced both that something disagreeable was impending.

"Sit down, girls," the matron invited, in her usual reserved fashion. "I have sent for Miss Bennett. She will be here in a moment."

This merely added to Jane's and Judith's perplexity. Jane shot a bewildered glance toward Judith, as the two silently seated themselves. Directly a light rapping at the door announced Norma's arrival. She was also formally greeted and requested to take a seat.

For a moment the matron surveyed the trio as though undetermined how to address them. When she finally spoke, there was a note of hesitation in her voice.

"A very peculiar story has been told me," she said, "which intimately concerns you three girls, particularly Miss Stearns. Much as I dislike the idea, I am obliged, as matron of Madison Hall, to investigate it.

"Certain students at the Hall have made very serious charges against you, Miss Stearns. These charges are partially based on something that occurred here last year, of which I had no knowledge. I --  -- "

"Mrs. Weatherbee! I insist on knowing at once what these charges are!"

Judith was on her feet, her usually good-natured face dark with righteous indignation.

"Sit down, Miss Stearns," commanded the matron not ungently. "I intend to go into this unpleasant matter fully with you. A valuable diamond ring belonging to Miss Seaton and a diamond and sapphire pin belonging to Miss Gilbert have disappeared. Though 'Lost' notices were posted regarding these articles, their owners have come to me stating their private belief that you are responsible for their disappearance."

"But surely you can't believe any such thing about me!" Judith cried out in distress. "Do you realize that those two girls actually accuse me of being a thief?"

"Wait a moment, please." The matron raised a protesting hand. "Let me finish what I wished to say. Miss Seaton does not believe you guilty of intentional theft. She accused you of being a kleptomaniac. She also accuses Miss Allen and Miss Bennett of knowing it and aiding you in keeping your failing a secret."

"What?" almost shouted Judith.

"Oh, this is too much!" It was Jane who now sprang furiously up from her chair, her gray eyes flashing. "I won't endure it. I insist, Mrs. Weatherbee, that you send for these girls and let us face them."

"Yes, send for them! I won't leave this room until Marian Seaton takes back every single thing she's said about me," was Judith's wrathful ultimatum.

"I was about to suggest when you and Miss Allen interrupted me that I had thought it advisable to bring you girls together. Still, I deemed it only fair to let you understand the situation beforehand," stated the matron rather stiffly. "I have already sent Miss Seaton and Miss Gilbert word to come here at eight o'clock. It lacks only five minutes of eight. They will be here directly. We will not go further in this matter until they come. You will oblige me by resuming your chairs."

Mrs. Weatherbee's expression was that of a martyr. She was in for a very disagreeable session and she knew it. Marian's accusation against Judith made necessary an investigation. It had come to a point where Judith's honesty must be either conclusively proved or disproved beyond all shadow of doubt. If Judith, as Marian boldly declared, were really a kleptomaniac, she was a menace to Madison Hall.

Ordinarily Mrs. Weatherbee would have been slow to believe such a thing. The fact, however, that the silk sweater which she had intrusted to Judith to mail had never reached its destination, had implanted distrust in the matron's mind. To have recently learned that Judith had been exhibiting to her girl friends a sweater that answered to the description of the one she had knitted for her niece was decidedly in line with her private suspicions. Neither had she forgotten Judith's laughing assertion to the effect that she was not sure she could be trusted not to run off with the sweater.

Jane and Judith reluctantly reseating themselves, an embarrassing silence fell. Each of the three girls was busy racking her brain to recall the circumstance of last year upon which Marian Seaton had based her charge. None could bring back any of that nature in which Marian had figured.

The sound of approaching footfalls, followed by a light knock at the door, came as a relief to the waiting four. Next instant Marian and Maizie had stepped into the room in response to the matron's "Come in."

A bright flush sprang to Marian's cheeks as she glimpsed the trio of stern-faced girls. She had not anticipated being thus so quickly brought face to face with those she had maligned. Maizie appeared merely sleepily amused.

"Kindly be seated, girls." Mrs. Weatherbee motioned them to an upholstered settee near the door.

Casting a baleful glance at Jane, Marian complied with the terse invitation. Maizie dropped lazily down beside her, her slow smile in evidence. Matters promised to be interesting.

"Miss Seaton," the matron immediately plunged into the business at hand, "you may repeat to Miss Stearns, Miss Allen and Miss Bennett what you have already told me concerning the affair of last year. Miss Stearns has been informed of your charges against her. She wishes to defend herself."

"I certainly do," emphasized Judith, "and I shall make you take it all back, too, Miss Seaton."

"I'm sorry I can't oblige you by taking it all back," sneered Marian. "I can merely repeat a little of a conversation that occurred between you and Miss Allen in which you condemned yourself."

"Very well, repeat it," challenged Judith coolly.

As nearly as she could remember, Marian repeated the talk between Jane and Judith, to which she had dishonorably listened on the night of the freshman frolic.

"You were heard to admit that you had stolen a gown from Edith Hammond," she triumphantly accused. "That Edith blamed Miss Bennett and that she confessed you had stolen it. Also that Miss Allen settled for it and you all agreed to keep it a secret. Worse yet, you and Miss Allen only laughed and joked about what you called 'your fatal failing.' Deny if you can that you two had such a conversation."

During this amazing recital the faces of at least three listeners had registered a variety of expressions. Marian's spiteful challenge met with unexpected results. Of a sudden the trio burst into uncontrolled laughter.

"Girls," rebuked Mrs. Weatherbee sharply, "this is hardly a time for laughter. Miss Stearns, do you or do you not deny that you and Miss Allen held the conversation Miss Seaton accuses you of holding?"

"Of course we did," cheerfully answered Judith, her mirthful features sobering.

"Then you --  -- "

"We were in the dressing room on the night of the freshman frolic when it took place," broke in Jane. "May I ask where you were, Miss Seaton, when you overheard it?"

Jane's gray eyes rested scornfully upon Marian as she flashed out her question.

"I -- I wasn't anywhere," snapped Marian. "I -- someone else overheard it."

"Then 'someone else' should have taken pains to learn the truth before spreading malicious untruth," tensely condemned Jane.

Turning to the matron, she said bitterly:

"Mrs. Weatherbee, this whole story is simply spite-work; nothing else. When I have explained the true meaning of Judith's and my talk together in the dressing-room, you will understand everything. Judith's fatal failing is not kleptomania. It's merely absent-mindedness."

Rapidly Jane narrated the incident of the missing white lace gown, belonging to Edith Hammond, in which herself, Judith and Norma had figured in the previous year. She finished with:

"I shall ask you to write to Edith for corroboration of my story. I must also insist on knowing the name of the girl who overheard our talk. She must be told the facts. We cannot afford to allow such injurious gossip to be circulated about any of us. Judith in particular. Further, it is ridiculous even to connect her with the disappearance of Miss Seaton's ring and Miss Gilbert's pin."

"Oh, is it?" cried Marian in shrill anger, "Just let me tell you that both the ring and the pin were stolen from our room. We posted a notice and offered a reward, hoping to get them back without raising a disturbance. It's easy enough for you to make up the silly tale you've just told. I don't believe it. You're only trying to cover the real truth by pretending that Miss Stearns is absent-minded. It's not hard to see through your flimsy pretext."

"That will do, Miss Seaton." Mrs. Weatherbee now took stern command of the situation. "I have no reason to believe that Miss Allen has not spoken the truth. This affair seems to consist largely of a misunderstanding, coupled with a good deal of spite work. You will oblige me by giving me the name of the girl who overheard the conversation."

Marian did not at once reply. Instead, she cast a hasty, inquiring glance at Maizie. The latter answered it with a slight smile and a nod of the head.

"It was my cousin, Miss Noble, who overheard the conversation," she reluctantly admitted. "She repeated it to me in confidence. She does not wish to be brought into this affair. You will kindly leave her out of it entirely."

"Your dictation is unbecoming, Miss Seaton," coldly reproved the matron. "I shall use my own judgment in this matter."

"You are all excused," she continued, addressing the ill-assorted group. "We will leave this matter as it stands for the present. When I have decided what to do, I will send for you again. Until then, not a word concerning it to anyone."

Marian and Maizie rose with alacrity. They had no desire to prolong the interview. It had not panned out to suit them. Jane's concise explanation of the gown incident had practically turned a serious offense into a laughable blunder. Mrs. Weatherbee undoubtedly believed Jane. After listening to her, she had not asked either Norma or Judith a single question. Instead, she had closed the discussion with a curtness that was not reassuring to the plotters.

"Elsie will have to help us out," were Marian's first words when she and Maizie reached their room. "She'll be raving when I tell her. She'll have to do it, though. If she doesn't, I'll threaten to tell all the girls about the way that little French snip caught her listening at the register."

"You might as well have owned up that it was you who listened outside the dressing-room," shrugged Maizie. "Then you could have passed the whole thing off as a misunderstanding. That would have ended it. Now we're both in for a fine lot of trouble."

"Then why did you nod your head when I looked at you?" asked Marian fiercely.

"Oh, just to keep things going," drawled Maizie. "I like to see those girls all fussed up about nothing. Besides, Weatherbee can't do anything very serious about our part of it. She can say we are mischief-makers and call us down and that's all. No one except ourselves knows the truth about the ring and the pin. That's the only thing that could really get us into trouble."

"No one will ever know, either," declared Marian. "They're both in the tray of my trunk. We'll take them home with us at Easter and leave them there. That will be safest."

"You certainly leaped before you looked, this time," chuckled Maizie. "That gown business was funny."

"Well, how was I to know? I heard Judy Stearns say she stole it," retorted Marian testily. "The whole thing sounded suspicious enough to hang our losses on. Just the same I shall keep on saying now that I believe she stole our stuff. Mrs. Weatherbee needn't think she can make me keep quiet. I have a perfect right to my own belief and I'll see to it that others besides myself share it."



Chapter XXVI

The Star Witness


In Jane's and Judith's room a highly disgusted trio of girls held session directly they had left Mrs. Weatherbee. Far from feeling utterly crushed and humiliated by Marian's accusations, Judith was filled with lofty disdain of Marian's far-fetched attempt to discredit her.

"I suppose I ought to feel dreadfully cut up over being accused of theft," she said, "but I can't. The whole business seems positively unreal. Jane, do you believe it was the ignoble Noble who overheard us talking that night?"

"No; I think it was either Maizie or Marian," returned Jane positively. "Didn't you see them exchange glances? Then Maizie nodded. They had agreed to put the blame on Miss Noble."

"I wonder if she had agreed to let them," remarked Norma. "I suppose she had. Otherwise, Marian wouldn't have dared use her name."

"I wonder what Mrs. Weatherbee will do about it," emphasized Jane. "There's more than weird unreality to it, Judy. You mustn't forget that Marian has accused you of taking her ring and Maizie's pin. She hasn't withdrawn that accusation. She won't withdraw it. I am very sure of that."

"Well, she needn't," retorted Judith. "We know how much it's worth. So does Mrs. Weatherbee. You heard what she said about spite work. She's very much displeased with Marian and Maizie. She'll probably send for us to-morrow night and them, too. Then she'll lay down the law and order the whole thing dropped. She must see herself how unjust it is. Your explanation about Edith's dress was enough to show that. Just because the pin and ring are missing is no sign that I should be accused of their disappearance. Besides, they've been posted as 'Lost.' That clears me, doesn't it?"

"It ought to, but it doesn't," replied Jane soberly. "Marian and Maizie will go on insinuating hateful things about you, even if they are ordered to drop the matter. Then there's Miss Noble. She's on the outs with us and on Marian's side. Unless we can do something ourselves to make these girls drop the affair, they won't drop it."

"If Mrs. Weatherbee can't stop them, we certainly can't," Judith responded rather anxiously. "I guess, though, that she can. She's awfully determined, you know. I'm going to put my faith in her and not worry any more about it. I dare say if a thorough search were made of Marian's and Maizie's room the lost jewelry would be found," she predicted bitterly.

"That's precisely my opinion," nodded Jane. "If it comes to it I shall tell Mrs. Weatherbee so. I'd rather wait a little, though, to see how things pan out. This is Wednesday. I hope it will be settled and off our minds before Saturday. We'd hate to go into the game with the least bit of shadow hanging over us."

"Oh, I guess it will be settled before then." Nevertheless Judith looked a trifle solemn. Despite her declaration that she did not intend to worry, Jane's prediction had taken uncomfortable hold on her.

"I think she ought to have settled it to-night," was Norma's blunt opinion. "It wouldn't surprise me if she really wrote to Edith Hammond. Mrs. Weatherbee's peculiar. I know, because I've worked for her. She probably believes Jane, yet she's in doubt about something. I could tell that by the way she acted."

"You don't believe she suspects me of stealing those girls' jewelry, do you?" questioned Judith in quick alarm.

"I hardly think that," Norma said slowly. "I only know she's not quite in sympathy with you, Judy. If she had been she wouldn't have hesitated to settle things then and there."

Norma's surmise was more accurate than not. Marian Seaton's sneering assertion that alleged absent-mindedness on Judith's part cloaked a grave failing had not been entirely lost on the matron. She could not forget the missing sweater. Was it possible, she wondered, that there might be truth in Marian's accusation?

Privately she resolved to do three things before passing final judgment. She would write to Edith for corroboration of the gown story. She would make further inquiry, concerning Judith's absent-mindedness, of Dorothy Martin. She would have a private talk with Elsie Noble. This last was solely to determine whether Marian had spoken the truth in regard to Elsie's having overheard the fateful conversation. She was as doubtful of Marian as she was of poor Judith.

Mrs. Weatherbee intended to delay making inquiry of either Dorothy or Elsie until she had received a reply to a special delivery letter which she had dispatched to Edith Allison, nee Edith Hammond.

In the interim Judith had gone from hopefulness to anxiety and from anxiety to nervousness. In consequence, she failed to play on Saturday with her usual snap and vigor, and had not her teammates put forth an extra effort, her unintentional lagging would have lost them the game. As it was they won it by only two points.

Completely disgusted with herself, Judith broke down in the dressing-room and sobbed miserably. A proceeding which made Christine, Barbara and Adrienne wonder what in the world had happened to upset cheery, light-hearted Judy.

Back in her room, Judith cried harder than ever.

"I'm all upset," she wailed, her head on Jane's comforting shoulder. "I don't see why Mrs. Weatherbee hasn't sent for us about that miserable business. It's got on my nerves."

"Never mind," soothed Jane. "If she doesn't let us know about it by Monday afternoon, I'll go to her myself. If I knew positively that Marian Seaton wrote the letter that nearly lost me my room, I'd tell Mrs. Weatherbee. It would only be giving her what she deserves."

Monday morning, however, brought Mrs. Weatherbee a letter from Edith Hammond, over which she smiled, then looked uncompromisingly severe. Her stern expression spelled trouble for someone.

Meanwhile, on the same morning, Jane also received a letter which made her catch her breath in sheer amazement. It was from Eleanor Lane and stated:

Dear Jane:

"I've remembered at last. Now I know why your name seemed so familiar. Last fall a Miss Seaton was staying at the hotel with her mother. She dictated a letter to me, the carbon copy of which I am enclosing. She told me that she was having the letter typed for a joke and asked me to sign it 'Jane Allen.' I knew that wasn't her name, because I had heard a bell-boy page her several times and knew who she was. She said that you were her cousin and that she was only sending the letter for fun, that it wouldn't do you the least bit of harm.

"I didn't like her at all. She was very hateful and supercilious. I thought at the time that the letter was a queer kind of joke, but I'd never been to college so I wasn't in a position to criticize it. Anyway, it wasn't my business, so I typed it and signed it as she requested. That's where I saw your name. I thought I would send you the letter and ask you if it was really a joke. I found it the other day in going over my files and it worried me. I realized that I had done a very foolish thing in signing it. I should have refused to do so.

"This is the second letter I've written since I last heard from you, so hurry up and write me soon. With much love,

"Ever your friend,

"Eleanor."

The shadow of a smile flickered about Jane's lips as she unfolded the sheet of paper enclosed in Eleanor's letter and glanced it over. As by miracle the means of retaliation had been placed in her hands.

She decided that she would wait only to see what the day might bring forth. If by dinner time that evening Mrs. Weatherbee had made no sign, she would go to the matron after dinner with a recital that went back to the very beginning of her freshman year. She would tell everything. Nothing should be omitted that would serve to show Marian Seaton to Mrs. Weatherbee in her true colors.

If, on the other hand, Mrs. Weatherbee sent for Judith, Norma and herself that evening and exonerated Judith in the presence of her enemies, Jane determined that she would not, even in that event, withhold the story of Marian's long-continued persecution of herself and her friends. Undoubtedly Marian and Maizie would be asked to leave Madison Hall; perhaps college as well. Mrs. Weatherbee would be sufficiently shocked and incensed to carry the affair higher. Jane hoped that she would. She had reached a point where she had become merciless.

While Jane was darkly considering her course of action, Mrs. Weatherbee was finding Monday a most amazingly exciting day. The morning mail brought her Edith's letter. Directly afterward she hailed Dorothy Martin as the latter left the dining-room and marched Dorothy to her office for a private talk. When it ended, Dorothy had missed her first recitation. Mrs. Weatherbee, however, had learned a number of things, hitherto unguessed by her.

Shortly after luncheon a meek-eyed, plainly dressed little woman was ushered into her office. In her mittened hands the stranger carried a package. Sight of it caused the matron to stare. Her wonder grew as the woman handed it to her.

"If you please, ma'am," blurted forth the stranger, red with embarrassment, "I hope you won't feel hard towards me. I know I oughtta come to you before. My husband found this here package in a rubbish can. He works for the town, collectin' rubbish. He found it jus' before Christmas and brung it home t' me.

"You c'n see for yourself how the name o' the party it was to go to had been all run together, so's you can't read it. The package got wet, I guess. But your name's plain enough up in the corner. I knowed I ought ta brung it here first thing, but I -- I -- opened it. I knowed I hadn't oughtta. Then I seen this pretty silk sack and I wanted it terrible.

"I says to myself as how I was goin' to keep it. It wasn't my fault if you throwed it into the rubbish can by mistake. My husband he said I hadda right to it, 'cause findin' was keepin'. So I kep' it, but it made me feel bad. I was brung up honest and I knowed it was the same as stealin'.

"But I wanted it terrible, jus' the same. I never see anything han'somer, an' it looked swell on me. I put it on jus' once for a minute. It didn't give me no pleasure, though. I felt jus' sneaky an' mean. After that I put it away. Once in a while I took a look at it. Then my little girl got a bad cold. She was awful sick. I forgot all about the sack. She pretty near died. I sat up with her nights for quite a while. When she got better I thought about the sack again, and knowed that God had come down hard on me for bein' a thief. So I jus' got ready an' brung it back. It ain't hurt a mite, an' I hope you won't make me no trouble, 'cause I've had enough."

Mrs. Weatherbee's feelings can be better imagined than described. The return of the missing sweater at the critical moment was sufficiently astounding, not to mention the pathetic little confession that accompanied its return. She felt nothing save intense sympathy for her humble caller.

When the latter took her leave a few moments later, she went away wiping her eyes. Far from making her any "trouble," Mrs. Weatherbee had treated her with the utmost gentleness. The stately, white-haired woman with the "proud face" had not only thanked her for returning the "sack," she had asked for her humble caller's address and expressed her intention of sending the little sick girl a cheer-up present.

Left alone, Mrs. Weatherbee sat smiling rather absently at the dainty blue and white bit of knitting which she had taken from its wrapper. She thought she understood very well how it had happened to stray into the rubbish can. She now recalled that the rubbish cans about Chesterford and at the edge of the campus were much the shape and size of the package boxes used by the postal service. Given a dark, rainy night and an absent-minded messenger, the result was now easy to anticipate. Here was proof piled high of Judith Stearns' "fatal failing."

There was but one thing more to be done before winding-up summarily an affair that had been to her vexatious from the beginning. She had obtained plenty of evidence for the defense. Now she turned her attention to the prosecution. She had yet to hold a private word with Elsie Noble. This she resolved to do directly the freshman in question had returned to the Hall from her afternoon classes.

Elsie, on her part, had been looking forward to this very interview with a degree of sullen satisfaction. On the day following the scene in Mrs. Weatherbee's room, Marian had informed her cousin of all that had taken place. As a result, Elsie had flown into a tempestuous rage over having been dragged into the trouble by Marian.

"You've got to do as I say, Elsie. If you don't, you'll be sorry," Marian had coldly threatened. "Maiz and I will drop you. Besides, I'll tell Mrs. Weatherbee all about that register business. Then she'll believe you listened outside the dressing-room, no matter how much you may deny it."

"I'll do as I please," Elsie had furiously retorted, and flung herself out of Marian's room.

Not at all alarmed by her cousin's anger, Marian had confidently remarked to Maizie: "Elsie doesn't dare go back on us. She'll do as I tell her. She always fusses a lot, then gives in. She has no more time for those three prigs than we have."

For once she was mistaken. Elsie had changed, though she alone knew it. Her secret admiration for Norma had paved the way to better things. She now rebelled at the thought of facing this sweet, truthful-eyed girl with a lie on her own lips. Marian's threat to expose her fault had awakened her to a bitter knowledge of her cousin's unbounded malice. She experienced a belated revulsion of feeling toward Judith Stearns. Jane Allen's explanation of the gown incident, scornfully repeated to Elsie by Marian, now stood for truth in Elsie's mind.

Having gone thus far, Elsie next mentally weighed Marian's bolder accusation against Judith concerning the missing jewelry. Face to face with her cousin's utter lack of principle, for the first time it occurred to her to wonder whether Marian might not know better than anyone else the whereabouts of the missing pin and ring. She decided to do a little private investigating of her own.

When, at five o'clock on the fateful Monday afternoon, the maid brought her word that Mrs. Weatherbee wished to see her, she went downstairs to the matron's office, fully equipped for emergency. The recital which she indignantly poured into the latter's shocked ears was the climax to an eventful day for Mrs. Weatherbee.

It may be said to Elsie's credit that she did not spare herself or even attempt to palliate her own offenses. She made a frank confession of her faults and expressed an honest and sincere contrition for them which showed plainly that her feet were at last planted upon the solid ground of right. She was no longer the "ignoble Noble."

"After what I've told you, I know you won't allow me to live here at the Hall any more," she said huskily. "I deserve to be punished. I'm going to accept it, too, as bravely as I can. I've been doing wrong all year, but at last I've come to my senses. I know that for once I'm doing right and it comforts me a good deal."

This straightforward avowal would have moved to compassion a far harder-hearted woman than was Mrs. Weatherbee. The matron realized that the dry-eyed, resolute-faced girl seated opposite her had been punished sufficiently by her own conscience.

"I shall not ask you to leave Madison Hall, my dear child," she assured very gently. "I wish you to stay on here because I am convinced that would be best for you. In justice to others, however, I must ask you to come to my room this evening, prepared to stand by me in whatever I may require of you."

"I thank you, Mrs. Weatherbee," Elsie said with deep earnestness. "I'll be only too glad to stand by you. I'm going upstairs now to get my wraps and I sha'n't be here to dinner to-night. I know Marian will be looking for me as soon as she receives word from you to come to her room. It will be best for me not to see her again until then. Don't you think so?"

"Under the circumstances, I should prefer that you hold no conversation with her beforehand," agreed the matron.

Thus ended the momentous interview. Woman and girl pledged their good faith in a warm hand clasp, and Elsie left the office feeling like one from whose shoulders a heavy burden had suddenly dropped.

*    *    *    *    *

"Where is Elsie?" was Marian Seaton's desperate inquiry, when at five minutes to eight she entered her room, following a fruitless search for her cousin.

"Search me," shrugged Maizie. "Very likely Weatherbee never said a word to her. I know she hadn't as late as luncheon to-day, for I asked Elsie and she said 'No.' We're just as well off without her. She has no more diplomacy than a goose. She's been so grouchy all week, that I don't trust her."

"Oh, she's harmless," frowned Marian. "Now listen to me, Maizie. If, when we get into Weatherbee's room, things don't look favorable, we'd better be ready to slide out of the whole business. We can withdraw the charge, you know. That will end the whole thing."

Maizie made no reply, save by smiling in her slow, aggravating fashion. She had her own ideas on the subject, but she was too indifferent of results to express them. At least, so she believed.

Her indifference fell away a trifle, however, as she and Marian were presently ushered into Mrs. Weatherbee's room by a most stony-faced matron. Instead of finding there three girls, a disturbing fourth was present. Decidedly disturbing to Marian's peace of mind.

At sight of Elsie Noble, who sat stolidly beside Norma on the davenport, Marian's face darkened. Walking straight over to her cousin, she asked furiously:

"Where were you this evening?"

"That will do, Miss Seaton." Mrs. Weatherbee now took command of the situation. "Kindly sit down and allow me to manage this affair."

With a baleful glance at Elsie, Marian sullenly obeyed the stern voice.

"It is not necessary to go into the subject of why you are here," began the matron, addressing the silent group of girls. "I will proceed at once to business. I shall first read you a portion of a letter from Edith Allison, formerly Edith Hammond."

Taking up an open letter from a pile of papers that lay on a small table beside her, she read aloud:

Dear Mrs. Weatherbee:

"What a shame that such an unfortunate misunderstanding should have arisen over that unlucky white lace gown of mine. It was really a ridiculous mistake all around. Jane's explanation, of course, convinced you of that. It would never have happened if Judy's gown and mine had not been so nearly alike. We all had a good laugh over it, when Jane finally straightened out the tangle.

"I can't understand Miss Seaton's not knowing about Judy's absent-mindedness. It was the joke of the freshman class last year. She figured prominently in the grind book. I am extremely indignant to hear that her honesty has ever been doubted. She is one of the finest, most honorable girls I have ever known. I am very glad you wrote me about this."

"I shall not read the remainder of this letter, as it has no further bearing on the case," announced the matron in dignified tones. "Miss Seaton," she turned coldly to Marian, "Miss Noble assures me that she never overheard a conversation such as you attributed to her. I have, therefore, drawn my own conclusions. They are not flattering to you or Miss Gilbert. I now ask you and I demand a truthful answer, which of you two overheard that conversation?"

"I refuse to answer you," snapped Marian, her face flaming.

"I am answered," returned the older woman gravely. "The subject of the gown is now closed. We will take up that of your missing jewelry. I will now inform you that it has been found."

"Found!" Marian sprang to her feet in pretended surprise. "Then the person who stole it must have given it back!" She cast a malicious glance at Judith as she thus exclaimed.

"Miss Seaton!" Never before had Mrs. Weatherbee's voice held such a degree of utter displeasure. "You know, as does also Miss Gilbert, the utter injustice of such remarks. You know, too, where to look for the jewelry. It has never been out of your possession."

"I haven't it. I don't know where it is." Marian's voice rose in shrill contradiction.

"Oh, yes you do, Marian," bluntly differed Elsie Noble. "The ring and pin are in a little white box in the tray of your trunk. I saw them there yesterday. I went into your room while you were both out yesterday and hunted for them. After you showed me how spiteful you could be, I decided you were capable of even that. So I thought I'd find it out for myself, and I did."

"Not a word she says is true," Marian fiercely denied. "She's an eavesdropper and a mischief-maker. She --  -- "

"Mrs. Weatherbee knows all about me," coolly informed Elsie. "She knows, too, that I'm done with all that. You needn't deny that the pin and ring weren't there yesterday. I saw them. You may have put them somewhere else by now, though."

"Will you please not interrupt me?" Marian had decided to make a last desperate attempt to crawl out of the snarl she was in. She fully realized the seriousness of the situation.

Addressing the matron, she said brazenly, "I came here to-night with the intention of withdrawing my charge against Miss Stearns. Miss Gilbert and I had decided that she was innocent. Whoever took the jewelry must have become frightened and put it back without my knowing it. I will go at once and look in my trunk, since my cousin insists that it is --  -- "

"You will kindly remain where you are," ordered Mrs. Weatherbee tersely. "Later, I shall insist on seeing both the ring and the pin. You and Miss Gilbert will now apologize to Miss Stearns for the trouble you have caused her. You will also apologize to Miss Allen and Miss Bennett."

"I was mistaken about the gown and the jewelry," Marian admitted with a toss of her head. She was addressing no one in particular. "I have nothing more to say."

"I was also mistaken," drawled Maizie imperturbably. Nevertheless a curious look of dread had crept into her sleepy black eyes. Matters were at their worst, it appeared. Things had been stirred up altogether too much for safety. Elsie had proved anything but harmless.

"Do you accept this apology?" inquired the matron of the three defendants.

"I do, provided Miss Seaton promises strictly to have nothing more to say in future against any of us to anybody," stipulated Judith with quiet finality.

"I will accept it under the same conditions," Jane said quietly.

"And I," nodded Norma.

"Neither Miss Seaton nor Miss Gilbert will circulate any more injurious reports about anyone," assured Mrs. Weatherbee grimly. "This matter in itself is sufficient to warrant suspension from college.

"I regret that there is still another grave charge against you," she continued, fixing the guilty pair with a relentless gaze. "I have been informed that you, Miss Seaton, are the author of a malicious letter signed 'Jane Allen,' which I received before college opened."

This time it was Jane who received a shock. She had come to the matron's room prepared to take up the cudgels in Judith's behalf. Elsie Noble's unexpected stand on the side of right had been amazing enough. Elsie had certainly been the chief witness for the defense. Was it she who had told Mrs. Weatherbee about the letter?

"I haven't the least idea of what you mean," Marian haughtily retorted.

"That's not true," contradicted the invincible Elsie. "You know perfectly well that you sent that letter to Mrs. Weatherbee. You told me so yourself."

"I did nothing of the kind," persisted Marian.

"Then how did I know about it?" triumphantly demanded Elsie. "I mentioned it to Mrs. Weatherbee. She never mentioned it to me. If I had known then just how spiteful you could be I'd never have let you write it. You told me before I came to Wellington that Jane Allen was a hateful, deceitful, untruthful girl who had done you a lot of harm. I know now that she isn't. I know that you are. I'm sorry that you're my cousin and I don't intend to have anything further to do with you."

When Elsie had begun speaking, Mrs. Weatherbee had been on the point of checking her. She refrained, however, because she realized suddenly that Marian deserved this arraignment. She had manufactured trouble out of whole cloth; now she fully merited her cousin's plain speaking.

"You have said a good deal about injustice, Mrs. Weatherbee. I think it very unfair that I should be accused of something which I don't in the least understand," began Marian, with a fine pretense of injured innocence. "I should like to see the letter you accuse me of writing."

From underneath the pile of papers on the table, the matron drew forth a typed letter. She handed it to Marian without a word.

Marian read it, then laughed disagreeably.

"No wonder Elsie knew of it," she sneered. "This is some of her work. She was crazy to get into Madison Hall with us. She knew there would be no vacancies. I had told her that. She listened to what I had said about Miss Allen, every word of it's true, too, by the way, and had someone type this letter. After that she applied for admission. Very clever indeed, Elsie, but you mustn't lay it to me. The signature is certainly not in my handwriting."

It was now Marian's turn to look triumphant.

"The whole trouble with Elsie is that I threatened to expose her for eavesdropping," she continued. "She has made me all this fuss simply to be even. She knows that she is responsible for this letter. The fact that she mentioned it to you, Mrs. Weatherbee, is proof enough, I should say. Certainly you have no proof that I had anything to do with it, beyond what she says. Her word counts for nothing."

A breathless silence followed Marian's bold turning of the tables. Elsie gave a sharp gasp of pure consternation.

"Oh, I didn't do it!" she stammered, casting an appealing glance about her. "I -- hope -- you -- don't -- believe --  -- "

"Here is the proof that you didn't," broke in Jane Allen's resolute tones. She had resolved to come to the defense of the girl who had so sturdily defended Judith. From her blouse she had drawn Eleanor's letter and the carbon copy of the letter which Mrs. Weatherbee had received.

When the latter had finished examining both, she looked up and said in a dry, hard voice:

"This is the most dishonorable affair I have ever known to happen at Wellington. I shall certainly take it up with Miss Rutledge. There is now no room left for doubt regarding the authorship of this letter. It is undeniably your work, Miss Seaton. It remains yet to be discovered what part Miss Gilbert played in it."

Without further preliminary, the incensed matron read aloud Eleanor's letter.

Marian Seaton turned from red to pale as she listened. Maizie kept her eyes resolutely on the floor. This last bit of evidence was too overwhelming to be disputed. It could not be explained away.

"What have you to say to this?" demanded Mrs. Weatherbee of Marian.

"Nothing," was the muttered reply.

The matron had a great deal to say. For the next ten minutes she lectured the culprits with scathing severity.

"I shall recommend that you be expelled from college, Miss Seaton. Miss Gilbert, were you also a party to this affair?"

"Yes," was the tranquil response, "I knew all about it. Can't say I'm very proud of it. Still, it's rather too late now for regrets."

Maizie raised her unfathomable black eyes from their studied scrutiny of the floor. Quite by chance they met Jane's gray ones. Jane had a peculiar impression as of a veil that had been slowly lifted, revealing to her a Maizie Gilbert who had the possibilities of something higher than malicious mischief-making.

Obeying an impulse which suddenly swayed her, she turned to the matron.

"Mrs. Weatherbee," she said, "can't this affair be settled now and among ourselves? After all, no great harm has really come of it. The missing jewelry has been found, Judith has been exonerated, I still have my room, and no one except those present knows what has taken place here to-night. We are willing to forget it if you are. I am speaking for Judith and Norma. I am sure Elsie doesn't want her cousin to be expelled. Can't we blot it out and begin over again?"

"I should like it to be that way," said Judith quietly.

Norma nodded silent concurrence.

"I'll never forgive Marian, but I'd hate to see her expelled," Elsie said, after a brief hesitation. "I don't think Maizie ought to be, either. It's not half as much her fault as Marian's."

Perhaps this latest turn of the tide amazed Mrs. Weatherbee most of all. For a time she silently scanned the group of girls before her. She had not reckoned that the defense would suddenly swing about and plead for the defeated prosecution.

"I cannot answer you now, Miss Allen," she gravely replied. "I can appreciate, however, your generosity of spirit. I shall ask all of you to leave me now. Later I will inform you of my decision."

Each feeling that there was nothing more to be said, the six girls obediently rose to depart. Marian walked to the door, looking neither to the right nor left. Without waiting for Maizie she made a hurried exit.

Maizie took her time, however. Her hand on the door knob she turned and addressed Jane.

"You're a real Right Guard," she said in her slow, drawling fashion. "Not only on the team, but in everything else. I'm sorry it took me so long to find it out."



Chapter XXVII

Conclusion


As a result of the events of the previous evening, Marian Seaton and Maizie Gilbert put in a very bad day. It began by a wild fit of weeping on Marian's part, after breakfast and in her room that morning. At breakfast she managed to keep up a semblance of her usual self-assured, arrogant manner, but the moment she reached her room she crumpled.

"Don't be a baby, Marian," was Maizie's rough advice, as she stolidly prepared to go to her first recitation of the day. "You brought this trouble on yourself. You might as well take the consequences without whimpering. You'd better cut your first recitation. Your eyes are a sight."

"I'm not going to any of my classes to-day. Go on about your own business and let me alone," was Marian's equally rude retort.

Maizie merely shrugged at this announcement and went stoically upon her way. She was made of sterner stuff than her unworthy roommate, and with the realization that she had behaved very badly indeed, she had now steeled herself to accept her punishment bravely.

Marian, on the contrary, moped in her room all morning, went to Rutherford Inn for a lonely luncheon and returned to the Hall and her room to weep again and ponder darkly over her unhappy situation. She tried in vain to prepare an argument by which she might clear herself should Mrs. Weatherbee decide to expose her wrong-doing to Miss Rutledge. She could think of nothing that might carry weight. The case against her was too complete to afford the slightest loophole for escape.

As the day dragged on she gave up in despair. She made up her mind that her only hope now lay in appealing to Mrs. Weatherbee for mercy. She resolved to pretend deep remorse and promise a future uprightness of conduct to which she had no intention of living up.

At five o'clock that afternoon, Maizie walked in upon the despondent Marian with: "Mrs. Weatherbee wants to see us in her room. The maid just told me. I'm glad of it. I'm anxious to have the matter settled."

"If Mrs. Weatherbee tells us that she is going to report us to Miss Rutledge, Maizie, we must beg her not to do it," quavered Marian. "We must promise her anything rather than let her go to Miss Rutledge. That's what I intend to do and so must you."

Maizie regarded Marian with the air of one who was carefully weighing the cowardly counsel. All she said was:

"Come on. We mustn't keep her waiting."

First glance at the matron's face as they were admitted to her room filled both girls with renewed apprehension. She looked more uncompromisingly stern than ever. With a brusque invitation to be seated, she took a chair directly opposite them and began addressing them in cool, measured tones:

"My original intention was to defer a decision of your case for several days, at least," she said. "Thinking the matter over to-day, I came to the conclusion that the sooner this disagreeable affair was settled and off my mind, the better pleased I should be.

"Both of you deserve expulsion from college. I am sure that Miss Rutledge would be of the same opinion were I to lay the matter before her. Frankly, I have decided not to do so simply on account of Miss Stearns and Miss Allen. These two young girls have shown themselves great enough of spirit to overlook the injury you have endeavored to do them. This has made a marked impression upon me, so great, in fact, that I have determined not to report this very disagreeable affair to Miss Rutledge. Since it has occurred at the Hall and has no bearing on any one outside the Hall, I feel that I am justified in settling it as I deem wisest for all concerned.

"The fact that you are both young girls, also, has something to do with it. In my opinion it is a very shocking matter for a young woman to be expelled from college. You have been under my charge for almost two years, and I feel in a measure responsible for you. On this account and because Miss Stearns and Miss Allen have interceded for you, I shall not inform Miss Rutledge of your dishonorable conduct.

"For the remainder of the college year I shall allow you to continue under my charge at the Hall. When you leave Madison Hall in June, however, it will be with the understanding that you cannot return to it the following autumn. You must make arrangements to live at another campus house."

Thus far neither girl had been given the least opportunity of speaking. As it happened, neither had the slightest desire to speak. Both were feeling too intensely relieved for words. First to recover from the good news that she and Maizie would escape the punishment they merited, Marian Seaton now said with a faint touch of asperity:

"Why won't you allow us to come back to Madison Hall next year, Mrs. Weatherbee? We prefer it to any other campus house. If we give you our word of honor to let Judith Stearns and her crowd alone, isn't that sufficient?"

"No, Miss Seaton, it is not. I repeat that you must make other arrangements for next year. One thing more and we will conclude this interview. You must both pledge yourselves to good behavior while you are here. If I hear of any attempts on your part to malign a fellow student, either by word or deed, I shall revoke my decision and put your case before Miss Rutledge. Nothing except absolute fair play on your part will be tolerated here. That is all. You are at liberty to go."

Fighting back her anger, Marian arose, and with a stiff, "Thank you, Mrs. Weatherbee," walked to the door. She was congratulating herself that she had not been forced to ask favors of that "hard-hearted old tyrant."

Maizie rose, but made no attempt to follow Marian. Instead she raised unfathomable black eyes to the matron and said:

"You are kinder to us than we deserve. I thank you."

Then she turned abruptly and followed Marian from the room.

Back in their own room, she walked over to her bed and sat down on it and eyed Marian reflectively.

"Well, what's the matter with you?" asked Marian crossly. "You make me tired. Why did you say to that old dragon that she'd been kinder to us than we deserved? It wasn't necessary. The idea of her turning us out of Madison Hall. And we can't do anything to stop her, either. She has the whip hand and she knows it. It's a positive outrage and the whole affair is Elsie's fault, the hateful little hypocrite. She'll be sorry. I'll never rest until I pay her back for this."

"It strikes me," drawled Maizie, "that there's been altogether too much of this 'paying back' business. You'd best drop it, Marian. You are not a success in that line. As for me, I'm tired of it. I used to think it great fun and exciting, but now I know that it's petty, mean and unworthy. If I could be as true to myself as Jane Allen is, I'd be happy."

"Jane Allen!" exclaimed Marian in exasperation. "I hate the very sound of her name. I suppose now, since you seem to admire her so much, you'll begin running after her."

"No, not yet," was the tranquil response. "Perhaps never. I don't know. I'm going to stick to you for the present. I've been a party to your schemes and it wouldn't be right to desert you. But from now on, I am going to be fair with these girls. I warn you not to come to me with any plans of yours for getting even with them. I won't listen to them. If you are wise you won't make them. But you won't be wise. I know you too well. Only don't count on me to help you. The old Maizie is dead. I don't know what the new one's going to be like. I'll have to wait and find out."

"You're a big goose," sneered Marian. "I never thought you'd be so silly. And all on account of that priggish Jane Allen. She's --  -- "

"She's a fine girl," declared Maizie with an ominous flash of her black eyes. "I only wish you and I were more like her."

Meanwhile, in company with Judith Stearns, the objects of Maizie's newly discovered admiration were on their way to Mrs. Weatherbee's room. Immediately Marian and Maizie had departed, the matron had sent for Jane and Judith. For an hour they remained in friendly and very earnest conclave with Mrs. Weatherbee. When at last they left her, it was with the feeling that everything was once more right with their little world.

The instant the door of their own room closed behind the two, they expressed their emotions by clinging to each other in joyful embrace.

"Thank goodness, it's come out all right!" exclaimed Judith. "We'd never have felt quite comfortable if Mrs. Weatherbee had taken it higher. Marian and Maizie would have been expelled from Wellington, that's certain. It is enough punishment for them to have been told that they couldn't come back to Madison Hall next year and wouldn't be allowed to stay here for the rest of this year only on the promise of strict good behavior."

"I can't feel sorry about that part of it," declared Jane. "I think we are justified in being glad that Marian Seaton will be in another campus house next year. To tell you the truth I wouldn't mind Maizie's being here. She's a strange girl, Judy. There's a lot to her beneath that lazy, indifferent manner of hers. I'll never forget the way she looked when she turned to me and spoke about my being Right Guard."

"She looked as though she'd been asleep for a long time and then had suddenly waked up," nodded Judith. "And Elsie Noble! I can't get over the way she turned around and stood up for us. Just to think, too, she told Mrs. Weatherbee that it was Norma who had made her feel as though she wanted to be different. And Norma never even knew how much Elsie admired her."

"It shows that a person who does right and thinks right is bound to influence others without ever saying a word," Jane said reflectively.

"Yes, that's so," Judith agreed. "One never knows how much every little thing one says and does is going to impress others. I shall have to be pretty careful how I behave in future. My fatal failing's likely to land me in penitentiary yet, if I don't reform," she added with a giggle.

"You'll have to learn to distinguish between a rubbish can and a package box, Judy," laughed Jane.

During the confidential talk with Jane and Judith, Mrs. Weatherbee had told Judith all about the missing sweater and its amazing return into her hands.

"It wouldn't have happened if some one hadn't moved that rubbish can up near the package box," asserted Judith. "It was so dark, and raining so hard I didn't stop to look. The lids of the rubbish can lift up on each side from the middle, you know. Of course, if I had my mind on what I was doing it wouldn't have happened, but I didn't.

"Mrs. Weatherbee didn't say so, but I'm sure she must have thought that the sweater Aunt Jennie made me was the missing one," Judith opined. "Honestly, Jane, I believe if it hadn't been for that, she never would have listened to Marian Seaton's accusations against me."

<eob>

Mother West Wind "Where" Stories

By

Thornton W. Burgess



I

Where Grandfather Frog Got His Big Mouth


Everybody knows that Grandfather Frog has a big mouth. Of course! It wouldn't be possible to look him straight in the face and not know that he has a big mouth. In fact, about all you see when you look Grandfather Frog full in the face are his great big mouth and two great big goggly eyes. He seems then to be all mouth and eyes.

Anyway, that is what Peter Rabbit says. Peter never will forget the first time he saw Grandfather Frog. Peter was very young then. He had run away from home to see the Great World, and in the course of his wanderings he came to the Smiling Pool. Never before had he seen so much water. The most water he had ever seen before was a little puddle in the Lone Little Path. So when Peter, who was only half grown then, hopped out on the bank of the Smiling Pool and saw it dimpling and smiling in the sunshine, he thought it the most wonderful thing he ever had seen. The truth is that in those days Peter was in the habit of thinking everything he saw for the first time the most wonderful thing yet, and as he was continually seeing new things, and as his eyes always nearly popped out of his head whenever he saw something new, it is a wonder that he didn't become pop-eyed.

Peter stared and stared at the Smiling Pool, and little by little he began to see other things. First he noticed the bulrushes growing with their feet in the water. They looked to him like giant grass, and he began to be a little fearful lest this should prove to be a sort of magic place -- a place of giants. Then he noticed the lily-pads, and he stared very hard at these. They looked like growing things, and yet they seemed to be floating right on top of the water. It wasn't until a Merry Little Breeze came along and turned the edge of one up so that Peter saw the long stem running down in the water out of sight, that he was able to understand how those lily-pads could be growing there. He was still staring at those lily-pads when a great deep voice said:

"Chug-a-rum! Chug-a-rum! Don't you know it isn't polite to stare at people?"

That voice was so unexpected and so deep that Peter was startled. He jumped, started to run, then stopped. He wanted to run, but curiosity wouldn't let him. He simply couldn't run away until he had found out where that voice came from and to whom it belonged. It seemed to Peter that it had come from right out of the Smiling Pool, but look as he would, he couldn't see any one there.

"If you please," said Peter timidly, "I'm not staring at anybody." All the time he was staring down into the Smiling Pool with eyes fairly popping out of his head.

"Chug-a-rum! Have a care, young fellow! Have a care how you talk to your elders. Do you mean to be impudent enough to tell me to my face that I am not anybody?" The voice was deeper and gruffer than ever, and it made Peter more uncomfortable than ever.

"Oh, no, Sir! No, indeed!" exclaimed Peter. "I don't mean anything of the kind. I -- I -- well, if you please, Sir, I don't see you at all, so how can I be staring at you? I'm sure from the sound of your voice that you must be somebody very important. Please excuse me for seeming to stare. I was just looking for you, that is all."

A little movement in the water close to a big green lily-pad caught Peter's eyes, and then out on the big green lily-pad climbed Grandfather Frog. If Peter had stared before he doubly stared now, eyes and mouth wide open. Grandfather Frog was looking his very best in his handsome green coat and white-and-yellow waistcoat. But Peter had hardly noticed these at all.

"Why, you're all mouth!" he exclaimed, and then looked very much ashamed of his impoliteness.

Grandfather Frog's great goggly eyes twinkled. He knew that Peter was very young and innocent and just starting out in the Great World. He knew that Peter didn't intend to be impolite.

"Not quite," said he good-naturedly. "Not quite all mouth, though I must admit that it is of good size. The fact is, I wouldn't have it a bit smaller if I could. If it were any smaller, I should miss many a good meal, and if I were forced to do that, I am afraid I should be very ill-tempered indeed. The truth is, I am very proud of my big mouth. I don't know of any one who has a bigger one for their size."

He opened his mouth wide, and it seemed to Peter that Grandfather Frog's whole head simply split in halves. He hadn't supposed anybody in all the Great World possessed such a mouth.

"Where did you get it?" gasped Peter, and then felt that he had asked a very foolish question.

Grandfather Frog chuckled. "I got it from my father, and he got his from his father, and so on, way back to the days when the world was young and the Frogs ruled the world," said he. "Would you like to hear about it?"

"I'd love to!" cried Peter. So he settled himself comfortably on the bank of the Smiling Pool for the first of many, many stories he was to hear from Grandfather Frog.

"Chug-a-rum!" began Grandfather Frog. You know he always begins a story that way. "Chug-a-rum! Once upon a time the Great World was mostly water, and most of the people lived in the water. It was in those days that my great-great-ever-so-great-grandfather lived. Those were happy days for the Frogs. Yes, indeed, those were happy days for the Frogs. Of course they had enemies, but those enemies were all in the water. They didn't have to be watching out for danger from the air and from the land, as I do now. There was plenty to eat and little to do, and the Frog tribe increased very fast. In fact, the Frogs increased so fast that after a while there wasn't plenty to eat. That is, there wasn't plenty of the kind of food they had been used to, which was mostly water plants, and water bugs and such things.

"Of course there were many fish, and these also increased very fast, and the big fish ate the Frogs whenever they could catch them, just as they do to this day. The big fish also ate the little fish, and it wasn't long before the Frogs and the little fish took to living where the water was not deep enough for the big fish to swim, and this made it all the harder to get enough to eat. The mouths of the Frogs in those days were not big. In fact, they were quite small. You see, living on the kind of food they did, they had no need of big mouths.

"One day as a Great-great-ever-so-great-grandfather Frog sat with just his head out of water, wondering what it would seem like to have his stomach really filled, a school of little fish came swimming about him, and it popped into his head that if little fish were good for big fish to eat, they might be good for a Frog to eat. So he caught the first one that came within reach, and he found it was good to eat. He liked it so well that after that he caught fish whenever he could. Of course he swallowed them whole. He had to, because he had no chewing or biting teeth.

"Now the Frogs always have been famous for their appetites, and Great-grandfather Frog found that it took a great many of these teeny weeny fish to make a comfortable meal. He was thinking of this one day when a larger fish came within reach, and almost without realizing what he was doing Great-grandfather snapped at and caught him. He caught the fish by the tail and at once began to swallow it, which, of course, was no way to swallow a fish. But Great-grandfather Frog had much to learn in those day, and so he tried to swallow that fish tail first instead of head first. He got the tail down and the smallest part of the body, and then that fish stuck. Yes, Sir, that fish stuck. The fact was, Great-grandfather Frog's mouth wasn't wide enough. It was bad enough not to be able to swallow all of that fish, but what was worse was the discovery that he couldn't get up again what he had swallowed. That fish was stuck! It would go neither down nor up.

"Poor Great-grandfather Frog was in a terrible fix. Big tears rolled down his cheeks. He choked and choked and choked, until it looked very much as if he might choke to death. Just in time, in the very nick of time, who should come along but Old Mother Nature. She saw right away what the trouble was, and she pulled out the fish. Then she asked how that fish had happened to be in such a place as Great-grandfather Frog's mouth. When he could get his breath, he told her all about it -- how food had been getting scarce and how he had discovered that fish were good to eat, and how he had make a mistake in catching a fish too big for his mouth. Old Mother Nature looked thoughtful. She saw the great numbers of young fish. Suddenly she reached over and put a finger in Great-grandfather Frog's mouth and stretched it sideways. Then she did the same thing to the other corner. Great-grandfather Frog's mouth was three times as big as it had been before.

"'Now,' said she, 'I don't believe you'll have any more trouble, and I'm going to do the same thing for all the other Frogs.'

"She did that very day, and from then on the Frogs no longer had any trouble in getting plenty to eat. So that is where I got my big mouth, and I tell you right now I wouldn't trade it for anything anybody else has got," concluded Grandfather Frog, as he snapped up a foolish green fly who came too near.

"I think it is splendid, perfectly splendid," cried Peter. "I wish I had one just like it." And then he wondered why Grandfather Frog laughed so hard.



II

Where Miser The Trade Rat First Set Up Shop


It was quite by accident that Peter Rabbit first heard of Miser the Trade Rat. You know how it is with Peter; he is forever using those big ears of his to learn interesting things. That is what ears are for; but there is a right way and a wrong way to use them, and I am afraid that Peter isn't always over-particular in this respect. I suspect, in fact I know, that Peter sometimes listens when he has no business to listen and knows he has no business to listen. Again he sometimes overhears things quite by accident when he cannot very well help hearing. It was in this way that he first heard of Miser the Trade Rat.

Peter had crept into a hollow log in the Green Forest to rest and to feel absolutely safe while he was doing it. He had been there only a little while when he heard light footsteps outside and a moment later a voice which made him shiver a little in spite of himself and the knowledge that he was perfectly safe. The footsteps and the voice were Old Man Coyote's.

Very carefully Peter peeped out. Old Man Coyote had sat down close by the log in which Peter was hiding. On a dead tree close at hand sat Ol' Mistah Buzzard, who had come up from way down south for the summer, and it was to him that Old Man Coyote was talking.

"I was over by Farmer Brown's barn last night," said Old Man Coyote, "and I caught a glimpse of Robber the Brown Eat. What a disgrace he is to the whole Rat tribe! For that matter, he is a disgrace to all who live on the Green Meadows and in the Green Forest. He isn't much like his cousin, Miser the Trade Rat."

"Mah goodness! Do yo' know Miser?" exclaimed Ol' Mistah Buzzard.

"Do I know Miser? I should say I do!" replied Old Man Coyote. "I've tried to catch him enough times to know him. He kept a junk shop very near where I used to live way out west. Do you know him, Mr. Buzzard?"

"Ah cert'nly does," chuckled Ol' Mistah Buzzard. "Ah cert'nly does. Ah never did see such a busy fellow as he is. Ah done see his junk shop many times, and always it done be growin' bigger. Ah wonders, Brer Coyote, if yo' ever heard the story of his Great-great-ever-so-great-gran'-daddy, the first of the family, and how and where he started the business that's been kept in the family ever since."

"No," said Old Man Coyote, "I never did, and I've wondered about it a great deal."

Peter Rabbit almost forgot that he was hiding. He was so eager to hear that story that he was right on the point of speaking up and begging Ol' Mistah Buzzard to tell it when he remembered Old Man Coyote. Just in the nick of time he clapped a hand over his mouth. It seemed to Peter a long, long time before Old Man Coyote said:

"I'd like to hear that story, Mr. Buzzard, if it isn't too much to ask of you."

"Not at all, Brer Coyote; not at all. Ah'll be mor'n pleased to tell it to yo'. Ah cert'nly will," said Ol' Mistah Buzzard, and Peter settled himself comfortably to listen.

"Yo' see it was this way," began Ol' Mistah Buzzard. "Ah got it from mah gran'daddy, and he got it from his gran'daddy, and his gran'daddy got it from -- "

"I know," interrupted Old Man Coyote. "It was handed down from your greatest-great-grandfather, who lived in the days when the world was young and what you are going to tell me about happened. Isn't that it?"

"Yes, Suh," replied Ol' Mistah Buzzard. "Yes, Suh, that's it. Ol' Mother Nature treat 'em all alike in those days. She's a right smart busy person, and she ain't got no time fo' to answer foolish questions. No, Suh, she ain't. So, quick as she get a new kind of critter made, she turn him loose and tell him if he want to live he got to be right smart and find out for hisself how to do it. Ah reckons yo' know all about that, Brer Coyote."

Old Man Coyote nodded, and Ol' Mistah Buzzard scratched his bald head gently as if trying to stir up his memory. Peter Rabbit almost squealed aloud in his impatience while he waited for Ol' Mistah Buzzard to go on.

"When Ol' Mother Nature made Brer Trade Rat in the beginning and turned him loose in the Great World, he was just plain Mistah Rat and nothing more, same as his no 'count cousin, Robber the Brown Rat," continued Ol' Mistah Buzzard. "He had to win a name for hisself same as ev'ybody else. He had mighty sharp wits, had this Mistah Rat, and directly he found he had to shift for hisself he began to study and study and study what he gwine to do to live well and be happy. He watched his neighbors to see what they did, and it didn't take him long to find out that if he would be respected he must have a home. Those without homes were mostly no 'count folks, same as they are today.

"So Brer Rat made a nest close to the trunk of a tree on the edge of the Green Forest, a soft, warm nest, and in collectin' the stuff to make it of he learned the joy of bein' busy. Person'ly, yo' understand, Ah thinks he was all wrong. Ah never am so happy as when Ah can take a sun-bath with nothin' to do. But Brer Rat was never so happy as when he was busy, and when he got that li'l nest finished time began to hang heavy on his hands. Yes, Suh, it cert'nly did. Just because he didn't have anything else to do he began to add a little more to his house. One day he stepped on a thorn. 'Ouch!' cried Brer Rat, and then right away forgot the pain in a new idea. He would cover his house with thorns, leavin' just a little secret entrance for hisself! Then he would be safe, wholly safe from his big neighbors, some of whom had begun to look at him with such a hungry look in their eyes that they made him right smart uncomfortable. So he spent his time, did Brer Rat, in huntin' for the longest and sharpest thorns and in cuttin' the branches on which they grew. These he carried to his house and piled them around it and on it until it had become a great pile with sharp thorns stickin' out in every direction, and the hungriest of the big people of the forest passed it at a respectful distance.

"When Brer Rat had all the thorns he needed and more, he began to collect other things and added these to his pile. Yo' see, he had found that it was great fun to collect things; to find the queerest things he could and bring them home and look at them and wonder about them. So little by little his house became a sort of junk shop, the very first one in all the Great World. Bright stones and shells, bones, anything that caught his bright eyes and pleased them, he brought home. When he was tired of huntin' fo' food or more strange things he would sit and gloat over his treasures and play with them. And then the first thing he knew he had a name. Yes, Suh, he had a name. He was called Miser.

"Of course Brer Miser hadn't lived ve'y long befo' he found out that one law of the Great World was that things belonged to whoever could get them and keep them. He saw that some thought themselves ve'y smart when they stole from their neighbors. Brer Miser didn't like this at all. He was ve'y, ye'y honest, was Brer Miser. Perhaps he wasn't really much tempted, not fo' a long time anyway.

"But at last came a time when he was tempted. Quite by accident he found one of Mr. Squirrel's storehouses. In it were some nuts different from any he ever had seen befo'. 'Brer Squirrel won't mind if Ah taste just one,' said he, and did it. It tasted good; it tasted ve'y good indeed. Brer Miser began to wish he had some nuts like those. When he got home he couldn't think of anything but how good those nuts tasted. He knew that all he had to do was to watch until Brer Squirrel was away and then go he'p hisself. He knew that was just what any of his neighbors would do in his place. But Brer Miser couldn't make it seem just right any way he looked at it. He was too honest, was Brer Miser, to do anything like that.

"He was sitting staring at his treasures but thinking about those nuts when an idea popped into his head, an idea that made him smile until Ah reckons he most split his cheeks. 'Ah knows what Ah'll do,' said he. 'Ah'll just he'p mahself to some of those nuts and Ah'll leave something of mine in place of them. That's what Ah'll do.'

"And that's what he did do. He picked out a bright shell of which he was very fond and he left it in Brer Squirrel's storehouse to pay fo' the nuts that he took. After that he always helped himself to anything he wanted, but he always left something to pay fo' it. It wasn't long befo' his neighbors found out what he was doing, and then they called him Miser the Trade Rat. Whenever anybody found something he didn't want hisself, he took it to the little junk shop of Miser the Trade Rat and traded it fo' something else, or left it where Miser would find it, knowing that Miser would leave something in its place.

"And it's been just so with Miser's family ever since. There is one Rat who is a credit to his family instead of a disgrace," concluded Ol' Mistah Buzzard.



III

Where Yap-Yap The Prairie Dog Used His Wits


Peter Rabbit had just had a great fright. He is used to having great frights, but this time it was a different kind of a fright. It was not for himself that he had been afraid but for one of his old friends and neighbors. Now that it was over, Peter drew a little breath of sheer relief.

You see it was this way: Peter had started over for a call on Johnny Chuck. When he reached Johnny Chuck's house he found no one at home. At first he thought he would go look for Johnny, for he knew that Johnny must be somewhere near, as he never goes far from his own doorstep. Then he changed his mind and decided to wait for Johnny to return. So he stretched himself out in some tall grass beside Johnny Chuck's house, intending to jump out and give Johnny a scare when he came home. Hardly had he settled himself when he heard Johnny coming, and he knew by the sounds that Johnny was running from some danger.

Very, very carefully Peter raised his head to see. Then he ducked it again and held his breath. Johnny Chuck was running as Peter never had seen him run before and with very good reason. Just a few jumps behind Johnny's twinkling little black heels was Old Man Coyote. It looked to Peter as if Old Man Coyote certainly would catch Johnny Chuck this time. He was so frightened for Johnny that he quite forgot that he himself might be in danger. Head first through his doorway plunged Johnny, and Old Man Coyote's teeth snapped together on nothing.

Old Man Coyote backed away a few steps and sat down with his head on one side as he studied Johnny Chuck's house in the ground. It was plain to be seen that he was trying to make up his mind whether it would be worth while to try to dig Johnny out. Presently Johnny came half-way up his long hall where he could look out. Then he began to scold Old Man Coyote. Old Man Coyote grinned.

"I give up, Johnny Chuck," said he. "You did well when you made your home between the roots of this old tree. If it wasn't for those roots, I certainly would dig you out. As it is you are safe. You remind me very much of your cousin, Yap-Yap the Prairie Dog, who lives out where I came from. There's a fellow who certainly knows how to make a house in the ground. He doesn't have to depend on the roots of trees to keep from being dug out. Well, I guess it is a waste of time to hang around here. You'll make just as good a dinner some other time as you would now, so I'll wait until then." Old Man Coyote grinned wickedly and trotted off.

Now at the mention of Yap-Yap the Prairie Dog, the long ears of Peter Rabbit had pricked up at once. It was the first time he had heard of Yap-Yap, and when at last Johnny Chuck ventured out Peter was as full of questions as a pea-pod is of peas. But Johnny Chuck knew nothing about his cousin, Yap-Yap, and wasn't even interested in him. So finally Peter left him and went back home to the dear Old Briar-patch. But he couldn't get Yap-Yap out of his mind, and he resolved that the first chance he got he would ask Old Man Coyote about him. The chance came that very night. Old Man Coyote came along by the dear Old Briar-patch and stopped to peer in and grin at Peter. Peter grinned back, for he knew that under those friendly brambles he was quite safe.

"I heard what you said to Johnny Chuck about his cousin, Yap-Yap," said Peter.

Old Man Coyote looked as surprised as he felt. "Where were you?" he demanded gruffly.

"Lying flat in the grass close by Johnny Chuck's house," replied Peter, and grinned more broadly than ever.

"And to think I didn't know it!" sighed Old Man Coyote. "When I failed to catch Johnny Chuck, I thought I had missed only one dinner, but it seems I missed two. Next time I shall look around a little more sharply. Do you know, the sight of Johnny Chuck always makes me homesick, he reminds me so much of his cousin, Yap-Yap, and the days when I was young."

"I didn't know that Johnny Chuck had a cousin until you mentioned it," said Peter. "Does he look like Johnny? Won't you tell me about him, Mr. Coyote?"

"Seeing that I haven't anything in particular to do, I don't know but I will," replied Old Man Coyote, who happened to be feeling very good-natured. "Many and many a time I have chased Yap-Yap into his house. Seems as if I can hear the rascal scolding me and calling me names right this minute. He used to get me so provoked that it was all I could do to keep from trying to dig him out."

"Why didn't you?" asked Peter.

"Because it would have meant a waste of time, sore feet, and nothing to show for my trouble," retorted Old Man Coyote. "Yap-Yap never has forgotten what his great-great-ever-so-great-grandfather learned when he first took to living on the open prairie."

"What did he learn? Tell me about it, Mr. Coyote," begged Peter.

"He learned to use his wits," replied Old Man Coyote, with a provoking grin. "He learned to use his wits, that's all."

"Please tell me about it, Mr. Coyote. Please," begged Peter.

"Once upon a time," began Old Man Coyote, "so my grandfather told me, and he got it from his grandfather, who got it from his grandfather, who -- "

"I know," interrupted Peter. "It happened in the days when the world was young."

Old Man Coyote looked at Peter very hard as if he had half a mind not to tell the story, but Peter looked so innocent and so eager that he began again. "Once upon a time lived the great-great-ever-so-great-grandfather of Yap-Yap, the very first of all the Prairie Dogs, and his name was Yap-Yap too. He was own cousin to old Mr. Woodchuck, who of course wasn't old then, and the two cousins looked much alike, save that Yap-Yap was a little smaller than Mr. Woodchuck and perhaps a little smarter looking.

"From the very beginning Yap-Yap was a keen lover of the great open spaces. Trees were all very well for those who liked them, but he preferred to have nothing above him but the blue, blue sky. It seemed to him that he never could find a big enough open space, so he never stayed very long in any one place, but kept pushing on and on, looking for a spot in the Great World that would just suit him. At last he came to the edge of the Green Forest, and before him, as far as he could see, stretched the Green Meadows. At least it was like the Green Meadows, only a million thousand times as big as the Green Meadows we are on now, Peter, and was really the Great Prairie.

"Yap-Yap looked and looked, then he drew a long breath of pure joy and started out across the green grass. On and on he went, until when he sat up and looked this way or that way or the other way he could see nothing but grass and flowers, and over him was naught but the blue, blue sky. He had found the great open space of which he had dreamed, and he was happy. So he ate and slept and played with the Merry Little Breezes and grew fat.

"Then one day came Skimmer the Swallow and brought him news of the hard times which had come to the rest of the Great World and how as a result the big and the strong were hunting the small and the weak in order that they themselves might live. When Skimmer had gone, Yap-Yap grew uneasy. What if some of the big and strong people he had known should come out there in quest of food and should find him? There was no place in which to hide. There was no cave or hollow log.

"Yap-Yap looked at the strong claws Old Mother Nature had given him and an idea came to him. He would dig a hole in the ground. So he dug a hole on a long slant very much like the hole of Johnny Chuck; but when it was finished a little doubt crept into his head and grew and grew. What was to prevent some one who was very hungry from digging him out? So he moved on a little way and started another hole, and this time he made it almost straight down. Every day he made that hole deeper until it was many feet deep. Then he made a turn in it and dug a long tunnel, at the end of which he hollowed out a comfortable bedroom and lined it with grass. When it was finished he was quite satisfied.

"'I don't believe,' said he, 'that any one will have the patience to dig to the bottom of this.'

"So at night he slept in his bed at the end of his long hall far below the surface, but all day he spent above ground, for he dearly loved the sunshine. All went well until there came a time of heavy rains. Then Yap-Yap discovered that the water ran down his hole, and if he didn't do something, he was likely to be drowned out. Right away he set his sharp wits to work. He noticed that when the water on the surface reached the little piles of sand he had made, it ran around them. So he made a great mound of sand around his hole with the entrance in the middle and pressed it firm on the inside so that the rain would not wash it down in. Then, although the water stood all around, it no longer ran down in his house. In fair weather that mound was a splendid place on which to sit and watch for danger. So once more Yap-Yap was happy and care-free, all because he had used his wits.

"And from that day to this the Prairie Dogs have made their houses in just that way, and no one that I know cares to try to dig one out," concluded Old Man Coyote.



IV

Where Yellow-Wing Got His Liking For The Ground


Peter Rabbit was hopping along on the edge of the Green Meadows, looking for a new patch of sweet clover. It was very beautiful that morning, and Peter was in the best of spirits. It was good just to be alive. Every once in a while Peter would jump up and kick his long heels together just from pure happiness. He was so happy that he didn't pay particular attention to where he was going or what was about him. The result was that Peter got a fright. Right from under his very nose something sprang out of the grass so suddenly and so wholly unexpectedly that Peter very nearly tumbled over backward. He made two long jumps off to one side and then turned to see what had startled him so. But all he saw was an old feathered acquaintance headed towards the Old Orchard. He seemed to bound along through the air much as Peter bounds along over the ground when he is in a hurry. It was Yellow-Wing the Flicker.

Peter grinned and looked a little foolish. He felt a little foolish. You know it always makes you feel foolish to be frightened when there is nothing to be afraid of. Peter watched Yellow-Wing until he disappeared among the trees of the Old Orchard, from which presently his voice sounded clear and loud, and in it there was a mocking note as if Yellow-Wing were laughing at him. Peter suspected that he was. But Peter was feeling too happy to mind being laughed at. In fact, he chuckled himself. It was something of a joke to be frightened by one who was so wholly harmless. Peter recalled how many times he had frightened other people and thought it the best of jokes.

Peter went on until he found a new patch of sweet clover. Then he forgot all about Yellow-Wing. He was too busy filling that big stomach of his to think of anything else. When he couldn't find room for another leaf of clover he went home to the dear Old Briar-patch, and there in his favorite spot he settled himself to rest and think or dream as the case might be. Presently his thoughts returned to Yellow-Wing, and he chuckled again at the memory of his fright that morning. And then for the first time it struck Peter as queer that Yellow-Wing should have been out there on the Green Meadows on the ground. He often had seen Yellow-Wing on the ground, but until that moment there never had seemed anything queer about that. Now, however, it suddenly came to Peter that Yellow-Wing belonged in trees, not on the ground.

Peter scratched his long left ear with his long left hind foot, which was a sign that he was thinking of something that puzzled him. "He belongs to the Woodpecker family," thought Peter, "and never have I seen any of his relatives on the ground. They get all their food in the trees. Now why is Yellow-Wing so different from his relatives?"

The more Peter thought about it, the queerer it seemed that a Woodpecker should spend so much time on the ground, or visit the ground at all, for that matter. But just wondering about it didn't get him anywhere, and at last Peter decided that the only way to find out would be to ask questions. So Peter made up his mind to watch for Yellow-Wing and ask him all about it the first chance he got.

The chance came the very next day in the very same place where Peter had been so startled. This time he was on the watch and saw Yellow-Wing very busy about something. Peter stole up within speaking distance.

"Good morning, Yellow-Wing," said he. "I wonder if you will tell me something."

It was Yellow-Wing's turn to be startled, for he had not seen Peter approaching. He half lifted his wings to fly, but when he saw who it was, he changed his mind.

"It all depends on what it is you want me to tell you," he replied rather shortly.

"It is just this," replied Peter. "Why do you spend so much time on the ground?"

"That's easily answered," laughed Fellow-Wing. "I do it because it is the easiest way to get enough to eat."

Peter looked as surprised as he felt. "I thought that all your family got their living in the trees!" he exclaimed.

"All do but me," replied Yellow-Wing a wee bit testily. "But I don't have to do what they do just because they do it. No, Siree, I'm independent! Do you like ants, Peter?"

"What?" exclaimed Peter.

"I asked if you like ants," repeated Yellow-Wing.

"I've never tried them," Peter replied, "but I've heard Old Mr. Toad say they are very nice."

"They are," said Yellow-Wing. "They are more than nice -- they are de-li-cious. It is because of them that I spend so much time on the ground. Ants changed the habits of the Flicker branch of the Woodpecker family. I wouldn't be surprised if we became regular ground birds one of these days."

Peter looked puzzled. He kept turning it over in his mind as he watched Yellow-Wing plunge his long stout bill into an ant hill and then gobble up the ants as they came rushing out to see what the trouble was.

"I don't see how ants could change the habits of anybody," he ventured after a while.

Yellow-Wing's eyes twinkled. "Why don't you learn to eat them?" he demanded. "If you would, they might change your habits. The beginning of the change in the habits of my folks began a long time ago."

"Way back in the beginning of things, when the world was young?" asked Peter.

"No, not quite so far back as that," replied Yellow-Wing. "Great-great-ever-so-great-grandfather, who was the first Flicker, was, of course, a member of the Woodpecker family, and he got his living in regular Woodpecker fashion. It never entered his head to look for food anywhere but in the trees, and I don't suppose that it ever entered his head to set foot on the ground. It was the same with his children and his children's children for a long time.

"But though they lived as true Woodpeckers should, the Flickers always were a bit sharper-witted and more independent than most of their relatives. For one thing they had discovered that ants were fine eating and that great numbers of them were to be found running up and down the trunks of certain trees. So the Flickers used to look for these trees and feast on the ants. It saved a lot of labor. A stomachful of ants could be picked from the trunk of a tree in the time it would take to dig out one worm in the wood, to say nothing of the saving of hard work.

"One day a few years ago my great-great-great-grandfather, so the story goes, had stuffed himself with ants from the trunk of a tree and had settled himself for a rest. From where he sat he could see a procession of ants going up and down the tree, and he got to wondering where they all came from and where they all went to. So he watched and presently discovered that that double line of ants led out along the ground from the foot of the tree. This made him still more curious and he followed it, flying along just over it. He had gone but a short distance when he came to a little mound of sand, and there the line of ants ended. Grandfather Flicker flew up in a tree from which he could look right down on that mound, and it didn't take him long to discover that those ants were going in and out of little holes in that mound.

"'As I live, that must be their home!' exclaimed he. 'That place is alive with them. What a place to fill one's stomach! I never was on the ground in my life, but the next time I'm hungry, I'm going to see what the ground is like. I won't have to stay on it long to get my dinner here.'

"Grandfather Flicker was as good as his word. When he was ready for another meal, he flew down to that ant hill. He found that when he plunged his bill into it, the ants fairly poured out to see what was happening, and all he had to do was to thrust out his long sticky tongue and lick them up. Never in all his life before had he filled his stomach so easily. After that, instead of wasting time hunting for worms and insects in the trees where he could find only one at a time, Grandfather Flicker kept his eyes open for ant hills on the ground. He taught his children to do the same thing. That was the beginning of the change of habits with the Flickers. Ever since we have spent more and more time on the ground, so that now we feel quite at home there. We still get some of our food in the trees by way of variety, and we make our homes there, but a good big part of our food we get just as I am doing now."

With this Yellow-Wing once more plunged his bill into the ant hill and licked up a dozen ants who had come rushing out to see what was going on. And so once more the curiosity of Peter Rabbit was satisfied, and he had learned something.



V

Where Little Chief Learned To Make Hay


No one in all the Great World thinks more of the present and less of the future than does careless, happy-go-lucky Peter Rabbit. Everybody who knows Peter at all knows that Peter doesn't waste any time worrying over what may happen in a day that may never be. So Peter isn't thrifty as are Happy Jack Squirrel and Chatterer the Red Squirrel and Whitefoot the Wood Mouse and Paddy the Beaver and Striped Chipmunk.

"I've got enough to eat today, and enough is enough, so what is the use of working when I don't have to?" says Peter. "I don't believe in working today so that I won't have to work tomorrow, because when tomorrow comes there may be no need of working, and then I would feel that I had wasted all this good time today." No, Peter isn't the least bit thrifty.

It is the same way with Peter's big cousin, Jumper the Hare. The truth is the whole family is happy-go-lucky. Happy Jack Squirrel says that every blessed one of them is shiftless. It does look that way. It is a pity that Peter and Jumper never have learned a lesson from Little Chief Hare, who is commonly supposed to be a relative of theirs, although, as a matter of fact, he is neither a Hare nor a Rabbit, but is a Pika, which is another family altogether. He is also called a Coney and sometimes the Calling Hare. But if you want sure-enough proof that he is neither a Rabbit nor a Hare, just watch him, if you are lucky enough to have a chance, cut and dry and store away a great pile of hay for winter use. No true member of Peter's family ever would think of doing such a thing as that, more is the pity.

Peter never has seen Little Chief, because Little Chief lives high up on a mountain of the Far West among the rocks where Peter would never go, even if he could, but he has heard all about him. Old Man Coyote told him all about him, and he got the story from his grandfather, who got it from his grandfather, who had one time visited the great mountain where Little Chief's ever-so-great-grandfather lived in the very place where Little Chief lives now. Old Man Coyote had chased Peter into the dear Old Briar-patch one cold winter day, and as he peered through the brambles at Peter he noticed that Peter was very thin, very thin indeed. Old Man Coyote grinned.

"I'm just as well pleased not to have caught you this time, Peter," said he. "You wouldn't make much of a dinner just now. When I dine I want something more than skin and bones. It must be that you are having as hard work as I am to get a living these days."

"I am," replied Peter. "With all this snow and ice on the ground, there is nothing to eat but bark and such tender twigs as I can reach, and they are not very filling. But they'll keep me alive until better times come, and then perhaps I'll get fat enough to suit you." It was Peter's turn to grin.

Old Man Coyote grinned back good-naturedly. "I should think, Peter," said he, "that when there is so much sweet grass and clover in the summer, you would make some of it into hay and store it away for winter, as Little Chief Hare does. There's the thrifty little hay-maker for you!"

"Who is Little Chief, and where did he learn to make hay?" demanded Peter, his ears standing straight up with curiosity.

Old Man Coyote likes to tell a story once in a while, and having nothing else to do just then, he sat down just outside the dear Old Briar-patch and told Peter all about Little Chief and his hay-making.

"Of course," said he, "Little Chief's father taught him how to make hay, and his father's father taught him, and so on way back to the days when the world was young and Old Mother Nature made the first Pika or Coney, whichever you please to call him, and set him free on a great mountain to prove whether he was worthy to live or was so helpless that there was no place for him in the Great World. Now Mr. Pika, who was promptly called Little Chief, no one remembers now just why, was exactly like Little Chief of today. He was just about a fourth as big as you, Peter. In fact, he looked a lot like one of your babies, excepting his legs and his ears. His legs were short and rather weak, and his ears were short and rounded. He was very gentle and timid. He had neither the kind of teeth and claws for fighting nor long legs for running away, and it did seem as if Little Chief's chances of a long life and a happy one were very slim indeed, especially as it happened that he was set free to shift for himself just at the beginning of the hard times, when the big and strong had begun to hunt the small and weak.

"For a while Little Chief had a hard time of it and so many narrow escapes that his heart was in his mouth most of the time. In trying to keep out of the way of his enemies he kept climbing higher and higher up the mountain, for the higher he got the fewer enemies he found. At last he came to a big rock-slide above where the trees grew, and where there was nothing but broken stone and big rocks. The sun lay there very warm, and Little Chief crept out among the stones to take a sun-bath; as he squatted there it would have taken keen eyes indeed to tell him from a stone himself, though he didn't know this.

"After he had had a good rest, and jolly Mr. Sun had moved so that Little Chief was no longer in the warm rays, Little Chief decided to look about a little. It didn't take him long to discover that there were wonderful little winding galleries and hiding-places down among the stones. These led to little cracks and caves deep down in the mountain side. Little Chief was tickled almost to death.

"'This is the place for me!' he cried. 'No one ever will think to look for me up here, and if they should they couldn't find me, for no one, not even King Bear, could pull away these stones fast enough to catch me. All day long I can enjoy the sun, and at night I can sleep in perfect safety in one of these little caves.'

"So Little Chief made his home in the rock-slide high up on the mountain and was happy, for it was just as he thought it would be -- no one thought of looking in that bare place for him. For food he ate the pea vines and grasses and other green things that grew just at the edge of the rock-slide and was perfectly happy. One day he decided he would take some of his dinner into his little cave and eat it there. So he cut a little bundle of pea vine and other green things. He left his little bundle on a flat rock in the sun while he went to look for something else and then forgot all about it. It didn't enter his head again until a few days later he happened along by that flat rock and discovered that little bundle. The pea vines and grasses were quite dry, just like the hay Farmer Brown's boy helps his father store away in the barn every summer.

"'I guess I don't want to eat that,' said Little Chief, 'but it will make me a very nice bed.' So he carried it home and made a bed of it. There wasn't quite enough, so the next day he cut some more and carried it home at once. But this, being green, soon soured and smelled so badly that he was forced to take it out and throw it away. That set him to thinking. Why was the first he had brought in so dry and sweet and pleasant? Why didn't it spoil as the other had done? He cut some more and spread it out on the big flat rock and once again he forgot. When he remembered and went to look at it two or three days later, he found it just like the first, dry and sweet and very pleasant to smell. This he took home to add to his bed. Then he took home some more that was green, and this spoiled just as the other had done.

"Little Chief was puzzling over this as he squatted on a rock taking a sun-bath. The sun was very warm and comforting. After a while the rock on which he sat grew almost hot. Little Chief had brought along a couple of pieces of pea vine on which to lunch, but not being hungry he left them beside him on the rock. By and by he happened to glance at them. They had wilted and already they were beginning to dry. An idea popped into his funny little head.

"'It's the sun that does it!' he cried.

"Up he jumped and scampered away to cut some more and spread it out on the rocks. Then he discovered that the pea vine which he spread in the sun dried as he wanted it to, while any that happened to be left in the shadow of a rock didn't dry so well. He had learned how to make hay. He was the first hay-maker in the Great World. He soon had more than enough for a bed, but he kept on making hay and storing it away just for fun. Then came cold weather and all the green things died. There was no food for Little Chief. He hunted and hunted, but there was nothing. Then because he was so hungry he began to nibble at his hay. It tasted good, very good indeed. It tasted almost as good as the fresh green things. Little Chief's heart gave a great leap. He had food in plenty! He had nothing to worry about, for his hay would last him until the green things came again, as come they would, he felt sure.

"And so it proved. And that is how Little Chief the Pika learned to make hay while the sun shone in the days of plenty. He taught his children and they taught their children, and Little Chief of today does it just as his great-great-ever-so-great-grand-daddy did. I don't see why you don't do the same thing, Peter. You would make me a great deal finer dinner if you did."

"Perhaps that is the reason I don't," replied Peter with a grin.

"Little Chief's father taught him how to make hay." Page 67.



VI

Where Glutton The Wolverine Got His Name


Glutton the Wolverine is a dweller in the depths of the Great Forests of the Far North, and it is doubtful if Peter Rabbit would ever have known that there is such a person but for his acquaintance with Honker the Goose, who spends his summers in the Far North, but each spring and fall stops over for a day or two in a little pond in the Green Forest, a pond Peter often visits. This acquaintance with Honker and Peter's everlasting curiosity have resulted in many strange stories. At least they have seemed strange to Peter because they have been about furred and feathered people whom Peter has never seen. And one of the strangest of these is the story of how Glutton the Wolverine got his name.

Of course you know what a glutton is. It is one who is very, very, very greedy and eats and eats as if eating were the only thing in life worth while. It is one who is all the time thinking of his stomach. No one likes to be called a glutton. So when Honker the Goose happened to mention Glutton, it caused Peter to prick up his ears at once.

"Who's a glutton?" he demanded.

"I didn't say any one was a glutton," replied Honker. "I was speaking of Glutton the Wolverine who lives in the Great Forests of the Far North, and whom everybody hates."

"Is Glutton his name?" asked Peter, wrinkling his brows in perplexity, for it seemed a very queer name for any one.

"Certainly," replied Honker. "Certainly that is his name, and a very good name for him it is. But then of course it is because he is a glutton that he is named Glutton. Rather I should say that is the reason the first Wolverine was named Glutton. The name has been handed down ever since, and it fits Mr. Wolverine of today quite as well as ever it did his great-great-ever-so-great-grandfather."

"Tell me about it," Peter begged. "Please tell me about it."

"Tell you about what?" asked Honker, pretending not to understand.

"About how the first Wolverine got the name of Glutton," replied Peter promptly. "There must have been a very good reason, and if there was a very good reason, there must be a story. Please, Honker, tell me all about it."

Honker swam a little way out from shore, and with head held high and very still, he looked and listened and listened and looked until he was quite certain that no danger lurked near. Then he swam back to where Peter was sitting on the bank.

"Peter," said he, "I never in all my born days have seen such a fellow for questions as you are. If I lived about here, I think I should swim away every time I saw you coming. But as I only stop here for a day or two twice a year, I guess I can stand it. Besides, you really ought to know something about some of the people who live in the Great Forest. It is shameful, Peter, that you should be so ignorant. And so if you will promise not to ask for another story while I am here, I will tell you about Glutton the Wolverine."

Of course Peter promised. He wanted that story so much that he would have promised anything. So Honker told the story, and here it is just as Peter heard it.

"Once upon a time long, long, long ago, the first Wolverine was sent out to find a place for himself in the Great World just as every one else had been sent out. Old Mother Nature had told him that he was related to Mr. Weasel and Mr. Mink and Mr. Fisher and Mr. Skunk, but no one would have guessed it just to look at him. In fact, some of his new neighbors were inclined to think that he was related to Old King Bear. Certainly he looked more like King Bear than he did like little Mr. Weasel. But for his bushy tail he would have looked still more like a member of the Bear family. He was clumsy-looking. He was rather slow moving, but he was strong, very strong for his size. And he had a mean disposition. Yes, Sir, Mr. Wolverine had a mean disposition. He had such a mean disposition that he would snarl at his own reflection in a pool of water.

"Now you know as well as I do that no one with a mean disposition has any friends. It was so with Mr. Wolverine. When his neighbors found out what a mean disposition he had, they let him severely alone. They would go out of their way to avoid meeting him. This made his disposition all the meaner. He didn't really care because his neighbors would have nothing to do with him. No, he didn't really care, for the simple reason that he didn't want anything to do with them. But just the same it made him angry to have them show that they didn't want to have anything to do with him. Every time he would see one of them turn aside to avoid meeting him, he would snarl under his breath, and his eyes would glow with anger; he would resolve to get even.

"Being slow in his movements because of his stout build, he early realized that he must make nimble wits make up for the lack of nimble legs. He also learned very early in life that patience is a virtue few possess, and that patience and nimble wits will accomplish almost anything. So, living alone in the Great Forest, he practised patience until no one in all the Great World could be more patient than he. No one knew this because, you see, everybody kept away from him. And all the time he was practising patience, he was studying and studying the other people of the Great Forest, both large and small, learning all their habits, how they lived, where they lived, what they ate, and all about them.

"'One never knows when such knowledge may be useful,' he would say to himself. 'The more I know about other people and the less they know about me the better.'

"So Mr. Wolverine kept out of sight as much as possible, and none knew how he lived or where he lived or anything about him save that he had a mean disposition. Patiently he watched the other people, especially those of nimble wits who lived largely by their cunning and cleverness -- Mr. Fox, Mr. Coyote, Mr. Lynx and his own cousins, Mr. Mink and Mr. Weasel. From each one he learned something, and at last he was more cunning and more clever than any of them or even than all of them, for that matter.

"Living alone as he did, and having a mean disposition, he grew more and more sullen and savage until those who at first had avoided him simply because of his mean disposition now kept out of his way through fear, for his claws were long and his strength was great and his teeth were sharp. It didn't take him long to discover that there were few who did not fear him, and he cunningly contrived to increase this fear, for he had a feeling that the time might come when it would be of use to him.

"The time did come. As you know, there came a time when food was scarce, and everybody, or almost everybody, had hard work to get enough to keep alive. Mr. Wolverine didn't. The fact is, Mr. Wolverine lived very well indeed. He simply reaped the reward of his patience in learning all about the ways of his neighbors, of his nimble wits and of the fear which he inspired. Instead of hunting for food himself, he depended on his neighbors to hunt for him. They didn't know they were hunting for him, but somehow whenever one of them had secured a good meal, Mr. Wolverine was almost sure to happen along. A growl from him was enough, and that meal was left in his possession.

"Knowing how scarce food was and the uncertainty of when he would get the next meal, Mr. Wolverine always made it a point on these occasions to stuff himself until it was a wonder his skin didn't burst. If there was more than he could eat, he would take a nap right there, and because of fear of him the rightful owner of the food would not dare take what was left. When he awoke Mr. Wolverine would finish what remained.

"Those who secured more food than they could eat and tried to store away the rest found that no matter how cunningly they chose a hiding-place for it and covered their tracks, Mr. Wolverine was sure to find it. In fact, he made a business of robbing storehouses, and the habit of greediness became so strong that he would stuff himself at one storehouse and immediately start for another. When it did happen that he couldn't eat all he found and yet didn't want to stay until he could finish it, he would tear to bits all that remained and scatter it all about. You know I told you he had a mean disposition.

"Even when good times returned and there was no possible excuse for such greed, Mr. Wolverine continued to stuff himself until it seemed that instead of eating in order to live, as the rest of us do, he lived in order to eat. Of course it wasn't long before some one called him a glutton, and presently he was named Glutton, and no one called him anything else. Glutton by name and a glutton in habit he remained as long as he lived. Both name and habits he handed down to his children and they to their children. So it is that today there is no more cunning thief, no greedier rascal, and no one with a meaner disposition in all the Great Woods of the Far North than Glutton the Wolverine."

"Queer how a habit will stick, isn't it?" said Peter thoughtfully.

"Particularly a bad habit," added Honker.



VII

Where Old Mrs. 'Gator Made The First Incubator


Peter Rabbit and Mrs. Quack the Mallard Duck are great friends. They have been great friends ever since Peter tried to help Mrs. Quack when she and Mr. Quack had spent a whole summer on a little pond hidden deep in the Green Forest because Mr. Quack had a broken wing and so he and Mrs. Quack simply couldn't keep on to their home in the Far North for which they had started. During that long summer Peter had become very well acquainted with them. In fact he visited them very often, for as you know, Peter is simply brimming over with curiosity, and there were wonderful things which Mr. and Mrs. Quack could tell him, for they are great travelers.

Now once, as Mrs. Quack was telling Peter about the far-away Southland where she and Mr. Quack and many other birds spend each winter, she mentioned Old Ally the 'Gator. People who live where he does call him just 'Gator, but you and I would call him Alligator.

At the mention of Old Ally, all Peter's curiosity was awakened, for Mrs. Quack had said that foolish young ducks sometimes mistook him for an old log floating in the water and didn't find out the difference until his great mouth flew open and he swallowed them whole. At that Peter's eyes threatened to pop right out of his head and every time he visited that little pond he pestered Mrs. Quack with questions about Old Ally the 'Gator and Mrs. 'Gator. It seemed as if he couldn't think of anything else. And when Mrs. Quack just happened to mention that little 'Gators are hatched from eggs just as her own children are, it was almost too much for Peter to believe.

"What?" he squealed, hopping up and down in excitement. "Do you mean to tell me that anything as big as Old Ally, big enough to swallow you whole, can come from an egg? I don't believe it! Besides, only birds lay eggs."

"Quack, quack, quack, quack, quack, quack, quack, Peter, you must take that back!"

cried Mrs. Quack.

"Why must I take it back?" demanded Peter.

"Because as usual you've let your tongue run loose, and that is a bad habit, Peter. It certainly is a bad habit. How about the Snake family?"

"Oh!" said Peter, looking very foolish. "I forgot all about the Snakes. They do lay eggs."

"And how about Spotty the Turtle? Didn't he come from an egg?" persisted Mrs. Quack.

Peter looked more foolish than before, if that were possible. "Y-e-s," he replied slowly and reluctantly.

"Then don't be so quick to doubt a thing just because you've never seen it," retorted Mrs. Quack. "I've seen Mrs. 'Gator build her nest more than once, and I've seen her eggs, and I've seen the baby 'Gators; and what is more, I'm not in the habit of telling things that I don't know are so."

"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Quack." Peter was very humble. "I do indeed. Please forgive me. Is -- is Mrs. 'Gator's nest at all like yours?"

Peter seemed so truly sorry for having doubted her that Mrs. Quack recovered her good nature at once. "No," said she, "it isn't. If I hadn't seen her make it, I wouldn't have known it was a nest. You see, one spring I got hurt so that I couldn't take my usual long journey to the Far North and had to spend the summer way down in the Southland where I always lived in the winter, and that is how I happened to learn about Mrs. 'Gator's nest and eggs and a lot of other things. Mrs. 'Gator is lazy, but she is smart. She's smart enough to make Mr. Sun do her work. What do you think of that?"

Right away Peter was all excitement. You see, that sounded as if there might be a story behind it. "I never have heard of such a thing!" he cried. "How did she learn to do such a smart thing as that? Of course I don't for a minute believe that she herself discovered a way to get Mr. Sun to work for her. Probably it was her ever-so-great-grandmother who first did it. Isn't that so, Mrs. Quack?"

Mrs. Quack nodded. "You've guessed it, Peter," said she. "It all happened way, way back in the days when the world was young."

"Tell me about it! Please, please tell me about it, Mrs. Quack, and the first chance I get, I'll do something for you," begged Peter.

Mrs. Quack carefully went over all her feathers to see that every one was in place, for she is very particular about how she looks. When she was quite satisfied, she turned to Peter, fidgeting on the bank.

"Way back in the days when the world was young," said she, "Old Mother Nature made the first Alligators before she made the first birds, or the first animals, so Old Ally and Mrs. 'Gator, who live way down south now, belong to a very old family and are proud of it. In the beginning of things there was very little dry land, as you may have heard, so old Mr. and Mrs. 'Gator, who of course were not old then, were made to live in the water with the fish. Old Mother Nature was experimenting then. She was planning to make a great deal more land, and she wanted living creatures on it, so she gave the 'Gators legs and feet instead of fins, and lungs to breathe air instead of gills for breathing in the water as fish do. Then, having many other things to attend to, she told them they would have to take care of themselves, and went about her business.

"It didn't take Mr. and Mrs. 'Gator long to discover that their legs were not of much use in the water, for they used their powerful tails for swimming. Then one day Mrs. 'Gator crawled out on land and right away discovered what those legs were for. She could go on dry land while fishes could not. It didn't take her long to find out that nothing was quite so fine as a sun-bath, as she lay stretched out on the bank, so she and Mr. 'Gator spent most of their time on sunny days taking sun-baths.

"One day Old Mother Nature came along and whispered a wonderful secret to Mrs. 'Gator. 'I am going to give you some eggs,' whispered Old Mother Nature, 'some eggs of your very own, and if you watch over them and keep them warm, out of each one a baby 'Gator will some day creep. But if you let those eggs get cold, there will be no babies. Don't forget that you must keep them warm.'

"Old Mother Nature was as good as her word. She gave Mrs. 'Gator twenty beautiful white eggs, and Mrs. 'Gator was perfectly happy. Those eggs were the most precious things in all the Great World. It seemed as if she never would grow tired of looking at them and admiring them and of dreaming of the day when her babies should come out of them. It was very pleasant to lie there in the sun and dream of the babies to come from those wonderful eggs. Suddenly, right into the midst of those pleasant dreams, broke the memory of what Old Mother Nature had said about keeping those eggs warm. All in a twinkling happiness was turned to worry.

"'What can I do? What can I do?' Mrs. 'Gator kept saying over and over. 'However can I keep them warm when Mr. Sun goes to bed at night? Oh, dear! Oh, dear! My beautiful eggs never, never will turn to darling babies! What can I do?'

"All this time Mr. 'Gator was a great deal more interested in making himself comfortable than he was in those eggs. He had picked out a place where all day long Mr. Sun poured down his warmest rays, and he had dug a place to sprawl out in comfortably. The sand he had thrown in a pile at one side. When Mrs. 'Gator went to consult Mr. 'Gator about those precious eggs and her worries when the cool of evening had come, she happened to put one foot in that loose pile of sand, and she found that while the sand on the outside was already cool, that down inside the pile was still warm. A clever idea came to her like a flash.

"First she sent Mr. 'Gator into the water to get his supper. Then she scooped a hole in that pile of warm sand, and in it she put her precious eggs and carefully covered them up with sand. When this was done she stretched out close by to keep watch and see that nothing disturbed those treasures. That was a very anxious night for Mrs. 'Gator. The sand on which she lay grew very cool. When at last day came and Mr. Sun once more began to shine, she opened that pile of sand and great was her joy to find that inside it was still warm. When Mr. 'Gator came crawling out of the water to spend the day in that comfortable bed he had dug, she chased him away and was so cross that he went off grumbling and dug another bed. Mrs. 'Gator waited until Mr. Sun had made the sand very warm indeed, and then she made a great mound of it, and in the middle of it were her precious eggs. Night and day she kept guard, and all the time she worried lest those eggs should not be warm enough. Then one day twenty baby 'Gators dug their way out of that mound of sand. Yes, Sir, they did.

"All this happened long, long ago when the world was young, and ever since then 'Gators have lived only way down south, where it is very warm and where Mr. Sun will hatch their eggs for them. And today it is done just as I've told you, for I've seen with my own eyes Mrs. 'Gator build her nest, cover her eggs, and then lie around while Mr. Sun did the work for her. What do you think of that?"

"I think that if you hadn't told me that you had seen it with your own eyes, Mrs. Quack, I should think it a fairy story," replied Peter.



VIII

Where Mr. Quack Got His Webbed Feet


Twice every year, in the early spring and in the late fall, Peter Rabbit watches the Smiling Pool with a great deal of eagerness. Can you guess why? It is because two very good friends of Peter's are in the habit of stopping there for a few days for rest and refreshment before continuing the long journey which they are obliged to make. They are Mr. and Mrs. Quack, the Mallard Ducks. Peter is very fond of them, and when the time for their arrival draws near, Peter watches for them with a great deal of anxiety. You see they have told him something of the terrible dangers which they always encounter on these long journeys, and so Peter is always afraid that something terrible may have happened to them, and it is a great relief when he finds them swimming about in the Smiling Pool.

One reason Peter is so fond of Mr. and Mrs. Quack is because they always have a story for him. Sometimes it is a story of adventure, a tale of terrible danger and narrow escapes. Sometimes it is about their home in the far Northland, and again it is about the wonderful Southland where they spend the winter. But the story that Peter likes best is the one about where and how the Quack family got their funny, webbed feet. Mr. Quack doesn't think those feet funny at all, but Peter does. He never grows tired of watching Mr. and Mrs. Quack use them, because, you know, they are used so differently from other feet. And always he goes back to the dear Old Briar-patch with renewed admiration for the wisdom of Old Mother Nature.

Peter noticed those feet the first time he met Mr. and Mrs. Quack. He couldn't help but notice them. It happened that Mr. and Mrs. Quack were out on the bank of the Smiling Pool as Peter came hurrying over in his usual way, lipperty-lipperty-lip. They heard him coming and not knowing at first who it was they at once started for the water. Peter never will forget the funny way in which they waddled. He never had seen anybody quite so awkward. But when they reached the water he forgot to laugh. He simply stared open-mouthed in astonishment. You see there they were as graceful as they had been awkward on land. Afterward, when Peter had become acquainted with them and they were the best of friends, he ventured to speak of their queer feet.

"Do you know," said he, "you have the most interesting feet of anybody I know of. They are so broad that the first time I saw them I couldn't believe my own eyes. I didn't suppose anybody had such broad feet. I suppose there is some special reason why they are so broad and why your legs are so short. Do you know how Mother Nature happened to give you feet so different from the feet of other birds, Mr. Quack?"

Mr. Quack chuckled. "I tell you what it is, Peter," said he, "if you'll tell me why it is you have such long hind legs and such a funny short tail, I'll tell you why it is that Mrs. Quack and I have such broad feet, though I must confess that I don't see anything odd about them."

Peter agreed at once. He told Mr. and Mrs. Quack all about what happened to his grandfather a thousand times removed, the very first Rabbit, way back when the world was young, and how ever since then all Rabbits have had long hind legs and short tails. When he had finished Mr. Quack thoughtfully scratched his handsome green head, looked at his reflection in the Smiling Pool to make sure that he was looking his very best, looked behind to see that the feathers in the tip of his tail had the proper curl, and then gazed off over the Green Meadows with a far-away look in his eyes as if he were looking way back to the time he was to tell about. At last, just as Peter Rabbit was beginning to lose patience Mr. Quack began.

"It must be, Peter," said he, "that my great-great-ever-so-great-grandfather lived just about the same time as your great-great-ever-so-great-grandfather, way back in the days when the world was young. Perhaps they knew each other. Perhaps they were acquainted just as you and I are now. Anyway, according to what has been handed down in the family, Grandfather Quack was very much such a looking fellow as I am now, except in the matter of his bill and feet. His bill was not broad like mine but more like the bills of other birds, and his feet were like the feet of Mr. Grouse and Bob White. They were made for scratching, and there was nothing between the toes. You see, Old Mother Nature was experimenting. She made everybody a little different from everybody else and then started them forth in the Great World to shift for themselves and to find out what they really needed that they hadn't got.

"Old Mr. Quack, my great-great-ever-so-great-grandfather, soon discovered one thing, and that was that his legs were too short for him to get around very fast. When he walked, everybody laughed at him. When he tried to run, they laughed harder than ever. He didn't mind this so very much, though he did a little. Nobody likes to be laughed at, especially when it is because of something they cannot help. But what he did mind was the fact that his neighbors could run about so much faster than he that they got all the best of the food, and quite often he went hungry.

"One day he happened to be sitting on the bank of the Smiling Pool, thinking the matter over and wondering what he had best do, when Mr. Fox stole up behind him and startled him so that he lost his balance and tumbled down the bank into the water. This frightened him more than ever, and he flapped about and squawked and squawked and flapped until Mr. Fox nearly split his sides laughing at him. And when he was quite out of breath, Mr. Quack discovered that he was making all this fuss for nothing. He didn't sink, but floated on the water, and what was more the water didn't get under his feathers at all. When he tried to walk, of course he couldn't, and he had a funny feeling because his feet didn't touch anything and felt so very useless. But he kept moving them back and forth, and pretty soon he discovered that he moved ahead. Of course he moved very slowly, because his feet were not made for use in the water, but he moved, and that was enough. He knew then that he could get back to land. Then he tried his wings and he found that he could rise into the air from the water quite as easily as from the land. Right then and there all fear of the water left him. In fact, he liked it.

"Little by little, Grandfather Quack began to understand that he had made a great discovery. He had discovered the safest place in all the Great World for him. Out on the water he was safe from Mr. Fox and Mr. Wolf and all the other four-footed hunters. So he took to spending most of his time on the water or near it. When he wanted a nap, he would hide among the rushes that grew in the water. 'If only I didn't have to leave the water for food!' sighed Grandfather Quack. 'If only I could find food here, I would never leave the water.'

"At the time he was squatting at the very edge of the Smiling Pool. Presently he noticed a funny water bug crawling on the bottom where the water was only an inch or two deep. 'I wonder if that fellow is good to eat,' thought he, and almost without thinking he plunged his head under water and caught the bug. It was good. Grandfather Quack at once started to look for more, and while doing this he discovered that there were a great many seeds from the rushes scattered about in the mud at the bottom of the Smiling Pool, and that these also were good to eat. Then quite by accident he got hold of a tender root in the mud and found that this was especially good.

"This was enough for Grandfather Quack. He had found that he could get plenty to eat without leaving the Smiling Pool. Moreover, he didn't have to share it with anybody, because there was no one else who thought of looking for food there. He knew when he was well off. So Grandfather Quack grew fat and was happy. The only things that bothered him were the slowness with which he had to pick up seeds, one at a time, and the slowness with which he could paddle about, for you couldn't really call it swimming. But in spite of these things he was happy and made the best of his lot.

"One day he tugged and tugged at a root with his head under water. When at last he had to bring his head up for a breath, whom should he discover but Old Mother Nature watching him from the opposite bank. 'Come over here, Mr. Quack, and tell me all about it,' she commanded.

"Grandfather Quack started across the Smiling Pool, but because his feet were not made for swimming, it took him a long time to get there. Old Mother Nature smiled as she watched him. 'You look better on the water than you do on land,' said she. 'In fact, I believe that is just where you belong. Now tell me how you happened to take to the water.'

"Grandfather Quack told her the whole story and how Old Mother Nature did laugh when he described how frightened he was when he fell in that time. Suddenly she reached out and caught him by the bill. 'I don't think much of that bill for poking about in the mud,' said she. 'How will this do?' She let go, and Grandfather Quack found he had a broad bill just suited for getting food out of the mud. Then Old Mother Nature bade him hold forth first one foot and then the other. Between the toes she stretched a tough skin clear to the toe nails. 'Now let me see you swim,' said she.

"Grandfather Quack tried. He kicked one foot and then the other, and to his great joy he shot along swiftly. When he drew his feet back for another kick his toes closed together, and so his feet came through the water easily. But when he kicked back they were wide spread, and the skin between them pushed against the water, and drove him ahead. It was wonderful! It was splendid! He hurried over to Old Mother Nature, and with tears of joy in his eyes he thanked her. And from that day to this members of my family have had the same broad bills and webbed feet, and have lived on the water," concluded Mr. Quack.

Peter noticed those feet the first time he met Mr. and Mrs. Quack. Page 111.



IX

Where Thunderfoot The Bison Got His Hump


Thunderfoot the Bison, often called Buffalo, is not a handsome fellow, as you very well know if you have seen him or a picture of him. His head is carried low, very near the ground, and on his shoulders is a great hump. No, you wouldn't call him handsome. You would hardly call him good-looking even. In fact, you would, I suspect, call him homely. Certainly there is nothing about him to suggest pride. Yet according to the story Digger the Badger once told Peter Rabbit, pride and nothing less was the cause of that big hump which makes Thunderfoot appear so clumsy and homely.

Peter Rabbit, as you know, is very fond of stories. In this respect he is very like some other folks I know. Anyway, he never misses a chance for a story if he can help it. He had discovered that Digger the Badger and Old Man Coyote, both of whom had come to the Green Meadows from the Far West, were full of stories about their neighbors of the distant prairies, folk whom Peter never had seen. Sometimes when he had nothing else to do, Old Man Coyote would come over to the dear Old Briar-patch and tell stories to Peter, who sat safe behind the brambles. Perhaps Old Man Coyote hoped that Peter would become so interested that he would forget and come out of the dear Old Briar-patch. But Peter never did.

But most of the stories of the people of the Far West Peter got from Digger the Badger because, you see, he wasn't afraid to go beg for them. He knew that Digger couldn't catch him if he wanted to, and so when Grandfather Frog hadn't a story for him, Peter would go tease Digger for one. It was thus that he heard about Thunderfoot the Bison and where he got that great hump of his.

"I don't suppose," said Peter, "that there are any very big people out there on those prairies where you used to live any more than there are here on the Green Meadows. All the very big people seem to prefer to live in the Green Forest."

"It is that way now, I must admit," said Digger the Badger, "but it wasn't so in the old days, in the good old days when there were no terrible guns, and Thunderfoot and his followers shook the ground with their feet." Digger shook his head sadly.

Instantly Peter pricked up his ears. "Who was Thunderfoot?" he demanded.

Digger looked at Peter with such a look of pity for Peter's ignorance that Peter felt almost ashamed. "He doesn't live here and never did, so far as I have heard, so how should I know anything about him?" he added a wee bit defiantly.

"If that's the case," replied Digger, "it is time you learned about the Lord of the Prairies."

"But I want to know about Thunderfoot first!" cried Peter. "You can tell me about the Lord of the Prairies another time."

"Were you born stupid or have you grown so?" asked Digger impatiently. Then without waiting for an answer he added: "Thunderfoot was the Lord of the Prairies. He ruled over the Wide Prairies just as Old King Bear ruled in the Green Forest. He ruled by might. He ruled because no one dared deny him the right to rule. He ruled because of his great size and his great strength. And all who lived on the Wide Prairies looked up to him and admired him and bowed before him and paid him the utmost respect. When he and his followers ran the earth shook, and the noise was like thunder, and everybody hastened to get out of the way and to warn his neighbors, crying: 'Here comes my Lord of the Prairies! Make way! Make way!' And truly Thunderfoot and his followers were a magnificent sight, so my great-grandfather told me, and he had it from his great-grandfather, who was told so by his great-grandfather, who saw it all with his own eyes. But that was in the days before Thunderfoot's head was brought low, and he was given the great hump which none of his descendants have ever been able to get rid of."

"Tell me about that hump and where my Lord of the Prairies, Thunderfoot the Bison, got it!" begged Peter, with shining eyes. That there was a story he hadn't the least doubt.

Digger the Badger flattened himself out on the ground, and into his eyes crept a dreamy, far-away look as if he were seeing things a great, great way off. "Way back In the days when the world was young, so my great-grandfather said," he began, "Thunderfoot, the first Bison, was given the Wide Prairies for a kingdom by Old Mother Nature and strode forth to take possession. Big was he, the biggest of all living creatures thereabouts. Strong was he with a strength none cared to test. And he was handsome. He held his head proudly. All who lived on the Wide Prairies admired him with a great admiration and hastened to pay homage to him.

"For a long time he ruled wisely. All the other people brought their disputes to him to be settled, and so wisely did he decide them that the fame of his wisdom spread even beyond the Wide Prairies and was talked about in the Green Forest. The humblest of his subjects could come to him freely and be sure of a hearing and that justice would be done. Big as he was and mighty as he was, he took the greatest care never to forget the rights of others.

"But there came a time when flattery turned his head, as the saying is. Mr. Coyote and Mr. Fox were the chief flatterers, and in all the Great World there were no smoother tongues than theirs. They never lost an opportunity to tell him how handsome he was, and how mighty he was, and how they admired him and looked up to him, and how unequaled was his wisdom. You see, being themselves dishonest and mischief-makers, they frequently were in trouble with their neighbors and would have to appear before Thunderfoot for judgment. Even when it went against them they praised the wisdom of it, admitting that they were in the wrong and begging forgiveness, all of which was very flattering to Thunderfoot.

"Little by little, without knowing it, he yielded to the flattery of Mr. Coyote and Mr. Fox. He liked to hear the pleasant things they said. Little by little it became easier to find them in the right than in the wrong when they were accused of wronging their neighbors. Of course they flattered him still more. They hinted to him that it was beneath the dignity of one so big and strong and handsome to take notice of the very small and humble people like Mr. Meadow Mouse and Mr. Toad and Mr. Meadow Lark and others of his subjects.

"Gradually the little people of the Wide Prairies began to notice a change in Thunderfoot. He became proud and vain. He openly boasted of his strength and fine appearance. When he met them he passed them haughtily, not seeing them at all, or at least appearing not to. No longer did he regard the rights of others. No longer did he watch out not to crush the nest of Mrs. Meadow Lark or to step on the babies of Danny Meadow Mouse. It came about that when the thunder of his feet was heard, those with homes on the ground shivered with fright and hoped that my Lord of the Prairies would not come their way.

"One day, as he raced over the Wide Prairies for no reason but that he felt like running, Mr. Meadow Lark flew to meet him. Mr. Meadow Lark was in great distress. 'Turn aside, my Lord!' he begged. 'Turn aside, my Lord of the Prairies, for before you lies my nest with four precious eggs, and I fear you will step on them!'

"Thunderfoot the Bison, Lord of the Wide Prairies, tossed his head. 'If you will build your nest where it can be trodden on, you can't expect me to look out for it,' said he. 'If anything so unfortunate happens to it, it is your own fault, and you mustn't blame me.' And he neither looked down to see where he was putting his feet nor turned aside so much as an inch. On he galloped, and presently with a cry of fright out from beneath his feet flew Mrs. Meadow Lark, and at the very next step he trod on the little nest in the grass and crushed the four eggs.

"Mr. Coyote, who was racing beside him on one side and saw what had happened, grinned. Mr. Fox, who was racing beside him on the other side and saw what had happened, grinned. Seeing them grin, Thunderfoot himself grinned. Thus grinning heartlessly, they continued to run until they came to a place where Mother Nature walked among the flowers of the Wide Prairies. Mr. Coyote and Mr. Fox, whose heads were not held so high, saw her in time to put their tails between their legs and slink away. Thunderfoot, holding his head high, failed to see her until he was so close to her that it was with difficulty he stopped before running her down.

"'My Lord of the Prairies seems in fine spirits,' said Mother Nature softly. 'Is all well with my Lord?'

"Thunderfoot tossed his head proudly. 'All is well,' said he.

"'I am sorry that others cannot say as much,' replied Mother Nature, and all the softness was gone from her voice, and it was sharp. 'I seem to hear the sobs of a broken-hearted little Meadow Lark,' she continued. 'Little though she be and humble, she is as much to me as is my Lord of the Prairies who has made her suffer.'

"Stooping swiftly, Mother Nature picked up her staff and with it struck Thunderfoot on the neck, so that his head was brought low, and in fear of another blow he humped his shoulders up. 'Thus shall you be, still big, still strong, but hump-shouldered and carrying your head low in shame, no longer Lord of the Prairies, until such time as you restore to Mrs. Meadow Lark the eggs you destroyed,' said she, and turned her back on him.

"It was so. From that day on, Thunderfoot ceased to rule over the Wide Prairies. He was hump-shouldered and he carried his head low, looking and looking for the eggs he never could find to restore to Mrs. Meadow Lark. And though his children and his children's children became many, there never was one without the hump or who ceased to carry his head low in shame," concluded Digger the Badger.



X

Where Limberheels Got His Long Tail.


Have you ever seen Limberheels the Jumping Mouse when he was in a hurry? If you have, very likely the first time you felt very much as Peter Rabbit did when he saw Limberheels for the first time. He was hopping along across the Green Meadows with nothing much on his mind when from right under his wobbly nose something shot into the air over the tops of the grasses for eight or ten feet and then down and out of sight. Peter rubbed his eyes.

"Did I see it, or didn't I? And if I did, what was it?" gasped Peter.

A squeaky little laugh answered him. "You saw it all right, Peter, but it isn't polite to call any one it. He would be quite provoked if he had heard you. That was my cousin, Limberheels," replied a voice quite as squeaky as the laugh had been.

Peter turned to see the bright eyes of Danny Meadow Mouse twinkling at him from the entrance to a tiny little path that joined the bigger path in which Peter was sitting.

"Hello, Danny!" he exclaimed. "Do you mean to tell me that was a relative of yours? Since when have any of your relatives taken to flying?"

Danny chuckled. "He wasn't flying," he retorted. "He just jumped, that was all." Danny chuckled again, for he knows that Peter considers himself quite a jumper and is inclined to be a bit jealous of any one else who pretends to jump save his cousin, Jumper the Hare.

"Jumped!" snorted Peter. "Jumped! Do you expect me to believe that any Mouse can jump like that? I didn't get a good look at that fellow, but whoever he is I tell you he flew. Nobody can jump like that."

Danny chuckled again. "Wait a minute, Peter," said he. He disappeared, and Peter waited. He waited one minute, two minutes, three minutes, and then suddenly Danny poked his head out from the grass beside the path. "Here he is, Peter," said he, coming wholly out into the path. "Let me introduce my cousin, Limberheels."

As he spoke the grass beside him rustled, and out crept some one beside whom Danny Meadow Mouse looked big, clumsy and homely. One glance was enough to tell Peter that the stranger was a sure-enough member of the Mouse family, but such a member as he never had seen before. He was trim and slender. He wore a reddish-brown coat with a white waistcoat. But the things that made Peter stare very impolitely were his tail and his legs. His tail was nearly twice as long as his body, slim and tapering, and his hind legs were very long, while his fore legs were short. It took only one glance to convince Peter that here was a born jumper. Any one built like that must jump.

"You two must become acquainted and be friends," continued Danny Meadow Mouse. "Peter is one of my best friends, Limberheels. He wouldn't hurt a flea. I'm sure that from now on he will be one of your best friends."

"I'll be happy to," said Peter promptly. "Danny has been telling me what a wonderful jumper you are. Would you mind showing me how you jump? I guess you jumped right in front of me a few minutes ago, but I was so surprised that I didn't really see you."

"I guess I did," replied Limberheels rather timidly. "You see, I didn't hear you coming until you were almost on top of me, and then I didn't know who it was so I got away as quickly as I could. I'll be ever so glad to have you for a friend and next time I won't run away."

"Show him how you can jump," interrupted Danny Meadow Mouse. "He wouldn't believe me when I told him that you didn't fly."

Limberheels grinned rather sheepishly. "Of course I didn't fly," said he. "No animal can fly but Flitter the Bat. I just jumped like this."

With a tremendous spring from his long hind legs Limberheels leaped, while Peter Rabbit stared, his mouth wide open with astonishment. He hadn't dreamed that any one could jump so far in proportion to his size as this slim, trim little cousin of Danny's. Later, after Limberheels had jumped for Peter's benefit until he was tired and had gone to hunt for a lunch of grass seeds, Peter wanted to know all about Limberheels.

"Never in my life have I seen such jumping," he declared. "And never have I seen such a tail. I thought Whitefoot the Wood Mouse had a fine tail, but it doesn't compare with that of Limberheels."

"It is a fine tail," replied Danny, whose own tail, as you know, is very short.

"It is a fine tail," he repeated rather wistfully. "Would you like to hear where he got it?"

"I know," retorted Peter with a grin. "He got it from his father, who got it from his father, and so on way back to the days when the world was young." Then, seeing a look of disappointment on Danny's face, and eager for a story as usual, he added: "But I would like to know how such a tail as that came in the family."

Danny brightened up at once. "It's funny how things come about in this world," he began. "The great-great-ever-so-great-grandfather of Limberheels, the first one, you know, was quite an ordinary Mouse when Old Mother Nature made him and started him out to make his way in the Great World. He was little, one of the smallest of the family, and his tail was short, no longer than mine. His hind legs were like those of all his relatives. He ran about just as his relatives did. He was so small and kept out of sight so much that he didn't even have a name. There was nothing about him to suggest a name.

"For a long time he was contented and happy. Then one day he happened to see Mr. Hare jump. It seemed to him the most wonderful thing in the world that any one should be able to jump like that. So he began to spend most of his spare time where he could watch Mr. Hare. One day Old Mother Nature happened along unseen by him, as he was watching Mr. Hare jump, and she overheard him say very, very wistfully, 'How I wish I could jump like that! I wish I had long hind legs like Mr. Hare.'

"Old Mother Nature's kindly eyes twinkled. 'That's easily arranged,' said she. 'If you think long hind legs will be of more use to you than the ones you have, you shall have them.'

"The next morning when little Mr. Mouse awoke, he discovered that in the night something had happened to his hind legs. They were very long and strong, regular jumping legs like those of Mr. Hare. Of course he was in such a great hurry to try them that he couldn't wait for his breakfast. He began by making little short hops, and in no time at all he was getting about splendidly. At last he got up his courage to try a long jump. Up in the air he shot, and then something happened. Yes, Sir, something happened. He couldn't kept his balance. He turned two or three somersaults and landed on his back.

"'I guess,' said he to himself, 'I've got to learn to make long jumps.' So he kept trying and trying, but always with the same result -- he never knew when, where, or how he was going to land. As long as he made short jumps he had no trouble, but every time he tried a long jump he lost his balance, and try as he would he couldn't discover why. So at last he gave up trying and contented himself with short jumps. Finally Old Mother Nature came that way again.

"'How do you like your long hind legs?' she asked.

"'Very much, thank you,' replied little Mr. Mouse politely.

"'Let me see you jump,' said Old Mother Nature.

"Little Mr. Mouse made half a dozen little jumps. They were not much more than hops. 'You don't call that jumping, do you?' laughed Old Mother Nature. 'With such long, strong legs as I've given you, you ought to be one of the best jumpers anywhere about. Now let me see you make a long jump.'

"Little Mr. Mouse tried his best to think of some excuse, but he couldn't. So he made a long jump, and the usual thing happened -- he turned two or three somersaults and landed on his back. Old Mother Nature looked astonished. Then she laughed until she had to hold her sides. 'Do it again,' she commanded.

"With the most shamefaced air that you can imagine, little Mr. Mouse jumped again. Old Mother Nature watched him closely. 'Come here to me,' said she as he scrambled to his feet after his tumble. 'It's all my fault,' said she kindly, as he obeyed her. 'It was very stupid of me. What you need is a long tail to balance you on a long jump. That short tail is all right for short jumps, but it won't do for long jumps. It won't do at all. I should have thought of that when I made your legs long.'

"She reached down and took hold of the tip of that little short tail and drew it out until it was long, almost twice as long as the body of little Mr. Mouse. 'Now jump,' she commanded, 'and jump with all your might.'

"A little fearfully but with the beginning of a little hope Mr. Mouse jumped with all his might. Away he sailed straight and true and landed lightly on his feet so far from where he had left the ground that he could hardly believe his own eyes as he looked back. Mother Nature was smiling.

"'There you are, Mr. Limberheels. I guess that that will make you quite the most wonderful jumper of all my children,' said she.

"And so it was that little Mr. Mouse, all at one time, became possessed of a long tail, a name, and the ability to out jump all his neighbors," concluded Danny Meadow Mouse. "Do you know," he added wistfully, "sometimes I envy my cousin Limberheels."

"I envy him myself," declared Peter.



XI

Where Old Mr. Gobbler Got The Strutting Habit


Peter Rabbit never will forget the first time he saw Big Tom Gobbler. It was very early one spring morning, when Peter was not yet old enough to have made the acquaintance of all the people who live in the Green Forest, and when it seemed as if the chief thing in life with him was to satisfy his curiosity about the ways of the Great World. Several times when he had been hopping along, lipperty-lipperty-lip, through the Green Forest just after sun-up, he had heard a strange sound quite unlike any other of all the many sounds his long ears had learned to know. He knew that it was the voice of some one who lived in the Green Forest, but though he had looked and looked he had been unable to discover the owner of that voice.

On this particular morning Peter happened to be sitting under some ferns on the edge of a little open space among the trees when again he heard that strange voice. It seemed to come from somewhere back in the woods in the very direction from which he had just come. "Gobble-obble-obble!" said the voice, and again a moment later "Gobble-obble-obble!"

Peter was just preparing to go back to see if he could find the owner of that voice when the noise of great wings caused him to look up just in time to see a bigger bird than he ever had even dreamed of coming swiftly over the tree-tops. With his eyes popping out and his mouth wide open with astonishment, Peter saw the great bird set its wings and sail down into the little opening on the edge of which Peter was sitting. The instant this great bird was on the ground, he stood as still as if he were made of stone, his long neck stretched up. Only the shine of a pair of the sharpest eyes Peter ever had seen showed that he was alive.

Peter held his breath, and it was so still that you could have heard a leaf drop had you been there. When at last the stranger moved, it was his head only. He turned it suddenly to the right and a moment later to the left. It was plain that he was listening for suspicious sounds. All the time his bright eyes searched the edge of the opening until Peter, although he was well hidden, felt that he must be seen. At last, satisfied that all was safe, the stranger drew in his neck and began to walk about, pecking at the ground here and there and swallowing what he picked up, though what it was Peter couldn't tell.

A sound seemed to catch the stranger's quick ears, for he stopped and stared very hard at a little clump of brush. Peter stared at it too. At first he saw nothing, but presently he saw a head poked out, and this also was a stranger. Peter glanced at the big stranger in the opening, and for a minute he wondered if it could be that something was wrong with his eyes. Never had he seen such a change in anybody. This stranger didn't look like the same bird at all. He was swelled up until Peter was afraid he would burst. His tail was spread out like a great fan. His head was laid back on his humped shoulders. His wings were dropped until the stiffly spread feathers brushed the ground. His head and neck were as red as blood, and there were no feathers on either. All the feathers of his body were ruffed out so that the sun shone on them and made them shimmer and shine in colors that seemed to constantly change.

Back and forth in front of the brush from which the other stranger was peeping very shyly this great bird strutted. He would stand still so that the sun would fall full on his shining coat and show it off to the best advantage, and at the same time he would draw in a great deal of air and then puff it out all at once. Then he would walk a few steps, turn, drag his wings on the ground to make them rustle, wheel, and run a few steps. Never had Peter seen such vanity, such conceit, such imposing, puffed-up pride. He watched until he grew tired, and then he stole away and hurried over to the Smiling Pool to tell Grandfather Frog all about it and ask who these strangers were.

"Chug-a-rum!" exclaimed Grandfather Frog, opening his big mouth very wide to laugh at Peter and his excitement. "That was Big Tom Gobbler, and he was doing all that for the benefit of Mrs. Gobbler, who was hiding in that brush. It was her head you saw. Big Tom is the most conceited fellow in the Green Forest. He dearly loves to strut. He is just like his father and his grandfather and his great-grandfather. The Gobblers never have gotten over strutting since Old Mr. Gobbler, the first of the family, got the habit."

"Tell me about it. Please, Grandfather Frog, tell me about it," begged Peter. "How did Old Mr. Gobbler get the habit?"

Grandfather Frog chuckled. "He got it from admiring his own reflection in a pool of water," said he. "You see, in those days way back when the world was young, people had more time to form habits than they do now. With plenty to eat and little to do, they had more time to think about themselves than they do now. Old Mr. Gobbler soon discovered that he was the biggest of all the birds in that part of the Great World where he lived, and this discovery was, I suspect, the beginning of his vanity. Then one day as he was walking along, he came to a little pool of water. It was very clear, and there wasn't a ripple on the surface. There for the first time Mr. Gobbler saw his reflection. The more he looked, the better he liked his own appearance. He spread his tail just to see how it would look in the water. Then he puffed himself out and strutted.

"'There is nobody to compare with me,' thought he, and strutted more than ever.

"After that he used to steal away every day to admire himself in that little pool of water. He tried new ways of strutting and of puffing himself out. After a while he was no longer content to admire himself. He wanted others to admire him. So the first chance he got he began to strut and show off all his grand airs before Mrs. Gobbler. At first she paid no attention to him. At least that is the way she appeared. She would turn her back on him and walk off into the bushes. This made Old Mr. Gobbler very angry until he discovered that she would tiptoe back and watch him admiringly when she thought he didn't know it. That made him strut all the more.

"At first all the neighbors used to gather around and admire him and tell him how handsome he was until his head was quite turned, as the saying is, and he spent most of his time strutting and showing off. Then he took to bragging and boasting that there was no bird to compare with him. Thus he became quite unbearable, and all his neighbors would turn their backs on him when they saw him coming. Only Mrs. Gobbler continued to watch in secret and to admire him.

"Now in those days Mr. Gobbler didn't have a red head and neck. One day Old Mother Nature happened along when Mr. Gobbler was strutting and boasting how big and brave he was. He didn't see her, and she watched him quietly for a few minutes. Then she slipped away and hunted up Mr. Wolf.

"'I want you to steal over where Mr. Gobbler is strutting,' said she, 'and suddenly spring out at him as if you intended to catch him.'

"Mr. Wolf grinned and trotted off to do her bidding. He found Mr. Gobbler swelled up until he looked as if he must burst, and bragging to Mrs. Gobbler.

"'I'm the biggest of all the birds,' bragged Mr. Gobbler. 'I'm afraid of no one. While you have me with you, my dear, you have nothing in all the Great World to fear.'

"Just then out sprang Mr. Wolf with all his long, sharp teeth showing. Mr. Gobbler gave a yelp of fright. He lost his swelled-up appearance as suddenly as a bubble flattens out when it is pricked. With a frantic beating of his wings he took to the air. Being in such a fright, he didn't see where he was going, and struck his head against a sharp twig, which tore the skin, for there were no feathers to protect it, and made it bleed. The blood ran all over his head and down his neck, though he really was hardly hurt at all. From the top of a tall tree he looked down. There stood Old Mother Nature, looking up at him.

"'Mr. Gobbler,' said she, 'you have acquired a bad habit, a very bad habit. Hereafter, whenever you become vain and strut, your head and neck shall become as red as they now are, as a reminder to you and all who see you of how silly it is to be vain and boastful.'

"And so it was. And so it is with Big Tom Gobbler to this day. There is nothing in the world more foolish than vanity," concluded Grandfather Frog.

"Don't call me Striped Chipmunk, and don't call me Gopher!" said he. Page 172.



XII

Where Seek-Seek Got His Pretty Coat


Peter Rabbit never will forget the first time he saw Seek-Seek the Ground Squirrel, often wrongly called Gopher or Gopher Squirrel, but whose real name is Spermophile, which means seed eater. Peter won't forget that meeting, because of the funny mistake he made and the foolish feeling he had as a result of it. You see, Peter didn't know that there was such a person as Seek-Seek. He was hopping along across the Green Meadows in his usual happy-go-lucky way when, right in front of him, he saw what at first he took to be a stake, a small stake, driven in the ground. But as he drew nearer, it suddenly moved. It wasn't a stake at all, but a very lively small person in a striped coat who had been sitting up very straight and motionless.

"Hello, Striped Chipmunk! What are you doing way out here so far from the old stone wall?" exclaimed Peter.

The small person in the striped coat whirled and faced Peter with snapping eyes. "Don't call me Striped Chipmunk, and don't call me Gopher!" said he very fiercely for so small a person. "I am neither one. I am Seek-Seek the Ground Squirrel, and I'll thank you to call me by my own name. I am getting everlastingly tired of being called the names of other people."

Peter looked very foolish. "I beg your pardon," said he. "I do indeed. I'm sorry. Perhaps you don't know it, but you look very much like Striped Chipmunk, who is one of my best friends. You look so much like him that I thought you must be him. I wonder if you are related to him."

"Certainly I'm related to him, or he is related to me, whichever way you please to put it," snapped Seek-Seek. "We are cousins. But he is a Rock Squirrel, and I am a Ground Squirrel which is altogether different. You don't find me where there are rocks and stones in the way if I know it. Besides, if you used your eyes, you would see that we are not dressed alike either. Just because we both happen to wear stripes is no reason why we should be mistaken for each other."

Peter looked at Seek-Seek more closely than he had, and at once he made a discovery. "Why!" he exclaimed, "your coat has more stripes than Striped Chipmunk's has, hasn't it?"

"I should hope so," retorted Seek-Seek.

"And it has little rows of spots, too!" cried Peter. "If I had noticed those spots at first, I wouldn't have made such a foolish mistake. I do believe that your coat is prettier than Striped Chipmunk's, and I had thought his as pretty as a coat can be."

Seek-Seek looked rather pleased, though he tried not to. "Huh!" he sniffed. "Of course it's prettier. It took you a long time to find it out. I wouldn't trade coats with Striped Chipmunk or anybody else of my acquaintance."

"Neither would I if I were in your place," declared Peter. "I wish Old Mother Nature had given me a coat like that." He said this so wistfully that Seek-Seek, who had started to laugh, turned his head so that Peter might not know it. "I'm afraid it wouldn't look so well on one as big as you," he replied. "Anyway, you wouldn't be able to hide from your enemies as you can now."

"That's so," said Peter thoughtfully. "I would be easily seen in a coat like that, for a fact. I hadn't thought of that. I guess Old Mother Nature knows best. I -- I wonder how she ever happened to think of a coat like yours."

Seek-Seek chuckled. He had quite forgotten that he had felt offended because Peter had mistaken him for his cousin, Striped Chipmunk. He enjoyed Peter's admiration of his coat. He is naturally rather talkative, and like most folks he enjoyed talking about himself.

"This coat," said he, "has been in the family a very great while. Of course, I don't mean this particular coat that I am wearing," he hastened to add, as he saw Peter beginning to grin. "I mean this style of coat has been in the family a very long time. My father was dressed just as I am. So was his father and -- "

"I know," interrupted Peter. "You were going to say that so were all your grandfathers way back to the days when the world was young, and Old Mother Nature made the very first one of your family. It's funny to me that all the interesting things happened such a long time ago. Now wasn't that what you were going to say?"

Seek-Seek admitted that it was, and looked a little disappointed that Peter had guessed it. But a second later he felt better when Peter asked him very politely but very earnestly for the story of how the first Ground Squirrel got such a pretty coat. "There is a story. I know there is a story," declared Peter. "Won't you tell it to me please, Seek-Seek?"

Now Peter didn't want to hear it any more than Seek-Seek wanted to tell it, so while Peter squatted down comfortably, Seek-Seek sat up very straight and began the story.

"First of all, you must know that Seek-Seek is an old family name which has been handed down just as the pattern of my coat has been. The very first of all my great-great-grandfathers was called Seek-Seek. When Old Mother Nature made Seek-Seek she must have had two families in mind at one time, the Marmot family and the Squirrel family, for she made him a little like each, so that in his looks he sort of fitted in between the two. Mother Nature told him that he was a member of the Squirrel family and set him free to find a place for himself in the Great World.

"Now it didn't take Grandfather Seek-Seek long to find out that though he might be a member of the Squirrel family, Old Mother Nature had failed to furnish him with the right kind of claws for climbing trees, as most of his cousins did. True, he could climb a little, but it was not easy, and he felt anything but comfortable off the ground. But if those claws were of little use for climbing they were splendid tools for digging, just as are the claws of the Marmot family. So Old Mother Nature must have been thinking of the Marmots when she fashioned those claws.

"At first Seek-Seek wandered about trying to find a place for himself in the Great World. Being a Squirrel, he tried to live as did his cousins, Mr. Red Squirrel and Mr. Gray Squirrel, but on account of those claws he didn't make much of a success of it. Then one day he met Mr. Chipmunk. They stopped and stared at each other in surprise because, you know, their coats were so much alike. At that time Seek-Seek was wearing plain stripes, just as Striped Chipmunk does to this day.

"'What do you mean by stealing my coat?' demanded Mr. Chipmunk angrily.

"'I was just about to ask you the same question,' retorted Seek-Seek.

"Mr. Chipmunk had a sharp reply right on the tip of his tongue, but he checked it just in time. 'What's the use of quarreling over something neither of us had anything to do with?' said he. 'It must be that we are cousins. Where do you live?'

"Seek-Seek explained that he didn't live anywhere in particular but was trying to find his place in the Great World. He told how he had tried to live like the other Squirrels and failed. 'I know! I know all about it,' interrupted Mr. Chipmunk. 'I've been all through it. The place for us is on the ground or at least close to it. Come see how I live.'

"So Seek-Seek went with Mr. Chipmunk and saw how he lived among the rocks and stones. For a time he tried living there too, but he didn't like the rocks and stones much better than he did the trees. Besides, all the neighbors were forever mistaking him for Mr. Chipmunk because they looked so much alike, and he didn't like this. One day he wandered out on the Green Meadows. It was very lovely out there among the grasses and flowers. He wandered farther and farther, and the farther he wandered the better he liked it. By and by he came to the home of Yap-Yap the Prairie Dog, who is one of the Marmot family, as you know.

"'A home like that would suit me,' thought Grandfather Seek-Seek wistfully, as he journeyed on. 'I wonder if I could dig one. I believe I'll try.'

"So when he found a place to suit him he began to dig. There were no stones to hurt his feet and dull his nails, and he actually enjoyed digging. So he dug and dug until he had a wonderful underground home. All about were plenty of seeds and tender grasses to eat, and he was happy. He had found his place in the Great World. Then one day along came Old Mother Nature. 'Hello, Mr. Chipmunk,' she exclaimed, as she caught sight of his striped coat, 'what are you doing way out here?'

"Then she discovered her mistake. 'Dear me,' said she, 'this will never do at all. If I can't tell my own children apart, how can I expect others to? Your coat is altogether too much like that of Mr. Chipmunk. I must change it. I certainly must change it.'

"She leaned over and lightly tapped Seek-Seek right down the length of the broadest brown stripe of his coat. Wherever her finger touched a little spot of yellow was left. Then she did the same thing to each of the other brown stripes. When she had finished Grandfather Seek-Seek had a coat exactly like the one I am now wearing, and his cup of happiness was filled to the brim. From that day on he never was mistaken for Mr. Chipmunk or any one else. That's the story of my coat, and now I must get busy collecting seeds for my storehouse," concluded Seek-Seek. "Come and see me again, Peter Rabbit."

"I will," replied Peter, as he started for the dear Old Briar-patch to tell Mrs. Peter all about Seek-Seek and his pretty coat.



XIII

Where Old Mr. Osprey Learned To Fish


Peter Rabbit had seen a very strange thing. It was strange to Peter, anyway. It gave him something to think about, and this, I am sure you will agree, was a most excellent thing, for it kept him out of mischief for a while. He had been over to the Smiling Pool for a call on Jerry Muskrat and had just started back for the dear Old Briar-patch when he chanced to look over in the direction of the Big River. Coming straight towards him, but high in the air, was a big bird, a bird with broad wings. Peter didn't have to look twice to know that it was a member of the Hawk family. At first he thought it was Redtail. Then he caught a flash of white, and he thought it was Whitetail the Marsh Hawk, in spite of the fact that it didn't fly like him. Peter didn't stop to think of that. It was enough for him that a member of the Hawk family was headed that way, and he didn't care a twitch of his funny little tail which member it was. He felt that the stomach of one was quite as undesirable a place for Peter Rabbit as the stomach of another, and he had no intention of filling any if he could help it.

He remembered that there was an old house of Johnny Chuck's under the Big Hickory-tree on the bank of the Smiling Pool, and he wasted no time in getting there, lipperty-lipperty-lip, as fast as he could go. He would stay there until the way was clear to get home to the dear Old Briar-patch. As soon as he was safe in the old house of Johnny Chuck, he turned and poked his head out of the doorway. He wanted to see if any one would be caught. He hoped not, but if any one was caught, he wanted to see. You know Peter never misses anything if he can help it. On came Mr. Hawk, and when he was right over the Smiling Pool, he turned and made a short circle high in the air. Then Peter saw that he had a white waist-coat and was a stranger.

"I wonder who he is?" thought Peter, staring very hard. "He's bigger than either Redtail or Whitetail. I hope he isn't going to make his home here, because we have trouble enough as it is."

Suddenly Mr. Hawk paused high up in the air, then closed his wings and shot straight down like an arrow. Plunge! Peter couldn't believe his own eyes. Mr. Hawk actually had disappeared in the Smiling Pool! A second later there was a great splashing, and out of the water rose Mr. Hawk, flapping his great wings heavily, scattering spray in all directions. Up, up he went, and then Peter saw that in his great claws was a fish. Peter watched him fly away with the fish, and when he felt that it was quite safe to do so, he came out. Over on the end of an old log among the bulrushes sat Jerry Muskrat just where Peter had left him. It was very plain that Jerry hadn't been the least bit frightened by Mr. Hawk. Peter couldn't understand it. His eyes fairly popped out of his head with excitement and curiosity.

"Who was that?" he asked eagerly.

"That? Why, that was Plunger the Osprey, though some people call him Fish Hawk," replied Jerry. "I thought everybody knew him. Why did you run away, Peter? He wouldn't hurt you."

"Huh! I wouldn't trust any Hawk!" snapped Peter.

"Which goes to show how little you know!" retorted Jerry Muskrat. "Plunger never bothers anybody but the fish, but he surely is a terror to them. Old Mother Nature knew what she was doing when she made fishermen out of that family, didn't she?"

"She certainly did, though I've never heard how she came to do it. How did it happen, Jerry?" Peter was doing some fishing himself. He was fishing for a story.

Jerry Muskrat grinned. "Think you'll sleep any better if I tell you?" he inquired.

Peter grinned back and nodded. So Jerry Muskrat told him this story:

"Way back in the days when the world was young, and the great-great-ever-so-great-grandfathers of all the little people of the Green Meadows and the Green Forest of today were being started out in life by Old Mother Nature, they had everything to learn. The Great World was a new place, and they were new in it. No one knew exactly his place or what was expected of him, and Old Mother Nature was too busy to be bothered with questions. She expected each one to work out for himself a way in which to make himself useful, or at least to take care of himself, without bothering her. If he couldn't do that, she didn't want him around at all, and the sooner something happened to him the better. So the Great World began to be peopled with birds and animals.

"It didn't take them long to learn that it wouldn't be possible for all to live if they all ate the same kind of food. So some learned to eat one thing and some another, and all went happily until there came a time when all food was scarce, and more stomachs were empty than full. You've heard about that hard time and sad time?"

Peter nodded, and Jerry took a drink of water and then went on with his tale.

"Of course, that was really a very dreadful time, for it was then that the strong began to hunt the weak, and fear was born into the world. And yet I guess it wasn't wholly bad. Nothing is, so far as I can find out. Anyway, because of that hard time, everybody became a little smarter than before. You know an empty stomach sharpens wit, and fear puts a fine edge on it. Now Mr. Osprey, who was one of the biggest of the cousins of old King Eagle, couldn't get over a feeling of meanness whenever he hunted those smaller than himself. One day he caught little Mr. Sparrow when little Mr. Sparrow was so busy that he forgot to watch out.

"'I'm powerful sorry, Mr. Sparrow,' apologized Mr. Osprey, 'but there's an emptiness just about your size in my stomach, and it won't give me any peace of mind until it's filled. I hate to make a neighbor uncomfortable, and I'll be just as quick and accommodating about this little matter as I can. If you'll just shut your eyes, you won't see anything unpleasant, and I won't be a minute in getting that peace of mind I've been without so long. I just must have it, or I wouldn't bother you at all. I hope you won't hold it against me, Mr. Sparrow.'

"Mr. Osprey was so nice and polite about it that little Mr. Sparrow perked up a little and started his wits working. He tried to be just as nice and polite as Mr. Osprey. 'I know just how you feel, Mr. Osprey,' said he, in a trembling voice, 'and during these hard times I've had that same ailment of the mind because of lonesomeness of the stomach, which is troubling you. So long as that emptiness is filled, I don't suppose it matters to you if I shouldn't happen to fill it.'

"'Not at all,' replied Mr. Osprey.

"'Mr. Osprey,' said little Mr. Sparrow very earnestly, 'if I were in your place, I never would go hungry. No, Sir, I never would go hungry. And I certainly never, never would trouble any of my neighbors who wear feathers. I certainly would feel most happy if Old Mother Nature had given me what she has given you. Indeed I would.'

"Mr. Osprey looked down at little Mr. Sparrow and blinked at him in a puzzled way. 'What has Old Mother Nature given me that you would be happy to have?' he asked.

"'Fishhooks!' replied little Mr. Sparrow, pointing to Mr. Osprey's great claws, 'the finest fishhooks in the world. You don't hear Billy Mink or Little Joe Otter or Mr. Heron complaining about hard times. Why? Because they don't know what hard times are. There are plenty of fish to be caught, and when they are hungry they go fishing. Fish are very filling and satisfying, I've heard say. When I flew across the Smiling Pool a little while ago, I saw a fat fish taking a sun-bath right close to the top of the water. Seemed like he was just waiting for some one with hooks to come along and snatch him right out of the water.'

"'Where'd you say that fish was?' asked Mr. Osprey.

"'If you'll let me go, I'll show you,' replied little Mr. Sparrow.

"So Mr. Osprey let little Mr. Sparrow go, but he followed him right close. Mr. Sparrow led the way straight to the Smiling Pool. Sure enough, there was the big fish taking a sun-bath. Mr. Osprey hardly wet his feet putting those big hooks into that fish. He flew away with it, and presently he was rid of that emptiness in his stomach and had back his peace of mind. After that, whenever he was hungry, he went fishing instead of hunting the birds and the animals. By practice he learned how to use those big fishhooks of his and became one of the smartest of all fishermen. He and little Mr. Sparrow became great friends, in fact, such friends that when Mr. Osprey built a great nest, little Mr. Sparrow built his right in the side of it, and there he was perfectly safe from others who might be hunting him. And it's been just that way ever since. If you wore scales instead of fur, and lived in the water instead of on the land, Peter Rabbit, you would have reason to fear Plunger the Osprey, but as it is, you are safer when he is about than when he isn't. There comes old Redtail the Hawk. You'd better get out of sight, Peter."

Peter did.



XIV

Where Old Mr. Bob-Cat Left His Honor


Of all those who are forever trying to catch Peter Rabbit, he fears none more than Yowler the Bob-cat. And from that fear has grown hate. You will find it true all through life that hate often springs from great fear. Peter isn't much given to hate, but he does hate Yowler the Bob-cat. It is partly because of his fear of Yowler, but it is still more because he feels that Yowler is not fair in his hunting. He has no honor. There are many others whom Peter fears, -- Reddy Fox, Old Man Coyote, Hooty the Owl, -- and with very good reason. But Peter considers that these hunt him fairly. He knows when and where to be on the watch for them.

But with Yowler it is altogether different. Yowler hides beside one of Peter's favorite little paths, and there he waits patiently for unsuspecting Peter to come along. He waits and watches much as Black Pussy, who is a cousin of Yowler, waits and watches at a mousehole. Peter feels that it doesn't give him a chance, and everybody is entitled to at least a chance to live.

"I hate him! hate him! hate him!" exclaimed Peter fiercely, as he crawled under the very middle of a great pile of brush after the narrowest of narrow escapes. He had been hopping along one of his favorite little paths without a thought of danger. Presently he came to a little branch path. There he hesitated. He had intended to keep on along the main path, but suddenly he had a feeling that it would be better to take the branch path. He knew no reason why he shouldn't keep on as he had planned. It was just a feeling that it would be better to take the other path, a feeling without any real reason. So he hesitated and finally turned down the little branch path. As he did so he caught a glimpse of a brown form moving stealthily from behind a log farther up the main little path. It was moving swiftly in the direction of the little branch path. That glimpse was enough for Peter. That stealthy form could be but one person -- Yowler the Bob-cat. He turned and darted back the way he had come and then off to one side to the great pile of brush under which he had crawled.

"Who is it you hate?" asked a voice.

For just a second Peter was startled, then he recognized the voice of Mrs. Grouse, one of his very best friends. "Yowler the Bob-cat," said he as fiercely as before.

"I don't love him myself," replied Mrs. Grouse. "I suspected that he was somewhere about, and that is why I am here. Did you see him?"

"Yes," said Peter, "I saw him. He was hiding beside my favorite little path, and it is a wonder I didn't hop straight into his jaws. That fellow doesn't hunt fairly. He doesn't give us a chance. He hasn't any honor."

"Honor!" exclaimed Mrs. Grouse. "Honor! Of course he hasn't any honor. There hasn't been any honor in Yowler's family since old Mr. Bob-cat, the first of all the Bob-cats, left his honor in Turkey Wood, way back in the days when the world was young, and failed to get it again. Honor! Of course Yowler hasn't any. What could you expect?"

At once Peter was all ears. "I've never heard about that," said he. "Tell me about it, Mrs. Grouse. We've got to stay right where we are for a long time to make sure that Yowler has given us up and gone away, so you will have plenty of time to tell me the story. Where was Turkey Wood, and how did old Mr. Bob-cat happen to leave his honor there?"

"He didn't happen to; he did it deliberately," replied Mrs. Grouse. "You see, it was like this: In the beginning of things, when Old Mother Nature made the first little people and the first big people of the Green Forest and the Green Meadows, she was too busy to watch over them all the time, so for a while she put them on their honor not to harm one another or interfere with one another in any way, for she wanted them to live in peace and happiness and raise families to people the Great World.

"Now it chanced that Mr. and Mrs. Gobbler, the first of the Turkey family, chose a certain little grove of trees in which to make their home, and it became known as Turkey Wood. There, in course of time, Mrs. Turkey made her nest on the ground, well hidden among some bushes, and in it laid twelve big eggs. It was the day on which she laid the twelfth big egg that old Mr. Bob-cat, who, of course, wasn't old then, took it into his head to prowl about in Turkey Wood. Already Mr. Bob-cat had begun to form a sneaky habit of stealth. He was very fond of watching his neighbors to find out what they were about, and it was this fondness of minding the business of other people instead of his own that was making him sneaky and stealthy, for of course he didn't want any one to know what he was doing.

"It happened that as he stole into Turkey Wood, Mrs. Gobbler left her nest to get a bite to eat. Mr. Bob-cat saw her, but she didn't see him. He crouched flat until she was out of sight.

"'She seemed mighty careful about how she slipped out of those bushes,' thought Mr. Bob-cat. 'She acted as if she didn't want to be seen. I wonder why. I wonder if she has a secret hidden in those bushes. I suppose the way to find out is to look.'

"First making sure that no one saw him, Mr. Bob-cat crept in his sneaky way into the bushes, and it didn't take him long to find that nest with the twelve big eggs. He didn't know what they were, for they were the first eggs he had ever seen. He stared at them and wondered if they were good to eat. He glanced this way and that way to be sure that no one was watching him.

"'Don't touch them,' warned something inside of him. 'These belong to Mrs. Gobbler, and Old Mother Nature has put you on your honor not to interfere with others or their affairs.'

"'It won't do any harm just to touch them and see what they are like,' said another little tempting voice inside of him.

"'Remember your honor,' warned the first little voice.

"'Bother my honor! I'm not going to do any harm,' muttered Mr. Bob-cat, and picked up one of the eggs in his mouth. He tried it with his teeth to see if it was hard, and of course he put his teeth right through the shell. He started to put it back in a hurry, but just then he noticed a good taste in his mouth. The inside of that egg was good to eat, very good indeed!

"'One won't be missed,' thought Mr. Bob-cat, and then, fearing that Mrs. Gobbler would return, he bounded away, taking the egg with him.

"When Mrs. Gobbler returned, she did miss that egg. She looked all about for it, but there was nothing to show what had become of it. With a troubled mind she began to sit on her eggs. She was so worried that she didn't leave them until she simply had to get something to eat.

"Meanwhile Mr. Bob-cat had eaten that egg, and it had tasted so good that he could think of nothing but how he could get another. So at the first opportunity he sneaked back to Turkey Wood, and without making a sound crept in among the bushes until he could see Mrs. Gobbler sitting on her eggs. There he lay and watched and watched until Mrs. Gobbler left to get something to eat. No sooner was she out of sight than Mr. Bob-cat stole to the nest.

"'Remember your honor,' warned the little voice inside.

"'Bother honor. I'd rather have an egg,' muttered Mr. Bob-cat, and pulled one out of the nest. He bit a hole in one end and sucked out the contents. It was so good he took another. This led to a third, and finally Mr. Bob-cat had sucked every one of those eggs. Then silently he sneaked away -- away from Turkey Wood to a distant part of the Green Forest. Behind him in Turkey Wood he left a nestful of empty shells and his honor.

"'Nobody knows who did it, and nobody ever will find out,' thought Mr. Bob-cat, but all the time he knew that he had left his honor behind, and this made him more sneaky than ever. He never would meet any one face to face. You know that is something that one who has lost his honor never can do. It wasn't long before all his neighbors knew that he was without honor, and so would have nothing to do with him. They shunned him. He grew to be more and more of a sneak. And all the time he believed that no one knew what he had done or where he had left his honor.

"But Old Mother Nature knew. Of course Mrs. Gobbler told her what had happened to her eggs. Old Mother Nature told her to make a new nest and hide it more carefully than before, which Mrs. Gobbler did and hatched out ten fine young Gobblers. Meanwhile Old Mother Nature went about her business, but all the time she was watching to see who would fail to look her straight in the face. The first time she met Mr. Bob-cat he tried to slip past unseen. When Old Mother Nature stepped in front of him, he couldn't look her in the face, try as he would.

"'Ah-ha!' said she. 'You are the one who left his honor in Turkey Wood. From this time forth you shall be an outcast, friendless and alone, hated by every one.'

"And so it was, and has been ever since. And so it is with Yowler today. You said truly, Peter, that he hasn't any honor. Isn't it dreadful?"

And Peter agreed that it is.



XV

Where Dippy The Loon Got The Name Of Being Crazy


As you all know, Peter Rabbit is out and about at a time when most folks are snugly tucked in bed. The fact is, Peter is very fond of roaming around at night. He says he feels safer then in spite of the fact that some of his smartest enemies are also out and about, among them Hooty the Owl and Reddy Fox and Old Man Coyote. The two latter also hunt by day when the fancy takes them or they have been so unsuccessful at night that their stomachs won't give them any peace, and Peter is sure that though they can see very well at night, they can see still better in the light of day. Anyway, that is one of the reasons he gives for his own liking for roaming after jolly, round, red Mr. Sun has gone to bed behind the Purple Hills.

Now it happened one moonlight night that Peter had ventured way over almost to the Big River. He had heard Hooty the Owl's fierce hunting call far off in the Green Forest. He had heard Reddy Fox barking up in the Old Pasture. So Peter felt quite safe. He felt so safe that he had almost forgotten that there could be such a thing as fear. And then, from the direction of the Big River, there came such a sound as Peter never had heard before. It was a sound that made his heart seem to quite stop beating for an instant. It was a sound that sent cold chills racing and chasing all over him. It was a sound that made him wish with all his might that he was that instant right in the heart of the dear Old Briar-patch instead of way over there near the bank of the Big River.

He didn't waste much time getting back to the dear Old Briar-patch, once he was sure his heart hadn't really stopped beating. The way he went across the Green Meadows, lipperty-lipperty-lip, lipperty-lipperty-lip, was positive proof that in spite of his fright his heart was quite all right. He didn't run a little way, stop, run a little farther and stop again, as is his usual way. He kept lipperty-lipperty-lipping without a single stop until he reached the edge of the dear Old Briar-patch and once more felt really safe. Two or three times he had felt that he must stop to get his breath, but each time that sound, that dreadful sound, had seemed to be following right at his heels, and he had suddenly discovered that he didn't need to stop after all.

But having reached the dear Old Briar-patch Peter stopped and panted for breath while he anxiously watched for the appearance of some unknown enemy following him. It was then that he realized that that sound came from the Big River, and that whoever made it had not left the Big River at all. It made Peter feel a wee bit foolish as he thought how he had been sure that there was danger right at his very heels all the way home, when all the time there hadn't been any danger at all.

Peter sat there and listened, and despite the fact that he now felt absolutely safe, the cold chills ran over him every time he heard it. It was a voice; Peter was sure of that. It was a voice, but such a voice as Peter never in his life had heard before. It was quite as bad if not worse than the voice of Old Man Coyote. In a way it reminded him of Old Man Coyote's voice, but while Old Man Coyote's voice sounded like many voices in one, it was not so fearsome as this voice, for this voice sounded like a human voice, yet wasn't. Something inside Peter told him that it wasn't a human voice, in spite of its sounding so.

The next morning Peter ran over to the Smiling Pool to ask Grandfather Frog if he had any idea who could have such a voice as that. When he tried to tell Grandfather Frog what that voice was like, he couldn't. He just couldn't describe it.

"It was the lonesomest and craziest sound I've ever heard," declared Peter, "and that is all I can tell you. It was crazier than the voice of Old Man Coyote."

"That is all you need tell me," chuckled Grandfather Frog. "That was the voice of Dippy the Loon. And let me tell you something, Peter: you are not the first one to think his voice has a crazy sound. Oh, my, no! No, indeed! Why, a lot of people think Dippy is crazy, and when any one does queer things they say of him that he is 'crazy as a Loon.'

"But is he crazy?" asked Peter.

"Chug-a-rum!" exclaimed Grandfather Frog. "Chug-a-rum! Not half so crazy as you are, Peter, coming over here to the Smiling Pool in broad daylight. He likes to be thought crazy, just as his great-great-ever-so-great-grandfather did before him, that's all. Everybody thought his great-great-ever-so-great-grandfather was crazy, and it paid Mr. Loon to have them think so. So he did his best to make them keep thinking so."

"Tell me about it. Do please tell me about it, Grandfather Frog," begged Peter. "Please, please, please."

Now how could Grandfather Frog resist that? He couldn't. He didn't even try to. He just cleared his throat once or twice and began.

"Once on a time, long, long ago, lived the very first of all the Loons, the ever-and-ever-and-ever-so-great-grandfather of Dippy, whose voice frightened you so last night."

"How did you know it frightened me?" exclaimed Peter, for he had taken care not to tell Grandfather Frog anything about that.

Grandfather Frog chuckled and went right on with his story. "Right from the beginning Mr. Loon was a mighty independent fellow. It didn't take him long to find out that Old Mother Nature had too much to do to waste any time on those who didn't try to take care of themselves, and that those would live longest who were smartest and most independent. He had sharp eyes, had old Mr. Loon, just as Dippy has today, and he used them to good account. He saw at once that with so many birds and animals living on the land it was likely to get crowded after a while, and that when such became the case, it was going to be mighty hard work for some to get a living. So Mr. Loon went to Mother Nature and told her that if she had no objections he would like a pair of swimming feet and would live on the water.

"Now Old Mother Nature had just fitted out Mr. Duck with a pair of webbed feet that he might swim, so she was quite prepared to fit Mr. Loon out in like manner.

"'I suppose,' said she, 'that you want a bill like Mr. Duck's.'

"Mr. Loon shook his head. 'Thank you,' said he, 'but I would prefer a sharp bill to a broad one.'

"'How is that?' exclaimed Mother Nature. 'Mr. Duck has been delighted with his bill ever since I gave it to him.'

"'And with good reason,' replied Mr. Loon. 'Did I propose to live as Mr. Duck lives, I should want a bill just like his, but I find that fish are more to my liking. Also I have noticed that there are fewer who eat fish.'

"So Mother Nature gave him the kind of bill he wanted, and Mr. Loon went about his business. He managed to get fish enough to keep from going hungry, but he found that the only way he could do it was to sit perfectly still until a fish swam within reach and then strike swiftly. In fact, his fishing was much like that of Mr. Heron, save that the latter stood instead of sitting. Success was chiefly the result of luck and patience.

"Now this sort of thing was not at all to the liking of Mr. Loon. He gloried in his strength and he wanted to hunt for his fish and catch them in fair chase instead of waiting for them to unsuspectingly swim within reach. He practised and practised swimming and diving, but he soon made up his mind that he never would be able to move through the water fast enough to catch a fish unless there was some change. He watched the fish swim, and he saw that the power which drove them through the water came from their tails. Mr. Loon grew very thoughtful.

"The next time Mother Nature came around to see how everybody was getting on, to hear complaints, and to grant such requests as seemed wise, Mr. Loon was on hand. 'If you please,' said he when his turn came, 'I would like my legs moved back to the lower end of my body.'

"Mother Nature was surprised. She looked it. 'But you'll hardly be able to walk at all with your legs there!' she exclaimed.

"Mr. Loon said that he knew that, and that he didn't want to walk. He would far rather spend all his time on the water. So Mother Nature granted his request. Mr. Loon thanked her and started for the water. He couldn't keep his balance. He simply flopped along, while all his neighbors, who had heard his queer request, jeered at him and called him crazy. He just didn't pay any attention, but flopped along until he reached the water. Then he swam away swiftly. When he was quite by himself with none to see, he dived, and as he had hoped, he found that he could drive himself through the water at great speed. He practised a while and then he went fishing. When he caught his first fish in a fair chase, he was so delighted that he shrieked and shouted and laughed in the wildest fashion far into the night. And those who had heard his strange request and thought him crazy were sure of it, as they listened to his wild laughter.

"So little by little it was spread about among all the other people that Mr. Loon was crazy, and he was left much to himself, which was just what he desired. He was quick to note that the sound of his voice sent shivers over some of his neighbors, and so he would shriek and laugh just to drive them away. It pleased him to have them think him crazy, and he kept it up.

"So it is with Dippy today, and last night you ran from the voice of a crazy Loon who isn't crazy at all, but likes to make people think he is," concluded Grandfather Frog.



XVI

Where Big-Horn Got His Curved Horns


It was Digger the Badger who told Peter Rabbit the story of the great Ram who was the first of all the wild Sheep who live on the tops of the mountains bounding the great plains of the Far West on which Digger was born. It happened that Farmer Brown's flock of Sheep were grazing in the Old Pasture in plain sight of Digger as he sat on his doorstep watching his shadow grow longer. At the head of the flock was a Ram whose horns curved around in almost a circle, and whom Peter Rabbit often had admired.

Peter happened along as Digger sat there on his doorstep watching his shadow grow longer, so he sat down at a safe and respectful distance and helped Digger watch his shadow grow longer. Peter delights in doing things like this, because it isn't hard work at all. It is only when there is real work concerned that Peter loses interest. A lot of people are just like Peter in this respect.

Peter gazed over at the Old Pasture and he, too, saw Farmer Brown's Sheep and the big Ram with the curving horns at his head. For a long time Peter had greatly admired those horns, though he never had told any one so. He had admired those horns because they were different from any other horns Peter ever had seen. They looked perfectly useless for fighting because they curved so that the points never could be made to hurt any one, but just the same Peter admired them. Now as he watched he spoke aloud, without thinking what he was doing.

"I wish I had a pair of horns like those," said he wistfully.

Digger the Badger stopped watching his shadow, and turned to stare at Peter. Then he laughed until finally he choked. Peter looked at him in surprise.

"What's the matter with you, Mr. Badger?" asked he. "What is there to laugh at?"

"Only you, Peter. Only you," replied Digger faintly, for he had laughed so hard that he had almost lost his voice. "I am afraid you would find a pair of horns like those rather heavy, Peter, rather heavy."

Peter grinned. "Of course I didn't really mean that," said he. "Of course not. I was just thinking how nice it would be to have such fine horns, if one were big enough to have horns. I don't believe there are any other such horns in all the Great World."

"And that shows how little you know about the Great World, Peter," retorted Digger the Badger.

"Did you ever see such horns before?" demanded Peter.

"No, I never did," confessed Digger, "but I've heard my grandfather tell of Sheep that live on the tops of the great mountains as free as Light-foot the Deer or any other of the Green Forest people, and with horns so large that they, the Sheep, are called Big-Horns. From what I have heard my grandfather say, those horns over there of Mr. Ram's are nothing to brag about. No, Sir, they are nothing to brag about. One of those wild, free cousins of Mr. Ram over there would laugh at those horns. But they are funny horns, and they've been like that always since the days of the first great Ram, the great-great-ever-so-great-grandfather of all the Sheep, so my grandfather told me. It was way back in those long-ago days that they became curved and quite useless for fighting, and all because of old Big-Horn going about with a chip on his shoulder."

Peter pricked up his ears. "That was a funny thing for Big-Horn to be doing," said he. "What under the sun did he have a chip on his shoulder for? And what harm was there in that, even if he did?"

Once more Digger began to laugh. "Peter," said he, "you certainly are the funniest fellow I know. Of course old Big-Horn didn't really have a chip on his shoulder. That is just a saying, Peter, just a saying. When any one goes about looking for trouble and ready to quarrel at the least pretext, he is said to be carrying a chip on his shoulder and daring anybody to knock it off."

"Oh!" said Peter.

"And so," continued Digger, "Big-Horn didn't have anything to do with a really, truly chip, but just went about always trying to get somebody to fight with him. It wasn't that Big-Horn was ugly. He wasn't. You see Old Mother Nature had given him great strength. Yes, Sir, for his size Big-Horn was very strong, and in that strength be took great pride. And Mother Nature had given him a pair of very large and strong horns with which to defend himself if there should be need. Those horns were almost straight, and with Big-Horn's great strength behind them, they were truly dangerous weapons. He didn't think of that. No, Sir, he didn't think of that. He was just brimming full of life, and he dearly loved to try his strength against the strength of others. It got so that the instant he saw anybody, down would go his head and at them he would go full tilt.

"It was great fun -- for him. Sometimes he got the worst of it, as when Old King Bear stepped aside at the very last instant and hit him such a clip with his great paw that Big-Horn was sent rolling over and over and lost his breath for a few minutes. But usually it was the other who got the worst of it, for those great, sharp-pointed horns of Big-Horn's tore and hurt. Indeed, even when he tried to be gentle with those smaller than himself he was forever hurting some one.

"Finally some of his neighbors wished to go to Old Mother Nature and complain about Big-Horn, but others were against this plan because they knew that Old Mother Nature was quite loaded down with cares and worries as it was. So instead they called a meeting to which everybody except Big-Horn was invited. If Big-Horn could have heard all that was said about him, his ears surely would have burned. Every one was of the opinion that something must be done, but just what no one could suggest. At last, just when it seemed that the meeting would break up without anything being done, Old Man Coyote stepped forward. Now Old Man Coyote already was known as a very clever fellow, more clever even than Mr. Fox, though it would never have done to say so where it would get back to the ears of Mr. Fox.

"'Friends and neighbors,' said Old Man Coyote, 'it seems to me a very simple matter to teach Neighbor Big-Horn a lesson that he will not soon forget. Being rather bashful, I haven't liked to suggest it before, because I thought surely some one else would do it. I suggest that some one be selected to fight Big-Horn, and when that one can fight no longer, some one else be selected to fight him, and so on until he gets tired, and some one can whip him. Then I think he will have had enough of fighting.'

"Up spoke Mr. Fox and he winked at his neighbor on the right and he winked at his neighbor on the left. 'That is a very good idea of Neighbor Coyote's,' said he, 'a very good idea indeed, and I suggest that Mr. Coyote be selected for the honor of being the first one to fight Big-Horn.' Mr. Fox grinned in a sly way, and everybody else grinned, for everybody knew that Old Man Coyote never was known to fight when there was a chance to run away. So with one accord everybody agreed with Mr. Fox, and Old Man Coyote was selected as the first one to face Big-Horn. To everybody's surprise, Old Man Coyote made no objections. Instead he expressed himself as highly honored, and said that he hoped to do so well that there would be no need for others to fight Big-Horn. So it was arranged that Big-Horn should be invited to fight Old Man Coyote the very next day.

"You may be sure that everybody was on hand the next day to see that fight. No one expected Old Man Coyote to appear. But he did. Yes, Sir, he did. He was right on hand at the appointed time. Big-Horn hadn't been told whom he was to fight, and when he found that it was Old Man Coyote, he was disappointed. You see, there was no anger in Big-Horn's fighting; he fought just for the love of using his great strength and big horns. Fighting was fun to him, and he wanted some one who would stand up to him. As soon as it was explained to him that when he had disposed of Old Man Coyote there would be some one else for him to fight (Mr. Deer had offered to be the next), he felt better. Mr. Deer had horns and was somewhere near his size.

"Old Man Coyote slipped around until he had his back to a great rock. 'I'm ready any time,' said he.

"Big-Horn, who had been stamping with impatience, lowered his head so that his horns pointed straight at Old Man Coyote. He grinned as he did it, for he saw that with that great rock behind him, Old Man Coyote would have no chance to run away as he always had done in the past. Everybody else saw the same thing, and wondered what could have happened to make Old Man Coyote so stupid as to do such a thing as that, he who always had been accounted so clever. But they had hardly time to think of this, for with a snort Big-Horn bounded forward. All the others held their breath as they saw those great horns driving straight at Old Man Coyote, who was crouched with his back to the great rock. Then everybody closed their eyes for a second, for nobody wanted to see Old Man Coyote killed, and everybody knew that that was what was going to happen.

"Then there was a crash, and everybody's eyes flew open. There lay Big-Horn on the ground, looking mighty puzzled, as if he wasn't quite sure what had happened. And there sat Old Man Coyote, grinning at him! They were still staring at Old Man Coyote as if they couldn't believe their own eyes when some one cried, 'Look at the horns of Big-Horn!'

"Instead of being long and straight, those great horns were curved over and round into almost a circle, and there was no longer danger from their sharp points. What had happened? Why, at just the right instant Old Man Coyote had leaped over Big-Horn, and Big-Horn had butted into that great rock with all his might. He had hit so hard, biff! bang! that he had bent his horns, just as crafty, clever Old Man Coyote had hoped he would.

"When Old Mother Nature heard of the affair and saw those bent horns, she chuckled at the cleverness of Old Man Coyote and decided to leave those horns just as they were for the safety of Big-Horn's neighbors. And so they remained as long as Big-Horn lived, and just so have been the horns in his family from that day to this," concluded Digger, and once more began to watch his shadow grow longer.

<eob>

A Treasury Of Eskimo Tales

By

Clara K. Bayliss



I

The Baby Eskimo


The little Eskimo away up in the northern part of British America has a pretty hard time of it, as you may know when you think how cold it is there.

He is born in a snow hut, and when he is but a few hours old he is carried on his mother's back out upon the ice, and around and around in circles and after a while through deep snow back to the hut. If that does not kill him, the names he gets are enough to do it; for he is given the names of all the people who have died in the village since the last baby was born. He sometimes has a string of names long enough to weigh any baby down. Worse than that, if one of his relatives dies before he is four years old, that name is added to the rest and is the one by which he is called.

Worse still, if he falls sick he is given a dog's name, so that the goddess Sedna will look kindly upon him. Then, all his life, he must wear a dog's harness over his inner jacket. If he should die, his mother must rush out of the house with him at once. If she does not do so, everything in the house must be thrown away or destroyed, just as is done when a grown person dies in a furnished house.

For a whole year his mother must wear a cap if she steps outside her door, and she must carry his boots about with her. After three days she goes to his tomb and walks around it three times, going around to the left, because that is the way the sun travels. While she walks, she talks to the dead child and promises to bring him food. A year after his death she must do this again, and she must do the same thing whenever she happens to pass near the grave.

Now we shall tell you some of the tales which the Eskimo mothers relate to their children. The first one is about Kiviung, the Rip Van Winkle of the Eskimos.



II

Kiviung


An old woman lived with her grandson in a small hut. She had no husband to take care of her and the boy, and they were very poor. The lad's clothing was made of the skins of birds which they caught in snares. Whenever the boy came out of the hut to play, the other boys would call, "Here comes the bird boy! Fly away, birdie!" and the men would laugh at him and tear his clothes.

Only one man whose name was Kiv-i-ung, was kind to the boy and tried to protect him from the others, but they would not stop. The lad often came to his grandmother crying, and she would console him and promise him a new garment, as soon as they could get the skins.

She begged the men to stop teasing the child and tearing his clothes, but they only laughed at her. At last she became angry and said to the boy, "I will avenge you on your tormentors. I can do it by making use of my power to conjure."

She poured water on the mud floor and said, "Step into this puddle, and do not be frightened at anything that happens."

He stepped into it, and immediately the earth opened and he sank out of sight, but the next moment he rose near the beach and swam about as a young seal with a wonderfully smooth, shining skin.

Some one saw him and called out that there was a yearling seal close to shore. The men all ran to their kayaks eager to secure the beautiful creature. But the boy-seal swam lustily away as his grandmother had told him to do, and the men continued to pursue him. Whenever he rose to the surface to breathe, he took care to come up behind the kayaks, where he would splash and dabble in order to lure them on. As soon as he had attracted their attention and they had turned to pursue him, he would dive and come up farther out in the sea. The men were so interested in catching him that they did not observe how they were being led far out into the ocean and out of sight of the land.

It was now that the grandmother put forth her powers. Suddenly a fierce gale arose; the sea foamed and roared and the waves upset their frail vessels and plunged them under the surface. When they were drowned, the little seal changed back into a boy and walked home over the water without wetting his feet. There was no one left now to torment him.

Kiv-i-ung, who had never abused the boy, had gone out with the rest, but his kayak did not capsize. Bravely he strove against the wild waves, and drifted far away from the place where the others had gone down. There was a dense fog and he could not tell in which direction to go.

He rowed for many days not knowing whither he was going, and then one day he spied through the mists a dark mass which he took to be land. As he pulled toward it the sea became more and more tempestuous, and he saw that what he had supposed to be a rocky cliff on an island was a wild, black sea with a raging whirlpool in the midst of it.

He had come so close that it was only by the utmost exertion he escaped being drawn into the whirlpool and carried down. He put forth all his strength and at last got away where the waves were less like mountains. But he had to be constantly on the alert, for at one moment his frail craft was carried high up on the crest of billows and the next it was plunged into a deep trough of the sea.

Again he saw a dark mass looming up, and rowed toward it hoping to find land, but again he was deceived, for it was another whirlpool which made the sea rise in gigantic waves. At last the wind subsided, and the sea became less rough, though the whitecaps still frothed around him. The fog lifted, and at a great distance he saw land, real land this time.

He went toward it, and after rowing along the coast for some distance he spied a stone house with a light in it. You may be sure he was delighted to come near a human habitation again. He landed and entered the house. There was no one in it but one old woman. She received him kindly and helped him to pull off his boots, and she hung his wet stockings on the frame above the lamp. Then she said:

"I will make a fire in the next room and cook a good supper."

Kiviung thought she was a very good woman, and he was so hungry that he could scarcely wait for the supper. It seemed to him that she was a long time preparing it. When his stockings were dry he tried to take them from the frame in order to put them on. But as soon as he touched the frame it rose up out of his reach. He tried in vain several times, and each time the frame rose up. He called the woman in and asked her to give him his stockings.

"Take them yourself," she said. "There they are; there they are," and went out again.

Kiviung was surprised at the change in her manner. He tried once more to take hold of his stockings, but with no better result. Calling the woman in again, he explained his difficulty and said:

"Please hand me my boots and stockings; they slip away from me."

"Sit down where I sat when you entered my house; then you can get them," she replied, and left the room.

He tried once more, but the frame arose as before and he could not reach it. He knew now that she was a wicked woman, and he suspected that the big fire she had made was prepared so she could roast and eat him.

What should he do? He had seen that she could work magic. He knew that he could not escape unless he could surpass her in her own arts. He summoned his mascot, which was a huge white bear. At once there was a low growl from under the house. The woman did not hear it at first, but Kiviung kept on conjuring the spirit and it rose right up through the floor roaring loudly. Then the old witch rushed in trembling with fear and gave Kiviung what he had asked for.

"Here are your boots," she cried; "here are your slippers; here are your stockings. I will help you put them on."

But Kiviung would not stay any longer with the horrid creature, and dared not wait to put on his stockings and boots. He rushed out of the house and had barely gotten out of the door when it clapped violently together, catching the tail of his jacket, which was torn off. Without stopping to look behind, he ran to his kayak and paddled away.

The old woman quickly recovered from her fear and came out swinging a glittering knife which she attempted to throw at him. He was so frightened that he nearly upset his kayak, but he steadied it and arose to his feet, lifting his spear.

"I shall kill you with my spear," he cried.

At that the old woman fell down in terror and broke her knife which she had made by magic out of a thin slab of ice.

He traveled on for many days, always keeping near the shore. At last he came to another hut, and again a lamp was burning inside. His clothing was wet and he was hungry, so he landed and went into the house. There he found something very strange: a woman living all alone with her daughter! Yet the daughter was married and they kept the son-in-law in the house. But he was a log of driftwood which they had found on the beach. It had four branches like legs and arms. Every day about the time of low water they carried it to the beach and when the tide came in, it swam away. When night came it returned with eight large seals, two being fastened to each bough.

Thus the log provided food for its wife, her mother, and Kiviung, and they lived in abundance. Kiviung became rested and refreshed after his weary travels, and he enjoyed this life so well that he remained for a long time. One day, however, after they had launched the log as they had always done, it floated away and never came back.

Then Kiviung went sealing every day for himself and the women, and he was so successful that they wished him to remain with them always. But he had not forgotten the home he had left long ago, and meant to return to it. He was anxious to lay in a good stock of mittens to keep his hands warm on the long journey, and each night he pretended to have lost the pair he wore, and the women would make him another pair from the skin of the seals he brought home. He hid them all in the hood of his jacket.

Then one day, he, too, floated off with the tide and never came back. He rowed on for many days and nights, always following the shore. During the terrible storm he had been out of sight of land all he ever cared to be.

At last he came again to a hut where a lamp was burning, and went to it. But this time he thought it would be well to see who was inside before entering. He therefore climbed up to the window and looked through the peep-hole. On the bed sat a woman whose head and whose hands looked like big yellow-and-black spiders. She was sewing; and when she saw the dark shadow before the window she at first thought it was a cloud, but when she looked up and beheld a man, she grasped a big knife and arose, looking very angry. Kiviung waited to see no more. He felt a sudden longing for home, and hastily went on his way.

Again he traveled for days and nights. At last he came to a land which seemed familiar, and as he went farther he recognized his own country. He was very glad to see some boats ahead of him, and when he stood up and waved and shouted to them they came to meet him. They had been on a whaling excursion and were towing a large dead whale to their village.

In the bow of one of the boats stood a stout young man who had harpooned the whale. He looked at Kiviung keenly and Kiviung looked at him. Then, of a sudden, they recognized each other. It was Kiviung's own son whom he had left a small boy, but who was now become a grown man and a great hunter.

Kiviung's wife was delighted to see him whom she had supposed dead. At first she seemed glad and then she seemed troubled. She had taken a new husband, but after thinking it over she returned to Kiviung, and they were very happy.



III

The Giant


In days of old an enormous man lived with other members of the Inuit tribe in a village beside a large inlet. He was so tall that he could straddle the inlet, and he used to stand that way every morning and wait for the whales to pass beneath him. As soon as one came along he used to scoop it up just as easily as other men scoop up a minnow. And he ate the whole whale just as other men eat a small fish.

One day all the natives manned their boats to catch a whale that was spouting off the shore; but he sat idly by his hut. When the men had harpooned the whale and were having a hard time to hold it and keep their boats from capsizing, he rose and strolled down to the shore and scooped the whale and the boats from the water and placed them on the beach.

Another time when he was tired of walking about, he lay down on a high hill to take a nap.

"You would better be careful," said the people, "for a couple of huge bears have been seen near the village."

"Oh, I don't care for them. If they come too near me, throw some stones at me to waken me," he said with a yawn.

The bears came, and the people threw the stones and grabbed their spears. The giant sat up.

"Where are they? I see no bears. Where are they?" he asked.

"There! There! Don't you see them?" cried the Inuit.

"What! those little things! They are not worth all this bustle. They are nothing but small foxes." And he crushed one between his fingers, and put the other into the eyelet of his boot to strangle it.



IV

Kalopaling


Ka-lo-pa-ling is a strange being who lives in the northern seas. His body is like that of a man except that his feet are very large and look like sealskin muffs. His clothing is made of the skins of eider ducks and, as their bellies are white and their backs are black, his clothes are spotted all over. He cannot speak, but cries all the time, "Be, be! Be, be!"

His jacket has an enormous hood which is an object of fear to the Inuit, for if a kayak upsets and the boatman is drowned, Ka-lo-pa-ling grabs him and puts him into the hood.

The Inuit say that in olden times there were a great many of these creatures, and they often sat in a row along the ice floes, like a flock of penguins. Their numbers have become less and less, till now there are but a few left.

Anyone standing on shore may see them swimming under water very rapidly, and occasionally they rise to the surface as if to get air. They make a great noise by splashing with their feet and arms as they swim. In summer they like to come out and bask on the rocks, but in winter they sit along the edge of the ice or else stay under water.

They often chase the hunters, so the most courageous of the men try to kill them whenever they can get near enough. When the Kalopaling sits sleeping, the hunter comes up very cautiously and throws a walrus harpoon into him. Then he shuts his eyes tight until the Kalopaling is dead, otherwise the hunter's boat would be capsized and he be drowned. They dare not eat the flesh of the creatures, for it is poisonous; but the dogs eat it.

One time an old woman and her grandson were living alone in a small hut. They had no men to hunt for them and they were very poor. Once in a while, but not often, some of the Inuit took pity on them and brought them seal's meat, and blubber for their lamp.

One day the boy was so hungry that he cried aloud. His grandmother told him to be quiet, but he cried the harder. She became vexed with him and cried out, "Ho, Kalopaling, come and take this fretful boy away!"

At once the door opened and Kalopaling came hobbling in on his clumsy feet, which were made for swimming and not for walking. The woman put the boy into the large hood, in which he was completely hidden. Then the Kalopaling disappeared as suddenly as he had come.

By and by the Inuit caught more seals than usual and gave her plenty of meat. Then she was sorry that she had given her grandson away, and was more than ever sorry that it was to Kalopaling she had given him. She thought how much of the time he must have to stay in the water with that strange man-like animal. She wept about it, and begged the Inuit to help her get him back.

Some of them said they had seen the boy sitting by a crack in the ice, playing with a whip of seaweed, but none of them knew how to get him. Finally one of the hunters and his wife said, "We may never succeed, but we will see what we can do."

The water had frozen into thick ice, and the rise and fall of the tide had broken long cracks not far from the shore. Every day the boy used to rise out of the water and sit alongside the cracks, playing, and watching the fish swim down below.

Kalopaling was afraid someone might carry the boy away, so he fastened him to a string of seaweed, the other end of which he kept in his hand. The hunter and his wife watched for the boy to come out, and when they saw him they went toward him. But the boy did not want to go back to live with his grandmother, and as they came near he called out:

"Two men are coming; one with a double jacket, the other with a foxskin jacket."

Then Kalopaling pulled on the string and the boy disappeared into the water.

Some time after this the hunter and his wife saw the boy again. But before they could lay hold of him the lad sang out:

"Two men are coming."

And again Kalopaling pulled the string and the boy slipped into the water.

However, the hunter and his wife did not give up trying. They went near the crack and hid behind the big blocks of ice which the tide had piled up. The next time when the boy had just come out they sprang forward and cut the rope before he had time to give the alarm. Then away they went with him to their hut.

As the lad did not wish to return to his grandmother, he stayed with the hunter, and as he grew to be a man he learned all that his new father could teach him, and became the most famous hunter of the tribe.



V

The Woman Magician


Long ago, in Aggo, a country where nobody lives nowadays, there were two large houses standing far apart. In each of these houses many families lived together. In the summer the people in the two houses went in company to hunt deer and had a good time together. When fall came they returned to their separate houses. The names of the houses were Quern and Exaluq.

One summer it happened that the men from Quern had killed many deer, while those from Exaluq had caught but a few. The latter said to each other, "They are not fair; they shoot before we have a chance;" and they became very angry.

"Let us kill them," said one.

"Yes, let us kill them, but let us wait till the end of the season, and then we can take all the game they have in their storehouse," said the others. For the game was packed in snow and ice and was taken home on dog sledges when the hunting was over.

When it came time to go home both parties agreed to go on a certain day to the storehouses and pack up the game ready to start early in the morning. This was the time for which the men of Exaluq had been waiting.

They started off all together with their sledges, but when they got a long distance from the camp and very near to the storehouse, those from Exaluq suddenly fell upon the others and slew them, for the men from Quern had never suspected that there was any ill-feeling.

Fearing that if the dogs went back to camp without their masters, the women and children would guess what had happened, they killed the dogs also. When they returned, they told the women that their husbands had separated from them and had gone off over a hill, and they did not know what had become of them.

Now one of the young men had married a girl from Quern, and he went to her house that night as usual, and she received him kindly, for she believed what she had heard about the men of her party straying off. She and all the other women thought the men would soon find their way back, as they had hunted in these parts so long that they knew the land.

But in the house was the girl's little brother who had seen the husband come in; and after everybody was asleep he heard the spirits of the murdered men calling and he recognized their voices. They told him what had happened, and asked the boy to kill the young man in revenge for their deaths. So he crept from under the bed and thrust a knife into the young man's breast.

Then he awakened all the women and children in the great row of huts and told them that the spirits of the dead men had come to him and told of their murder, and had ordered him to avenge them by killing the young man.

"Oh, what shall we do? What shall we do?" they cried. "They have killed our men and they will kill us!" They were terribly frightened.

"We must fly from here before the men from Exaluq awaken and learn that the young man is slain in revenge," said one of the old women.

"But how can we fly? Our dogs are dead, and we cannot travel fast enough to escape."

"I will attend to that," said the old woman. In her hut was a litter of pups, and as she was a conjurer, she said to them, "Grow up at once." She had no fairy wand to wave over them, but she waved a stick, and after waving it once the dogs[1] were half-grown. She waved it again, saying, "Be full-grown instantly;" and they were.

They harnessed the dogs at once, and in order to deceive their enemies they left everything in the huts and even left their lights burning, so that when the men arose in the morning they would think that they, too, had arisen and were dressing.

When it had come full daylight next morning the men of Exaluq wondered why the young man did not come back to them, and presently they went to find out. They peeked into the spy-hole of the window and saw the lamps burning, but no people inside the hut. They discovered the body of the dead man, and then when they looked they saw the tracks of sledges.

They wondered very much how the women could have gone away on sledges, since they had no dogs, and they feared some other people had helped them to get off. They hastily harnessed their own dogs and started in pursuit of the fugitives.

The women whipped their dogs and journeyed rapidly, but the pursuers had older and tougher animals and were likely to overtake them soon. They became very much frightened, fearing that they would all be killed in revenge for the death of the young man.

When the sledge of the men drew near and the women and children saw that they could not escape, the boy who had slain the man said to the old woman:

"The spirits of our murdered men are calling to us to cut the ice. Cannot you cut it?"

"I think I can," she answered, and she slowly drew her first finger across the path of the pursuers, muttering a magic charm as she did so.

The ice gave a terrific crack, and the water came gushing through the crevasse. They sped on, and presently she drew another line with her finger, and another crack opened and the ice between the two cracks broke up and the floe began to move.

The men, dashing ahead with all speed, could scarcely stop their dog team in time to escape falling into the open water. The floe was so wide and so long that it was impossible for them to cross, and thus the women and children were saved by the art of their conjurer.


Footnotes:

[1] The actual statement both here and on page 39 is that the woman and the Man in the Moon beat the pups and the boy with sticks to make them grow. Is not our birthday beating, "one for each year and one to grow on" a survival of this ancient superstition?



VI

The Bird Wife


Itajung, one of the Inuit tribe, was vexed because a young woman would not marry him, so he left his home and traveled far away into the land of the birds. He came to a small lake in which many geese were swimming. On the shore he saw a great many boots. He cautiously crept near and stole a pair and hid them.

Presently the birds came out of the water, and finding a pair of boots gone they were alarmed, and quickly forming into two long lines with their leader at the point where the lines met, they flew away crying, "Honk! Honk! Honk!"

But one of the flock remained behind crying, "I want my boots! I want my boots!"

Itajung came forth from his hiding-place and said, "I will give you your boots if you will become my wife."

"That I will not do," she replied.

"Very well," he said, and turned around to go away.

"I don't want to, but I will be your wife if you will bring back my boots," she called.

He came back and gave her the boots, and when she put them on she was changed into a woman.

They walked away together, and wandered down to the seaside and, as she liked to live near the water, they settled in a large village by the sea. Here they lived for several years and had a son. Itajung became a highly respected man, for he was by far the best whaler in all the Inuit tribe.

One day they killed a whale and were busy cutting it up and carrying the meat and blubber to their homes. Many of the women were helping, but though Itajung was working very hard, his wife stood lazily looking on.

"Come and help us," he called to her.

"My food is not from the sea," she replied. "My food is from the land. I will not eat the meat of a whale; neither will I help."

"You must eat it; it will fill your stomach," said he.

She began to cry, and said, "I will not eat it. I will not soil my nice white clothing."

She went to the beach and searched for feathers. When she found some, she put them between her fingers and the fingers of her child. They were both turned into geese and flew away. When the Inuit saw this they cried, "Itajung, your wife is flying away."

Itajung became very sad. He no longer cared for the meat and blubber, nor for the whales spouting near the shore. He followed in the direction his wife had taken, and went over all the land in search of her.

After traveling for many weary months, he came to a river where a man with a large axe was chopping chips from a piece of wood, and as fast as he chopped them they were turned into salmon and slipped out of the man's hands into the river and swam down to a large lake near by. The name of the man was Small Salmon.

As Itajung looked at the man he was frightened almost to death; for the back of the man was entirely hollow, and Itajung could see right through him and out at the other side. He was so scared that he kept very still and crept back and away out around him. He wanted to ask if the man had seen his wife, for that was what he asked everyone he came to. So he went around and came from the opposite direction, facing the man.

When Small Salmon saw him approaching he stopped chopping and asked, "Which way did you approach me?"

"I came from that direction," said Itajung, pointing in the way he had last approached.

"That is lucky for you, for if you had come the other way and had seen my back, I should have killed you at once with my hatchet."

"I am glad I don't have to die," said Itajung. "But haven't you seen my wife? She left me and came this way."

"Yes, I saw her. Do you see that little island in the large lake? That is where she lives now, and she has taken another husband."

"Oh, I can never reach her," said Itajung in despair. "I have no boat and do not know how to reach the island."

"I will help you," said Small Salmon kindly. "Come down to the beach with me. Here is the backbone of a salmon. Now shut your eyes. The backbone will turn into a kayak and carry you safely to the island. But mind you keep your eyes shut. If you open them the kayak will upset."

"I will obey," said Itajung.

He closed his eyes, the backbone became a kayak, and away he sped over the water. He heard no splashing and was anxious to know if he really was moving, so he peeped open his eyes a trifle.

At once the boat began to swing violently, but he quickly shut his eyes, and it went on steadily, and he soon landed on the island.

There he saw a hut and his son playing on the beach near it. The boy on looking up saw and recognized him, and ran to his mother, crying:

"Mother, Father is here and is coming to our hut."

"Go back to your play," she said; "your father is far away and cannot find us."

The lad went back, but again he ran in, saying:

"Mother, Father is here and is coming to our hut."

Again she sent him away; but he soon returned, saying: "Father is right here."

He had scarcely said it when Itajung opened the door. When the new husband saw him he said to his wife, "Open that box in the corner of the hut."

She did so, and a great quantity of feathers flew out and stuck fast to them. The hut disappeared. The woman, her new husband, and the child were transformed into geese and flew away, leaving Itajung standing alone.



VII

The Spirit Of The Singing House


The singing house of an Eskimo village is used also for feasting and dancing, and always has a spirit owner who is supposed to remain in it all the time. Once a woman was curious about this spirit and wanted to see it. For a long time she had wanted to know more about this spirit of the singing house, but the villagers warned her that she would meet with a terrible fate if she persisted in trying to see it.

One night she could wait no longer, and went into the house when it was quite dark so the villagers would not see her go. When she had entered she said:

"If you are in the house, come here."

As she could see and hear nothing, she cried, "No spirit is here; he will not come."

"Here I am; there I am," said a hoarse whisper.

"Where are your feet?" she asked, for she could not see him.

"Here they are; there they are," said the voice.

"Where are your shins?" she asked.

"Here they are; there they are," it whispered.

As she could not see anything, she felt of him with her hands to make sure he was there, and when she touched his knees she found that he was a bandy-legged man with knees bent outward and forward. She kept on asking, "Where are your hips? Where are your shoulders? Where is your neck?" And each time the voice answered, "Here it is; there it is."

At last she asked, "Where is your head?"

"Here it is; there it is," the spirit whispered, hoarsely.

But as the woman touched the head, all of a sudden she fell dead. It had no bones and no hair.



VIII

The Tornit


In olden times the Inuit were not the only tribe living in the Eskimo country. Around Cumberland Sound there lived some very large, strong people called the Tornit. They were on good terms with the Inuit and shared the same hunting ground, but lived in separate villages. They were much taller than the Inuit and had very long legs and arms, but their eyes were not as good.

They were so strong that they could lift large boulders which were far too heavy for the Inuit, though the latter were much stronger in those days than they now are. Some of the stones which they used to throw are lying about the country still, and the toughest of the men now living cannot lift them, much less swing and throw them. Some of their stone houses also remain. They generally lived in these houses all winter, and did not cover them with snow to make them warmer.

The principal part of their winter dress was a long, wide coat of deerskins, reaching to the knees and trimmed with leather straps. They ate walrus, deer, and seal, and when they went sealing in the winter they fastened the lower edge of their coat to the snow by means of pegs. Under the coat they carried a small lamp, over which to melt snow when they were thirsty, and over which to roast some of the seal meat. They sat around a hole in the ice and watched for their prey, and when a seal blew in the hole they whispered, "I shall stab it." Sometimes in their eagerness they forgot the lamp and upset it as they threw the harpoon, and thus got burned.

Their strength was so great that they could hold a harpooned walrus as easily as the Inuit could hold a seal. These weaker men did not like to play ball with them, for they did not realize how rough they were and often hurt their playfellows severely. This the playfellows tried to take in good part, and the two lived on friendly terms except for one thing. For some reason the Tornit did not make kayaks for themselves, although they saw how convenient they were for hunting when the ice broke up in the spring. Every little while they would steal a boat from the Inuit, who did not dare fight for their property because the thieves were so much stronger.

This rankled in the hearts of the Inuit and they would talk among themselves and threaten to take vengeance on the robbers. They debated what they should do either to get rid of the Tornit or to make them cease their depredations. This state of affairs had gone on till the Inuit were at fever heat, when one day a young Tornit took the boat of a young Inuit without asking, and in sealing with it, he ran it into some blocks of floating ice which stove in the bottom. The owner nursed his wrath until night, and then when the thief was asleep he slipped into the tent and thrust his knife into the Tornit's neck.

The Tornit tribe had been aware of the growing dislike, and when at last one of the Inuit took revenge, they feared that others might do the same and in similar secret fashion; so they decided to leave the country. In order to deceive their neighbors, they cut off the tails of their long coats and tied their hair in bunches that stuck out behind to look like a strange people as they fled.

Then they stole away, and the Inuit were so glad they were gone that they made no effort to pursue them.



IX

The Flight To The Moon


A powerful conjurer, who had a bear for his mascot, thought he would like to go to the Moon. He had his hands tied up and a rope fastened around his knees and neck. Then he sat down at the rear of his hut with his back to the lamps and had the light extinguished.

He called for his mascot, and the bear at once appeared and he mounted its back. Up it carried him, above the village, above the mountains, up and up till they reached the Moon. To his surprise, the Moon was a house which was covered with beautiful white deerskins. Now white deer are strange and sacred and are hatched from long white eggs buried deep in the soil. There is mystery and magic in white deer, white buffalo, and in all albino animals. The Man in the Moon dried these white deerskins and fastened them over his house, which, as I said, is the Moon itself.

On each side of the door to the house was the upper part of an enormous walrus. The beasts were alive, and they threatened to tear the visitor in pieces. It was very dangerous to try to pass the fierce animals, but the conjurer told his mascot to growl as loud as it could, and that startled the walruses for an instant, and in that instant the man slipped in.

It must be chilly in the Moon, for the house had a passageway to keep out the cold, just as the Eskimo houses have. In this passageway was a red-and-white spotted dog, the only dog which the Man in the Moon keeps. The man went on past this dog and into the inner room. There at the left he saw a door into another building in which sat a beautiful woman with a lamp before her. As soon as she saw the stranger she blew on her fire and made it flash up, and she hid behind the blaze; but he had seen enough so that he knew she was the Sun.

The Man in the Moon rose from his seat on the ledge and came over to shake hands with the visitor and welcome him. Behind the lamps there was a great heap of venison and seal meat, but the Man in the Moon did not offer his guest any of it, which is not the way the Eskimo and Indians treat their guests. The Man in the Moon seemed to have a different idea of hospitality, for he immediately said:

"My wife, Ulul, will soon be here and we will have a dance. Mind you don't laugh, or she will slice you in two with her knife and feed you to my ermine which is in yon little house outside."

Before long a woman entered carrying an oblong chopping-bowl in which lay her chopping-knife. She set it down and stooped forward, turning the bowl as if it were a whirligig. Then she commenced dancing; and when she turned her back toward the stranger he saw that she was hollow. She had no back, backbone, or insides, but only lungs and heart.

Her husband presently joined in the dance, and their attitudes and grimaces were so ludicrous that the stranger could scarcely keep from laughing. He did not wish to be impolite, so he kept turning his face aside and pretending to cough. Fortunately for him, just as he thought he would surely explode with laughter, he recalled the warning the man had given him and rushed out of the house. The Man guessed what was the matter with him, and called out:

"Better call your white bear mascot!"

He did so, and escaped unhurt.

However, he went into the house another day and succeeded in keeping his face straight, so when their performance was ended the Man in the Moon was very friendly to him and showed him all around the house and let him look into a small building near the entrance.

In this building there were large herds of deer which seemed to be roaming over vast plains. The Man in the Moon said, "You may choose one of these for your own," and as soon as he did so the animal fell through a hole and alighted on the earth right by the conjurer's hut.

In another building there were many seals swimming in an ocean, and he was allowed to choose one of these, which also fell down to his hut.

"Now you have seen all I can show you, and you may go home," said the Moon Man. So the conjurer called his mascot and rode down through the air to his hut.

There his body had lain motionless while his spirit was away, but now it revived. The cords with which his hands and knees had been bound dropped off, though they had been tied in hard knots. The conjurer felt quite exhausted from his trip, but when the lamps were lighted he told his eager neighbors all that he had seen during his flight to the Moon.



X

What The Man In The Moon Did


Long ago there was a poor little orphan boy who had no home and no one to protect him. All the inhabitants of the village neglected and abused him. He was not allowed to sleep in any of the huts, but one family permitted him to lie outside in the cold passage among the dogs who were his pillows and his quilt. They gave him no good meat, but flung him bits of tough walrus hide such as they gave to the dogs, and he was obliged to gnaw it as the dogs did, for he had no knife.

The only one who took pity on him was a young girl, and she gave him a small piece of iron for a knife. "You must keep it hidden, or the men will take it from you," she said.

He did not grow at all because he had so little food. He remained poor little Quadjaq, and led a miserable life. He did not dare even to join in the play of the boys, for they called him a "poor little shriveled bag of bones," and were always imposing upon him on account of his weakness.

When the people gathered in the singing house he used to lie in the passage and peep over the threshold. Now and then a man would take him by the nose and lift him into the house and make him carry out a jar of water. It was so large and heavy that he had to take hold of it with both hands and his teeth. Because he was so often lifted by his nose, it grew very large, but he remained small and weak.

At last the Man in the Moon, who protects all the Eskimo orphans, noticed how the men ill-treated Quadjaq, and came down to help him. He harnessed his dappled dog to his sledge and drove down. When he was near the hut he stopped the dog and called, "Quadjaq, come out."

The boy thought it was one of the men who wanted to plague him, and he said, "I will not come out. Go away."

"Come out, Quadjaq," said the Man from the Moon, and his voice sounded softer than the voices of the men. But still the boy hesitated, and said, "You will cuff me."

"No, I will not hurt you. Come out," said the Moon Man.

Then Quadjaq came slowly out, but when he saw who it was he was even more frightened than if it had been one of the men standing there. The Moon Man took him to a place where there were many large boulders and made him lie across one as if he were to be paddled. Quadjaq was scared but he did not dare disobey.

The Man from the Moon took a long, thin ray of moonlight and whipped the boy softly with it.

"Do you feel stronger?" he asked.

"Yes, I feel a little stronger," said the lad.

"Then lift yon boulder," said the Man.

But Quadjaq was not able to lift it, so he was whipped again.

"Do you feel stronger now?" asked the Man.

"Yes, I feel stronger," said Quadjaq.

"Then lift the boulder."

But again he was not able to lift the stone more than a foot from the ground, and he had to be whipped again. After the third time he was so strong that he lifted the boulder as if it had been a pebble.

"That will do now," said the Man from the Moon. "Rays of light even from the Moon give you strength. To-morrow morning I shall send three bears. Then you may show what power you have."

The Man then got into his sledge and went back to his place in the Moon.

Every time a moonbeam had hit Quadjaq he had felt himself growing. His feet began first and became enormously large, and when the Man left him, he found himself a good-sized man.

In the morning he waited for the bears, and three bears did really come, growling and looking so fierce that the men of the village ran into their huts and shut the doors. But Quadjaq put on his boots and ran down to the ice where the bears were. The men peering out through the window holes said, "Can that be Quadjaq? The bears will soon eat the foolish fellow."

But he seized the first one by its hind legs and smashed its head on an iceberg near which it was standing. The next one fared no better. But the third one he took in his arms and carried it up to the village and let it eat some of his persecutors.

"That is for abusing me!" he cried. "That is for ill-treating me!"

Those that he did not kill ran away never to return. Only a few who had been kind to him when he was a poor skinny boy were spared. Among them, of course, was the girl who had given him the knife, and she became his wife.



XI

The Guest


An old hag lived in a house with her grandson. She was a very bad woman who thought of nothing but playing mischief. She was a witch and tried to harm everybody with witchcraft.

One time a stranger came to visit some friends who lived in a house near the old woman. The visitor was a fine hunter and went out with his host every morning and they brought home a great deal of game. It made the old woman envious to see her neighbor have so much to eat, while she had little, and she determined to kill the visitor.

She made a soup of wolf's and man's brains, which was the most poisonous food she could think of. Then she sent her grandson to invite the stranger to eat supper at her house.

"Tell him that I desire to be polite to the guest of my neighbor, but be sure you do not tell him what I have cooked."

The boy went to the neighboring hut and said, "Stranger, my grandmother invites you to come to her hut and have a good feast on a supper that she has cooked. She told me not to say that it is a wolf's and a man's brains, and I do not say it."

The man thought a moment, and then replied, "Tell your grandam that I will come."

He went to the hut where the old woman pretended to be very glad to see him. They sat down at the table and while she was placing a large dish of soup before him, he put a bowl on the floor between his feet. He excused himself for putting his hand before his mouth because his front teeth were gone, and every time he poured the spoonful into the bowl.

When he had finished he said, "It is the custom in my tribe to bring your hostess a bit of some delicious food to show that you appreciate her hospitality. Here is a bowl of rare food which I give to you, but it will not be good unless you eat it at once."

He gave the soup to the old witch, and the moment she tasted the broth she herself had prepared she fell down dead.



XII

The Origin Of The Narwhal


A long, long time ago a widow lived with her young son and daughter in a small hut. They had a hard time to get enough to eat. But the boy was anxious to do all he could, and while he was still quite small he made a bow and arrows of walrus tusks which he found under the snow. With these weapons he shot birds for their food.

He had no snow goggles and one day when the sun shone bright and he was hunting, he became utterly blind. He had a hard time finding his way back to the hut and when he got there without any game, his mother was so disappointed that instead of pitying him for his blindness she became angry with him.

From that time she ill-treated him, never giving him enough to eat. He was a growing boy and needed a great deal of food, and she thought he wanted more than his share, so she gave him less, and would not allow her daughter to give him anything. So the boy lived on, half starving, and was very unhappy.

One day a polar bear came to the hut and thrust his head right through the window. They were all much frightened, and the mother gave the boy his bow and arrows and told him to kill the animal.

"But I cannot see the window and I shall miss the bear. Then it will be furious and will eat us," he said.

"Quick, brother! I will level the bow," said his sister.

So he shot and killed the bear, and the mother and sister went out and skinned it and buried the meat in the snow.

"Don't you dare to tell your brother that he killed the bear," said the mother. "We must make this meat last all winter."

When they went back into the hut she said to her son, "You missed the bear. He ran away as soon as he saw you take your bow and arrow. We have been following him a long way into the woods."

The sister did not dare to tell her brother. She and her mother lived on the meat for a long time while the boy was nearly starving. But sometimes when the mother was away, the girl gave him meat, for she loved her brother dearly and used to weep because she knew he was hungry.

One day a loon flew over the hut, and, seeing the poor blind boy at the door, resolved to restore his eyesight. The bird perched on the roof and kept calling, "Quee moo! Quee moo!" which sounded to the lad like "Come here! Come here!"

He went out and followed the bird to the water. There the loon took the boy on its back and dived with him to the bottom. The loon is a great diver and can stay for a long time under water, but it knew the boy could not. So it came to the surface soon and asked, "Can you see anything?"

"No, I cannot see anything as yet," answered the boy.

They dove again and remained a longer time. Again when they came up the loon asked, "Can you see now?"

"I can see a dim shimmer," replied the boy.

"Take a long, long breath and hold it while we go down," said the loon. "When you can hold it no more, let it come out very gradually. As soon as the bubbles of air begin to rise I will know that you must come to the surface and will bring you."

The third time they remained a long while under water, and when they rose to the surface the boy could see as well as ever. He thanked the loon very heartily, and it said to him:

"Go to your home now; but promise me never again to shoot a bird."

He gladly promised, and then ran away to his hut. There he found the skin of the bear he had shot hanging up to dry. He was so angry that he tore it down and, entering the hut, demanded of his mother, "Where did you get the bearskin that is hanging outside the house?"

His mother perceived that he had recovered his sight and that he suspected the truth about the bear. She was frightened at his anger and sought to pacify him.

"Come here," she said, "and I will give you the best I have. But I have no one to support me and am very poor. Come here and eat this. It is very good."

The boy did not go near. Again he asked, "Where did you get the bearskin that I saw hanging outside the door?"

She was afraid to tell him the truth, so she said, "A boat came here with many men in it and they gave me the skin."

The boy did not believe her story. He was sure that it was the skin of the bear he had shot. But he said nothing more. His mother was anxious to make peace with him, and offered him food and clothing, which he refused to take.

He went to the other Inuit who lived in the same village and made a spear and a harpoon of the same pattern as they used. Then he watched them throw the harpoons, and in a short time he became an expert hunter and could catch many white whales.

But he could not forget his anger at his mother. He said to his sister, "I will not come home while our mother lives in the house. She abused me while I was blind and helpless, and she mistreated you for pitying me. We will not kill her, but we will get rid of her and then live together. Will you do what I have planned?"

She agreed. Then he went to hunt white whales. As he had no kayak he stood on shore, winding the end of the harpoon string around his body, and taking a firm footing so he could hold the whale until it quieted down and died. Sometimes his sister went along to help him hold the line.

One day his mother went to the beach, and he tied the string around her body and told her to take a firm footing. She was a trifle nervous for she had never done the thing before, and she said, "Harpoon a small dolphin, else I may not be able to hold it, if it is large enough to make a strong pull."

After a short time a young animal came up to breathe, and she cried, "Kill that one. I can hold it."

"No, that one is too large," he said.

Again a small dolphin came near, and the mother shouted, "Spear that." But he said, "No, it is too large and strong."

At last a huge animal arose quite near, and immediately he threw his harpoon, taking care to wound but not to kill it, and at the same time pushing his mother into the water.

"That is because you abused me," he cried, as the white whale dragged her into the sea.

Whenever she came to the surface to breathe she cried "Louk! Louk!" and gradually she became transformed into a narwhal.



XIII

What The Eskimo Believes

How Men Were Created


The first human beings who appeared on the Diomede Islands were a man and a woman who came down from the sky. These two lived on the island for a long time, but had no children.

At last the man took some ivory from a walrus and carved out five images from it. Then he took some wood and carved five more images, and set all of them aside. The next morning the ten images had turned into people. Those from the ivory dolls were men, hardy and brave; those from the wood were women, soft and timid.

From these ten people came the inhabitants of the islands.


The Flood

In the first days that people can remember there was a flood which covered all the earth except one very high peak in the middle. The water rose up from the sea and covered all the land except the top of this mountain, and the only animals that were not drowned were a few that went up this mountain. A few people escaped by going into their boats and living on the fish they caught until the water subsided.

After the waters lowered, these people went to live upon the mountains, and when the land was dry they came down to the coast. The animals also came down and eventually the earth was refilled with animals and people.

It was during the flood that the waves and currents of water cut the land into hollows and ridges. Then the water ran back into the sea leaving the mountains and valleys as they are today. All the Eskimo along the northern part of North America have heard their old people tell of the flood.

*       *       *       *       *

There are reindeer which came from the sky and which have teeth like dogs. They were once common and anyone could see them, but now only the priests can see them. They live on the plains, and have a large hole through the body back of the shoulders. If the people, who can see them, mistake them for common reindeer and shoot at them, the arrow falls harmless, for no ordinary weapon can kill them.

The Aurora Borealis is a group of boys playing football. Sometimes they use the skull of a walrus for the ball. The swaying movement of the lights shows that the players are struggling with each other and tugging back and forth. If the Aurora fades away and you utter a low whistle, the boys will come back as if answering to applause.

The Milky Way is the snow that fell from the Raven's snowshoes when he walked across the sky, during one of his journeys while he was creating the inhabitants of earth.

*       *       *       *       *

From Puget Sound at the northern border of the United States all along the coast to Bering Strait, both Indians and Eskimo believe that the eagle, the raven, the goose, and perhaps any bird, can push up its beak making it the visor of a cap and thus become a man, and that by pulling it down he can become a bird again.



XIV

The First Man


In the time before there were any people on earth, a large pea-vine was growing on the beach, and in the pod of this pea the first man lay coiled up for four days. On the fifth day he stretched out his feet and that bursted the pod. He fell to the ground, where he stood up, a full-grown man.

He had never seen anything that looked like him, and he did not know what to make of himself. He looked around, and then at himself; then he moved his arms and hands and was surprised that he could do it. He moved his neck and his legs, and examined himself curiously.

Looking back, he saw the pod from which he had fallen still hanging to the vine, with a hole at the lower end out of which he had dropped. He went up and looked in through the hole to see if there were any more like him in the pod. Then he looked about him again, and saw that he was getting farther away from the place where he started, and that the ground seemed very soft and moved up and down under his feet.

After a while he had an unpleasant feeling in his stomach, and stooped down to take water in his mouth from a small pool at his feet. The water ran down into his stomach and he felt better. When he looked up again, he saw a big dark object coming through the air with a waving motion. It came on until it was just in front of him when it stopped and, standing on the ground, looked at him.

This was a Raven, and as soon as it stopped it raised one of its wings, pushed up its beak like a mask, to the top of its head, and changed at once into a man. Before he raised his mask, the Raven had stared at the Man and now he stared more than ever, moving about from side to side to obtain a better view. At last he said:

"What are you? Where did you come from? I have never seen anything like you."

He looked again and said, "You are so much like me in shape that you surprise me."

Presently he said, "Walk away a few steps so that I may see you more clearly. I am astonished at you! I have never before seen anything like you. Where did you come from?"

"I came from the pea-pod," said Man pointing to the plant from which he came.

"Ah!" exclaimed Raven, "I made that vine, but did not know that anything like you would ever come out of it. Come with me to the high ground over there. This ground I made later and it is still soft and thin, but it is harder and thicker over there." They came to the higher ground which was firm under their feet.

"Have you eaten anything?" Raven asked Man.

"I took some soft stuff into me at one of the pools," replied Man.

"Ah! you drank water," said Raven. "Now wait for me here."

He drew down the mask over his face, changing again into a bird, and flew far up into the sky where he disappeared. Man waited where he had been left until the fourth day, when Raven returned, bringing four berries. Pushing up his mask, Raven became a man again and held out two salmonberries and two heathberries.

"Here is what I made for you to eat. I wish them to be plentiful over the earth. Now eat them."

Man took the berries and placed them in his mouth one after the other, and they satisfied his hunger which had made him feel uncomfortable. Raven then led Man to a small creek near by and left him till he went to the edge of the water and molded two pieces of clay into the form of a pair of mountain sheep. He held them in his hand till they were dry and then called Man to show him what he had done.

"Those are very pretty," said Man.

"Close your eyes for a little while," said Raven.

As soon as Man's eyes were closed Raven drew down his mask and waved his wings four times over the images, when they came to life and bounded away as full-grown mountain sheep.

Raven then raised his mask and said, "Look! Look quick!" When Man saw the sheep moving away full of life he cried out with pleasure. Seeing how pleased he was, Raven said, "If these animals are numerous, perhaps people will wish very much to get them."

"I think they will," said Man.

"Well, it will be better for them to have their home in the high cliffs," said Raven, "and there only shall they be found, so that everyone cannot kill them."

Then Raven made two animals of clay and gave them life when they were dry only in spots; and they remained brown and white, and were the tame reindeer with mottled coats.

"Those are very handsome," exclaimed Man, admiring them.

"Yes, but there will not be many of these," said Raven.

Then he made a pair of wild reindeer and let them get dry only on their bellies before giving them life; and to this day the belly of the wild reindeer is the only white part about it.

"These animals will be very common and people will kill many of them," said Raven.



XV

The First Woman


"You will be very lonely by yourself," said Raven to Man one day. "I will make you a companion."

He went to a spot some distance from where he had made the animals, and, looking now and then at Man as an artist looks at his model, he made an image very much like Man. He took from the creek some fine water grass and fastened it on the back of the head for hair. After the image had dried in his hands, he waved his wings over it as he had done with all the live things, and it came to life and stood beside Man, a beautiful young woman.

"There is a companion for you!" cried Raven. "Now come with me to this knoll over here."

In those days there were no mountains far or near, and the sun never ceased to shine brightly. No rain ever fell and no winds blew. When they came to the knoll Raven found a patch of long, dry moss and showed the pair how to make a bed in it, and they slept very warmly. Raven drew down his mask and slept near by in the form of a bird. Wakening before the others, Raven went to the creek and made three pairs of fishes: sticklebacks, graylings, and blackfish. When they were swimming about in the water, he called to Man, "Come and see what I have made."

When Man saw the sticklebacks swimming up the stream with a wriggling motion, he was so surprised that he raised his hands suddenly and the fish darted away.

"Look at these graylings," said Raven; "they will be found in clear mountain streams, while the sticklebacks are already on their way to the sea. Both are good for food; so, whether you live beside the water or in the upland, you may find plenty to eat."

He looked about and thought there was nothing on the land as lively as the fish in the water, so he made the shrew-mice, for he said, "They will skip about and enliven the ground and prevent it from looking dead and barren, even if they are not good for food."

He kept on for several days making other animals, more fishes, and a few ground birds, for as yet there were no trees for birds to alight in. Every time he made anything he explained to Man what it was and what it would do.

After this he flew away to the sky and was gone four days, when he returned bringing a salmon for Man and his wife. He thought that the ponds and lakes seemed silent and lonely, so he made insects to fly over their surfaces, and muskrats and beavers to swim about near their borders. At that time the mosquito did not bite as it does now, and he said to Man:

"I made these flying creatures to enliven the world and make it cheerful. The skin of this muskrat you are to use for clothing. The beaver is very cunning and only good hunters can catch it. It will live in the streams and build strong houses, and you must follow its example and build a house."

When a child was born, Raven and Man took it to the creek and rubbed it with clay, and carried it back to the stopping-place on the knoll. The next morning the child was running about pulling up grass and other plants which Raven had caused to grow near by. On the third day the child became a full-grown man.

Raven one day went to the creek and made a bear, and gave it life; but he jumped aside very quickly when the bear stood up and looked fiercely about. He had thought there ought to be some animal of which Man would be afraid, and now he was almost afraid of the bear himself.

"You would better keep away from that animal," he said. "It is very fierce and will tear you to pieces if you disturb it."

He made various kinds of seals, and said to Man, "You are to eat these and to take their skins for clothing. Cut some of the skins into strips and make snares to catch deer. But you must not snare deer yet; wait until they are more numerous."

By and by another child was born, and the Man and Woman rubbed it with clay as Raven had taught them to do, and the next day the little girl walked about. On the third day she was a full-grown woman, for in those days people grew up very fast, so that the earth would be peopled.



XVI

Other Men


Raven went back to the pea-vine and there he found that three other men had just fallen from the pod out of which the first one had dropped. These men, like the first, were looking about in wonder not knowing what to make of themselves and the world about them.

"Come with me," said Raven; and he led them away in an opposite direction from the one in which he had led the first Man, and brought them to solid land close to the sea. "Stop here, and I will teach you what to do and how to live," said he.

He caused some small trees and bushes to grow on the hillside and in the hollows, and he took a piece of wood from one of these, and a cord, and made a bow and showed them how to shoot game for food. Then he taught them to make a fire with a fire-drill. He made plants, and gulls, and loons, and other birds such as fly about on the seacoast.

Then he made three clay images somewhat resembling the men, and waved his wings over them and brought them to life, and led each one of these women to one of the men, and then led each pair to a dry bank, and had three families started on three hilltops.

"Go down to the shore," he said to the three men and the three women, "and bring up the logs that the tide has brought in, and I will show you how to make houses."

They brought the drift logs, and he showed them how to lay them up for walls, and how to make a roof of branches covered with earth. Seals had now become numerous, and he taught them how to capture them, and what use to make of their skins. He helped them to make arrows and spears, and nets to capture deer and fish, and other implements of the chase. He showed them how to make kayaks by stretching green hides over a framework of ribs, and letting the hides dry.

"I have not made as many birds and animals for you as I made for First Man and his wife, but I have made you so many more plants and trees that it isn't quite fair to him. I must go back and fix up his land a bit," said Raven.

So he went over to where First Man and his children were living, and told them all he had done for the three men who had come out of the pea-pod, and how well he had them fixed up.

"I must have you live as well as they do," he said. "Your land looks rather barren, and you have no houses."

That night while the people slept he caused birch, spruce, and cottonwood trees to spring up in the low places, and when the people awoke in the morning they clapped their hands in delight, for the birds were singing in the tree-tops and the green leaves with the sunlight flickering through them made it seem like a fairy land. And they were delighted with the shade of the trees in which they could sit and watch the quivering lights and shadows which the fluttering of the leaves made.

Then Raven taught these people how to build houses out of the trees and bushes, and how to make fire with a fire-drill, and to place the spark of tinder in a bunch of dry grass and wave it about until it blazed, and then put dry wood upon it. He showed them how to put a stick through their fish and hold it in the fire, till it was a thousand times more delicious than when raw. He took willow twigs and strips of willow bark, and made traps for catching fish; and, best of all, he taught them to look out for the future, by catching more salmon than they needed, when salmon were running, and drying them for use when they could catch none.

"Now you are pretty well fixed," he said one day; "it will take you some time to practice on all the things I have taught you; so I will go back and see how my coast men are coming on."



XVII

Man's First Grief


After Raven had gone, Man and his son went down to the sea to try some of the ways they had been taught. They made rather bad work of it, but the son caught a seal and held it. They tried to kill it with their hands, but couldn't do it until, finally, the son struck it a hard blow on the head with his fist. Then the father took off the skin with his hands alone, and tore it into strips which they dried. With these strips they set snares for reindeer.

When they went to look at the snare next morning, they found the cords bitten in two; for in those days the reindeer had sharp teeth like dogs. They stood looking at the ruined snare for a few minutes, and then the son said:

"Let us go farther down along the deer trail and dig a pit and set our snare just at the first edge of the pit, with a heavy stone fastened in it. Then when the deer puts his head in the snare the stone will fall down into the pit and drag the deer's head down and hold it."

Next morning when they went to the woods and down the reindeer trail they found a deer entangled in the snare. Taking it out, they killed and skinned it, carrying the skin home for a bed.

The women cried, "Oh, let us hold some of the flesh in the fire as we did the fish!" And of course they found it good.

*       *       *       *       *

One day Man went out alone hunting seal along the seashore. There were many seals out of the water sunning themselves on the rocks. He crept up to them cautiously, but just as he thought he had his hands on them, one after another slipped into the water. Only one was left on the rocks. Now you will not wonder at what happened, if you remember that, although Man was full-grown, he was still quite young, for he had become a man so suddenly. Only one seal was left on the rocks, and Man was very hungry. He crept up to it more cautiously than before, but it slipped through his fingers and escaped.

Then Man stood up and his breast seemed full of a strange feeling, and water began to run in drops from his eyes and down his face. He put up his hand and caught some of the drops to look at them and found that they were really water. Then, without any wish on his part, loud cries began to break from him, and the tears ran down his face as he went homeward.

When his son saw him coming he called to his wife and mother to see Man coming along making such a strange noise. When he reached them they were still more surprised to see water running down his face. After he told them the story of his disappointment about the seals, they were all stricken with the same ailment and began to wail with him, -- and in this way people first learned to cry.

A while after this the son killed another seal and they made more reindeer snares from its hide. When the deer caught this time was brought home, Man told his people to take a splint bone from its foreleg and to drill a hole in the large end of it. Into this they put strands of sinew from the deer and sewed skins to keep their bodies warm when winter came, for Raven had told them to do this; and the fresh skins shaped themselves to their bodies and dried on them.

Man then showed his son how to make bows and arrows and to tip the arrows with points of horn for killing deer. With these the son shot his first deer, which was easier than snaring them. After he had cut up this deer, he placed its fat upon a bush and then fell asleep. When he awoke he was very angry to find that the mosquitoes had eaten all of it. Until this time mosquitoes had never bitten people; but Man scolded them for what they had done, and said: "Never eat our meat again; eat men," and since that day mosquitoes have always bitten people.

Where First Man lived there had now grown a large village, for the people did everything as Raven had directed, and as soon as a child was born it was rubbed with clay and thus grew to its full stature in three days.



XVIII

Up To The Top Of The Sky, And Down To The Bottom Of The Sea


One day Raven came back and, sitting beside Man, talked of many things as if they were brothers. After a little Man said, "I understand that you have made a land in the sky."

"Yes, I have a fine land there," answered Raven. "I made that land with all its people and animals, before I made this one."

"I wish you would take me to see it," said Man.

"Very well, I will do so," replied Raven.

They started toward the sky, where they arrived in a short time, and Man found himself in a beautiful country with a climate much better than that on earth; but the people who lived there were very small. When they stood beside Man, their heads reached only to his hips. As they walked along, Man looked about and saw many animals that were strange to him, and noticed that the country was much finer than the one he had left.

The people living there wore handsome fur garments nicely made and embroidered with ornamental patterns such as people on earth now wear. Man got the patterns, and when he came back to earth he showed his people how to make the handsome garments; and the patterns have been retained ever since.

After a time they came to a large house and went in. A very old man came from the place of honor opposite the door at the head of the room to welcome them.

"This is the first man I made in the sky land," said Raven, explaining why the man seemed so old.

The old man called to his people: "We have here a guest from the lower land, who is a friend of mine. Bring food to refresh him after his travels."

They brought boiled food of a more delicious kind than Man had ever tasted.

"That is the flesh of the spotted reindeer and the sheep that live in these mountains," said Raven. "When you have finished your meal we will go on to see other things that I have made. But you must not attempt to drink from any of the lakes we may pass, for in them are animals which would seize and kill anyone from the lower land."

On the way they came to a dry lake bed in which tall grass was growing very thickly, and lying on the very tips of the grass was a large animal, yet the grass did not bend with the weight. It was a strange-looking animal with a long head and six legs, the two hind ones unusually large; the forelegs short; and a small pair under its belly. The hair around the feet was very long, but all over the body there was fine, thick hair. From the back of the head grew short, thick horns which extended forward and curved back at the tips. The animal had small eyes, and was of darkish color, almost black.

"These animals can sink right into the ground and disappear," said Raven. "When the people want to kill one of them, they have to put a log under it so it cannot sink. It takes many people to kill one, for when the animal falls on the lower log, other logs must be placed above it and held down, while two men take large clubs and beat it between the eyes till it is dead."

Next they came to a round hole in the sky with a ring of short grass growing around the border and glowing like fire.

"This is a star called the Moon-dog," said Raven.

"The tops of the grass blades have been cut away or have burned off," said Man.

"Yes, my mother took some, and I took the rest to make the first fire down on earth," said Raven. "I have tried to make some of this same kind of grass on earth, but it will not grow there.

"Now close your eyes and get upon my wings and I will take you to another place," said Raven.

Man did as he was told, and they dropped through the flame-bordered star hole and floated down and down for a long time. They came to something that seemed denser than the air, and caused them to go more slowly, until they finally stopped.

"We are now standing on the bottom of the sea," said Raven. "I came down here to make some new kinds of water animals. Looking through the water must look like a fog to you, but you must not walk about; you must lie down, and if you become tired you may turn over upon the other side."

Raven then left Man lying on one side, where he rested for a long time. Finally he awoke feeling very tired, but when he tried to turn over, he could not.

"I wish I could turn over," he said to himself; and in a moment he turned very easily.

But as he did this, he was horrified to see that his body had become covered with long, white hairs, and that his fingers had become long, sharp claws. However, he was so drowsy that he soon fell asleep again. After a long time he awoke and again felt tired from lying so long in one position. He turned as before and fell asleep again for the third time. When he awoke the fourth time Raven stood beside him.

"I have changed you into a white bear," said Raven. "How do you like it?"

Man tried to answer but could not make a sound. Raven waved his magic wing over him and then he said:

"I do not wish to be a bear, for then I would have to live on the sea while my son would live on the shore, and I would be unhappy."

Raven made one stroke of his wings and the bearskin fell from Man and lay on one side, while he sat up in his human form, thankful that he did not have to spend the rest of his life as a polar bear.

Then Raven pulled a quill from his tail and put it into the empty bearskin for a backbone, and after he had waved his wings over it a white bear arose and walked slowly away; and ever since that time white bears have been found on the frozen seas.

"How many times did you turn over?" Raven asked.

"Four times," answered Man.

"That was four years. You slept there just four years," said Raven. "Come now and I will show you some of the animals I made while you slept.

"Here is one like the shrew-mouse of the land; but this one always lives on the ice of the sea, and whenever it sees a man it darts at him, entering the toe of his boot and crawling all over him. If the man keeps perfectly quiet, it will leave him unharmed. But if he is a coward, and lifts so much as a finger to brush it away, it instantly burrows into his flesh going directly to his heart and causing death.

"Here is another, a large leather-skinned animal with four long, wide-spreading arms. This is a fierce animal, living in the sea, which wraps its arms around a man or a kayak and pulls them into the water. If the man tries to escape by getting out of his kayak upon the ice and running away, it will dart underneath and break the ice under his feet. Or if he gets on the shore and runs, it burrows through the earth as easily as it swims through the water. No one can escape if once it pursues him."

"Why did you make such an animal?" asked Man.

"This is like man's own misdeeds, from which he cannot escape," replied Raven.

Raven then showed Man several other animals: one somewhat like an alligator, another with a long scaly tail with which it could kill a man at one stroke; some walruses, and otter, and many kinds of fish. They finally came to a place where the shore rose before them, and the ripples on the surface of the water could be seen.

"Close your eyes and hold fast to me," said Raven.

As soon as he had done this, Man found himself standing on the shore near his home, and was very much astonished to see a large village where he had left only a few huts. His wife had become an old woman and his son was an old man. The people saw him and welcomed him back, making him their Headman, and giving him the place of honor in their gatherings. He told them all he had seen and heard since he left them, and taught the young men many things about the sea animals.



XIX

Taking Away The Sun


People were becoming such good hunters that they killed a great many animals, more than Raven was willing to have killed, lest the animals become too few for the large number of people now on earth. For this reason, Raven took a grass basket and tied a long line to it and, going down to earth, caught ten reindeer which he took up to the skyland. The next night he let the reindeer down near one of the villages and told them to run fast and break down the first house they came to, and destroy the people in it.

The reindeer did so and ate up the people with their sharp, wolf-like teeth; then they returned to the sky. The next night they came down again and destroyed another house and ate up the people.

"What shall we do?" cried the people to one another. "They will destroy all of us if they keep on coming."

"I know what I am going to do," said the man who lived in the third house. "They will come to my house the next time, and I'm going to cover it with deer fat and stick sour berries all over in the fat."

When the reindeer came the third night, they got their teeth full of fat and sour berries, and ran off shaking their heads so hard that their long, sharp teeth fell out. Afterward small teeth, such as reindeer now have, came in their places, and these animals became harmless.

But Raven had not accomplished his purpose, for only two families had been destroyed, and there were still too many inhabitants left. He said, "If something isn't done to stop people from killing so many animals, they will keep on until they have killed everything I have made. I believe I will take away the sun from them, so that they will be in the dark and will die."

He took Man up to the sky with him, so that he would be safe from the trouble to come. Then he said, "You remain here while I go and take away the sun."

He went away and took the sun, and put it into his skin bag, and carried it far off to a part of the skyland where his parents lived, thus making it very dark on earth. There in his father's village he stayed for a long time, keeping the sun carefully hidden in the bag.

The people on earth were terribly distressed when it remained dark so long. They prayed to Raven and offered him rich presents of food and furs, but he wouldn't bring back the sun. They kept on begging him, saying at last: "We have crept around in the darkness finding our storehouses and getting the meat, till now it is almost gone, and we are likely to starve. Let us have light for a little time at least, so we may get more food."

So Raven yielded a trifle and held up the sun in one hand for two days while all the people went hunting; then he put it back and darkness returned. Another long time would pass and the people would make many offerings before he would let them have light again. This was repeated many times.[2]

In this same sky village with Raven and his parents lived an older brother of Raven who thought the punishment of men was being carried too far. This brother felt sorry for the people on earth, but he didn't say a word about it to anyone. He thought out a plan which he kept to himself.

After a time he pretended to die, and was put away in a grave box in the customary manner. As soon as the mourners left his grave, he arose and went out a short distance from the village, where he hid his raven mask and coat in a tree. Then he turned himself into a young boy and went back to his father's house, where he skipped about in a lively manner, and amused the parents so much that the father at last became very fond of him.

When he had gotten them in the habit of indulging him, he began to cry for the sun as a plaything. He kept this up until the father went to the bag and took out the sun and let him have it for a while, being careful to see that it went back into the bag when anyone was coming, or when the boy was going out of doors.

One day the boy played with it for a time in the house, all the while watching his chance, and when no one was looking, he ran outside, fled to the tree where he put on his raven coat and mask and flew away with it. When he was far up in the sky, he heard his father's voice, sounding faint and far below, saying:

"Don't hide the sun. If you will not bring it back, let it out of the bag sometimes. Don't keep us always in the dark, if you mean to keep the sun for yourself."

The father went into the house, and the Raven boy flew on to the place where the sun belonged, and put the bag down. It was early dawn and he saw the Milky Way leading far onward, and followed it to a hole surrounded by short grass which glowed with light. He plucked some of the grass and, standing close beside the edge of the earth just before sunrise time, he stuck it into the sky. It has stayed there ever since as the beautiful Morning Star.

Then he went back and tore off the skin covering and put the sun in its place. Remembering that his father had called to him not to keep it always dark, but to make it partly dark and partly light, he caused the sky to revolve so that it moved around the earth carrying the sun and stars with it, and making day and night.

Going down to earth he came to where the first people lived, and said to them, "Raven, my uncle, was angry because you killed more animals than you needed, and he took away the sun; but I have put it back and it will never be changed again."

The people welcomed him warmly when they knew what he had done for them. As he looked around upon them he recognized the Headman of the sky-dwarfs.

"Why, what are you doing down here?" he asked.

"I and some of my people thought we would like a change, and so we came down to live on earth for a while," replied the dwarf.

"What has become of Man?"

"Who is Man? I never heard of him," said Raven boy.

"He was the first person ever seen on earth. He was our Headman until he went away with Raven," said the people.

"I will go into the skyland and find him," said Raven boy. He tried to fly, but could get up only a little way. He tried several times, getting only a short distance above the ground. When he found that he could not get back to the sky, he wandered off and finally came to where there were living the children of the three men who last dropped from the pea-vine. There he took a wife and lived for a long time having many children, all of whom were Raven people like himself and could fly over the earth. But they gradually lost their magical powers, and were no longer able to turn themselves into men by pushing up their beaks. They became just ordinary ravens like those we see now on the tundras or marshy plains.


Footnotes:

[2] This story is probably the Eskimo's explanation of the very long nights in the far north during part of the year.



XX

The Dwarf People


Very long ago, before the white people ever went into the land of the Eskimo, there was a large village at Pik-mik-tal-ik. One winter day the people living there were surprised to see a small man and a small woman with a child coming down the river on the ice. The man was so little that he wore a coat made of a single white fox skin. The woman's coat was made from the skins of two white hares; while two muskrat skins clothed the child.

The father and mother were about two cubits high, and the boy not over the length of one's forearm. Though he was so small, the man was dragging a sled much larger than those used by the villagers, and he had on it a heavy load of various articles. He seemed surprisingly strong, and when they came to the shore below the village, he easily drew the sled up the steep bank, and taking it by the rear end raised it on the sled frame, a feat which would have required the strength of several of the villagers.

The couple entered one of the houses and were made welcome. This small family remained in the village for some time, the man taking his place among the other men and seeming entirely at home and friendly. He was very fond of his little son; but one day when the latter was playing outside the house, he was bitten so badly by a savage dog that he died. In his anger the father caught the dog up by the tail and struck it against a post so violently that the dog fell in halves.

In his great sorrow, the father made a handsome, carved grave-box for his son and placed the child with his toys in it. Then he went into his house and for four days he did no work and would see no one. At the end of that time he took his sled, and with his wife returned up the river on their old trail, while the villagers sorrowfully watched them go, for they had come to like the pair very much.

Before this time the villagers had always made the body of their sleds from long strips of wood running lengthwise; but after they had seen the dwarf's sled with many crosspieces, they adopted that model.

Before this time, too, they had always cast their dead out on the tundra to be devoured by the dogs and wild beasts; but after they had seen the dwarf people bury their son in a grave-box with toys placed about him, they buried their dead in that way and observed four days of mourning as had been done by the dwarf; for they liked him and his gentle manners.

And ever since that time the hunters coming home at dusk and looking toward the darkening tundra, sometimes see dwarf people who carry bows and arrows, but who disappear into the ground if one tries to approach them. They are harmless people, never attempting to do anyone an injury. No one has ever spoken to these dwarfs since the time they left the village; but deer hunters have often seen their tracks near the foot of the mountains.



XXI

What Happened To The Lone Woman Of St. Michael


The women south of St. Michael are poor seamstresses but fine dancers, while those to the north are expert needlewomen but poor dancers; and this is the way the Eskimo explain it.

Very long ago there were many men living in the northland, but there was no woman among them. Far away in the southland a single woman was known to live. At last the shrewdest young man of the northland started and traveled southward till he came to the woman's house, where he stopped and became her husband.

He was very proud of himself for getting ahead of the other young men in the north. One day he sat in the house thinking of his former home, and he said, "Ah, I have a wife, while even the son of the Headman has none."

Meanwhile, the Headman's son had also set out to journey toward the south, and while the husband was talking thus to himself, the son stood in the entrance to the house and heard what he said. It angered the son to hear the husband gloating over him. He hid in the passage and waited until the people inside were asleep, when he crept into the house and, seizing the woman by the shoulders, began dragging her away.

Just as he reached the doorway he was overtaken by the husband who caught the woman by her feet. The two held on like grim death and tugged and pulled until it ended in the woman being torn in two. The thief carried the upper half of the body away, while the husband was left with the lower portion of his wife.

Each man set to work to replace the missing parts from carved wood. After these parts were fitted on they came to life; and thus two women were made from the halves of one.

Owing to the clumsiness of her wooden fingers, the woman of the south was a poor needlewoman, but was a fine dancer. The woman of the north was very expert in needlework, but her wooden legs made her a poor dancer. Each of these women gave these traits to her daughters, so that to the present time the same difference is noted between the women of the north and those of the south, "thus showing that the story is true."



XXII

Why The Moon Waxes And Wanes


In a certain village on the Yukon River there once lived four brothers and a sister. The sister's companion was the youngest boy, of whom she was very fond. This boy was lazy and could never be made to work. The other brothers were great hunters and in the fall they hunted at sea, for they lived near the shore. As soon as the Bladder feast in December was over, they went to the mountains and hunted reindeer. The boy never went with them, but remained at home with his sister, and they amused each other.

One time, however, she became angry at him, and that night when she carried food to the other brothers in the kashim or assembly house where the men slept, she gave none to the youngest brother. When she went out of the assembly house she saw a ladder[3] leading up into the sky, with a line hanging down by the side of it. Taking hold of the line, she ascended the ladder, going up into the sky. As she was going up, the younger brother came out and, seeing her, at once ran back and called to his brothers:

"Our sister is climbing the sky! Our sister is climbing the sky!"

"Oh, you lazy youngster, why do you tell us that? She is doing no such thing," said they.

"Come and see for yourselves! Come, quick!" he cried, very much excited.

Sure enough! Up she was going at a rapid rate.

The boy caught up his sealskin breeches and, being in a hurry, thrust one leg into them and then drew a deerskin sock on the other foot as he ran outside. There he saw the girl far away up in the sky and began at once to go up the ladder toward her; but she floated away, he following in turn.

The girl became the sun and the boy became the moon, and ever since that time he pursues but never overtakes her. At night the sun sinks in the west, and the moon is seen coming up in the east to go circling after, but always too late. The moon, being without food, wanes slowly away from starvation until it is quite lost to sight; then the sun reaches out and feeds it from the dish in which she carried food to the kashim. After the moon is fed and gradually brought to the full, it is permitted to starve again, thus producing the waxing and waning which we see every month.


Footnotes:

[3] Probably the Milky Way.



XXIII

Chunks Of Daylight


At the northern part of the continent, in the land of the midnight sun, where in the long summer days the sun at midnight is just slipping below the northern horizon and immediately is seen coming up again, and where in the long nights of winter there is scarcely any daytime at all, it is not strange that the legends of the people often treat of daylight and especially of darkness. The long nights become oppressive, and the people have different theories as to the cause of it, which they weave into legends such as the following.

In the days when the earth was a child, there was light from the sun and moon as there is now. Then the sun and moon were taken away and the people were left for a long time with no light but the shining of the stars. The shamans, or priests, made their strongest charms to no purpose, for the darkness of night continued.

In a village of the lower Yukon there lived an orphan boy who always sat upon the bench with the humble people, over the entrance way of the kashim or assembly house. The other people thought he was foolish, and he was despised and ill-treated by everyone. After the shamans had tried very hard to bring back the sun and moon and had failed, the boy began to ridicule them.

"What fine shamans you must be, not to be able to bring back the light, when even I can do it," he said mockingly.

At this the shamans became very angry and beat him and drove him out of the kashim. The orphan was like any other boy until he put on a black coat which he had, when he became a raven and remained in that form until he removed his coat. When the shamans drove him out, he went to the house of his aunt in the village and told her what he had said, and how the shamans had beaten him and driven him out of the kashim.

"Tell me where the sun and moon have gone, for I am going after them," said he.

"They are hidden somewhere, but I don't know where it is," she replied.

"I am sure you know where they are, for look what a neatly sewed coat you wear, and you could not see to do that if you did not know where the light is."

After a great deal of persuasion the aunt said: "Well, if you wish to find the light you must take your snowshoes and go far, far to the southland, to the place you will know when you get there."

The boy put on his black coat, took his snowshoes, and at once set off for the south. For many days he traveled, while the darkness always remained the same. When he had gone a very long way, he saw far ahead of him a single ray of light, and that cheered and encouraged him.

As he hurried on, the light showed again plainer than before and then vanished; and kept appearing and vanishing at intervals. At last he came to a large hill, one side of which was in a bright light while the other was in the blackness of night. Ahead of him and close to the hill he saw a hut with a man who was shoveling snow from the front of it.

The man was tossing the snow high in air, and each time he did this the light was hidden, thus causing the changes from light to darkness which the boy had noticed as he approached. Close beside the house he saw a great blazing ball of fire -- the light he had come to find.

The boy stopped and began to plan how he could secure the light and the shovel from the man. After a time he walked up to the man and asked, "Why are you throwing up the snow and hiding the light from our village?"

The man stopped his work, looked up and said, "I am only clearing away the snow from my door. I am not hiding the light. But who are you, and where do you come from?"

"It is so dark at our village that I did not like to live there, so I came here to live with you," said the boy.

"What? Will you stay all the time?" asked the man in surprise.

"Yes," replied the boy.

"That is well; come into the house with me," said the man.

He dropped his shovel on the ground and, stooping down, led the way into the underground passage to the house, letting the curtain fall in front of the door as he passed, for he thought the boy was close behind him.

The moment the door flap fell behind the man as he entered, the boy caught up the ball of light and put it in the turned-up flap of his fur coat in front. Catching up the shovel in one hand, he ran away to the north, running until his feet became tired. Then he whipped on his magic coat and became a raven and flew as fast as his wings would carry him. Behind he heard the frightful shrieks and cries of the old man, following fast in pursuit.

When the old man found that he could not overtake the raven he cried to him, "Never mind; you may keep the light, but give me my shovel."

"No; you made our village dark and you cannot have the shovel," called the raven, and flew faster, leaving the man far in the rear.

As the raven boy traveled home, he tore out a chunk from the light ball and threw it away, thus making a day. Then he went on for a long way in the darkness, and threw out another piece of light, making it day again. He continued to do this at intervals until he reached the kashim in his own village, where he dropped the rest of the ball.

Then he went into the kashim and said, "Now, you worthless shamans, you see I have brought back the light, and hereafter it will be light and then dark, making day and night."

And the shamans could not answer.



XXIV

The Red Bear


On the tundra south of the mouth of the Yukon River an orphan boy once lived with his aunt. They were all alone with no house within sight; but the boy had heard that there were people living farther up the river. One summer day he got into his kayak and rowed up the river hoping to find other human beings. He traveled on until he came to a large village where he saw many people moving about. There he landed and began calling to the people expecting to make friends with them.

But instead of being friendly, they disliked all strangers and, running down to the shore, they seized him, broke his kayak to pieces, tore his clothing off him, and beat him badly. Then they took him up into the village and kept him there all summer, beating and ill-treating him very often. In the fall one of the men took pity on him and made him a kayak, and helped him to escape. He went down the river and arrived at home after a long absence.

During the summer other people had built houses near the home of his aunt and there was a small village instead of the one lone hut. He walked among the buildings until he found his aunt's house; but when he entered, he frightened her very much, for at first glance she thought it was a skeleton, he had been starved and beaten so long.

When his aunt recognized him and had heard his story, she said, "Oh, you poor boy! What you must have suffered! I am full of rage at those cruel villagers. I shall find some way to revenge your wrongs!"

She sat thinking a while and then said to him, "Bring me a piece of a small log."

He brought the piece of wood and she whittled and rubbed it into the form of an animal with long teeth and long, sharp claws, and painted it white on the throat and red on the sides. Then they took the image to the edge of the stream and placed it in the water.

"Go now," she said to it, "and kill everyone you find in the village where my boy was beaten."

The image did not move.

She took it out of the water and cried over it, letting her tears fall upon it; and the warm tears brought it to life and made it feel sorry for her and the boy. She put it back into the water.

"Now, go and kill the bad people who beat my boy," she said.

At this the image floated across the creek and crawled up on the other side, where it began to grow, soon becoming a large red bear. It turned and looked at the woman till she called out, "Go, and spare no one."

The bear went away and came to the village on the big river, the one to which the boy had gone. There the first one he met was a man going for water. This one was quickly torn in pieces, and one after another of the villagers met the same fate; for the bear stayed near the village until he had destroyed one-half of the people, and the rest were so terrified that they began moving away.

Then he swam across the Yukon and went over the tundra to the farther side of another river, killing everyone he met. For he had become so bloodthirsty that the least sign of life seemed to fill him with fury until he had destroyed it.

From there he turned back, and one day came to the place on the river where he had first come to life. Seeing the people on the opposite side he became furious, tearing the ground with his claws and growling, and starting to cross the river to get at them. When the villagers saw this, they were much frightened, and ran about saying, "Here is the old woman's dog! We shall all be killed!" "Tell the old woman to stop her dog!" They had never seen a bear and they thought it was a dog she had made.

The woman went to meet the bear which did not try to hurt her, but was passing by her to get at the other people when she caught him by the hair on the back of his neck.

"Do not hurt these people," she said; "they have been kind to me and have given me food when I was hungry."

She led the bear into her house, and still holding on to him, she talked to him kindly.

"You have done my bidding well, and I am pleased with you," she said; "but you must not overdo it. Hereafter you must injure no one unless he tries to hurt or injure you."

When she had finished talking, she led him to the door and sent him away over the tundra. Before she made him there had never been any of his kind, but since then there have always been red bears.



XXV

The Last Of The Thunderbirds


In ancient times a great many giant eagles or thunderbirds lived in the mountains; but in later years they had all disappeared except one single pair which made their home in the mountain top overlooking the Yukon near Sabotnisky. The top of this mountain was round and the eagles had hollowed out a great basin on the summit which they used for a nest. Around the edge of it was a rocky rim from which they could see far across the broad river, or could look down upon the village at the base of the mountain on the water's edge.

From their perch on this rocky wall these great birds would soar away, looking like a cloud in the sky, to seize a reindeer from a passing herd and bring it to their young. Or, again, they would circle out with a noise like thunder from their shaking wings, and drop down upon a fisherman in his kayak on the river, carrying man and boat to the top of the mountain. There the man would be eaten by the young thunderbirds, and the kayak would lie bleaching among the bones and other refuse scattered along the border of the nest. Every fall the young birds would fly away to the northland, while the old ones would remain by the mountain.

After many fishermen had been carried away by the birds, there came a time when only the most daring would venture upon the river. One summer day a brave young hunter was starting out to look at his fish traps and he said to his wife, "Don't go outside the house while I am away, for fear of the birds."

After he was gone she noticed that the water tub was empty, and took a bucket to go to the river for water. As she bent over to fill the vessel a roaring noise like thunder filled the air, and one of the birds darted down and seized her in its talons. The villagers saw the bird swoop down, and they wailed aloud in sorrow and terror as they watched her being carried through the air to the mountain top.

The hunter came home and the villagers gathered about with many lamentations. "Oh, pitiful! pitiful! your pretty wife was carried away by the thunderbirds! Too bad! Too bad! By this time she is torn to pieces and fed to the young demons!"

Not one word did the husband utter. Going into his empty house he took down his bow and his quiver of war arrows and started toward the mountain.

"Don't go! Don't go!" cried the villagers; "of what use is it? She is dead and devoured ere this. You will only add one more to their victims."

Not a word did the hunter reply. He strode on and on and they watched him climbing up and up the mountainside till he was lost to view. At last he gained the rim of the nest and looked in. The old birds were away, but the fierce young eagles greeted him with shrill cries and fiery, flashing eyes. The hunter's heart was full of anger and he quickly bent his bow, loosing the war arrows one after another till the last one of the hateful birds lay dead in the nest.

With heart still burning for revenge, the hunter hid himself beside a great rock near the nest and waited for the parent birds. They came. They saw their young lying dead and bloody in the nest, and their cries of rage echoed from the cliffs on the farther side of the great river. They soared up into the air looking for the one who had killed their young. Quickly they saw the brave hunter beside the great stone, and the mother bird swooped down upon him, her wings sounding like a gale in a spruce forest. Swiftly fitting an arrow to the string, as the eagle came down the hunter sent it deep into her throat. With a hoarse cry she turned and flew away over the hills far to the north.

The father bird had been circling overhead and came roaring down upon the hunter, who, at the right moment, crouched close to the ground behind the stone, and the eagle's sharp claws struck only the hard rock. As the bird arose, eager to swoop down again, the hunter sprang from his shelter and drove two heavy war arrows deep under its wing. Uttering hoarse cries of rage, and spreading his broad wings, the thunderbird floated away like a cloud in the sky, far into the northland, and was never seen again.

Having taken blood vengeance, the hunter went down into the nest where among ribs of old canoes and other bones he found some fragments of his wife, which he carried to the water's edge and, building a fire, made food offerings and libations of water such as would be pleasing to her ghost.



XXVI

Raven Makes An Ocean Voyage


One day Raven was sitting on a cliff near the sea when he saw a large whale passing close along the shore.

"I have an idea!" said he. "I'm going to try something new." Then he called out to the whale, "When you come up again, shut your eyes and open your mouth wide, and I'll put something in it."

Then he drew down his mask, put his drill for making fire under his wing, and flew out over the water. Very soon the whale came up again and did as he had been told. Raven, seeing the wide open mouth, flew straight down the whale's throat. The whale closed his mouth, gave a great gulp, and down he went to the bottom of the sea.

Raven stood up, pushed up his beak, and looking about, found himself at the entrance to a fine room, at one end of which burned a lamp. He went in and was surprised to see a beautiful young woman sitting there. The place was clean and dry, the roof being supported by the whale's spine, while its ribs formed the walls. The lamp was supplied from a tube that extended along the whale's backbone, from which oil constantly but slowly dripped into the lamp.

When Raven stepped in, the woman started up in alarm and cried out, "How came you here? You are the first man who ever came into my house."

"I came in through the whale's throat," said Raven as politely as he knew how, for the woman was young and fair to look upon. Moreover, he had already guessed that she was the inua or spirit of the whale. "I should like to stay a while."

"As you cannot get out at present, it seems that you will have to stay. Whether you like it, or whether I like it, you appear to be my guest, so I must prepare food for you."

She brought food which she served with berries and oil. "These are berries which I gathered last summer," she said.

For four days he remained there as the guest of the whale's spirit, and found it a very pleasant experience; but he continually wondered what the tube was that ran along the roof of the house. Whenever the spirit woman left the room she said, "You must on no account touch that tube," and that only served to make him the more curious.

On the fifth day, when she left the room, he went to the lamp and caught a drop of the oil which he licked up with his tongue. It tasted so sweet that he began to catch other drops as fast as they fell. This soon became too slow to suit him, for he was hungry, so he reached up and tore a piece from the side of the tube and ate it. As soon as this was done a great rush of oil poured into the room and put out the light, while the room itself began to roll wildly about.

This continued for four days, and Raven was nearly dead from exhaustion and the bruises which he received. Then the room became still and the whale was dead, for Raven had torn off part of one of the heart vessels. The inua never came back to the room, and the whale drifted upon the shore.

Raven now found himself a prisoner and was saying to himself, "Now I am in a pretty boat! I have enjoyed the trip, but how is one to get out of a kayak like this?"

Presently he said, "Hark! What is that I hear? As I live, it is someone walking on the roof of the house!"

And he was right, for two men were walking on top of the dead whale and calling to their village mates to come and help cut it up. Very soon there were many people at work cutting a hole through the upper side of the whale's body.

Raven quickly pulled down his mask, becoming a bird, and crouched close in the farthest corner. When the hole was large enough, he watched his chance and while everybody was carrying a load of meat to the shore, he flew out and alighted on the top of a hill close by without being noticed.

"Ah, my good fire-drill; I have forgotten it," he exclaimed, remembering that he had left it behind.

He quickly pushed up his beak and removed his raven coat, becoming a young man again. He started along the shore toward the whale. The people working on the dead animal saw a small, dark-colored man in a strangely made deerskin coat coming toward them, and they looked at him curiously.

"Ho, you have found a fine, large whale," said he as he drew near. "I will help you to cut him up."

He rolled up his sleeves and set to work. Very soon a man cutting on the inside of the whale's body called out, "Ah, see what I have found! A fire-drill inside a whale!"

At once the wily Raven rolled down his sleeves and quit work, saying, "That is a bad sign, for my daughter has told me that if a fire-drill is found in a whale and people try to cut up that whale, many of them will die. I shall run away before the inua of the whale catches me." And away he ran.

When he was gone the people looked at one another and said, "Perhaps he is right; we'd better go too." And away they all ran, each one trying to rub the oil from his hands as he went.

From his hiding-place Raven looked on and laughed as he saw the people running away. Then he went back for his raven coat and when he had put it on and pulled down his beak he flew to the carcass and began to cut it up and fly with chunks of the flesh to a cave on the shore. He did not dare go to it as a man lest the villagers should see him and, discovering the trick he had played them, should come back for the meat. As he chuckled over the feast in store for him he said, "Thanks, Ghost of the whale, both for the boat ride and for the feast."



XXVII

The Red Skeleton


In a village on Cape Prince of Wales, very long ago, there was a poor orphan boy who had no one to take his part and who was treated badly by everyone, being made to run here and there at the bidding of all the villagers.

One snowy night he was told to go out of the kashim to see if the weather was getting worse. He had no skin boots, and it was so cold that he did not wish to go, but he was driven out. When he came back he said, "It has stopped snowing, but it is as cold as ever."

Just to plague him, the men kept sending him out every little while, until at last he came in saying:

"I saw a ball of fire like the moon coming over the hill to the north."

The men laughed at him and asked, "Why do you tell us a yarn like that? Go out again and see if there is not a whale coming over the hill. You are always seeing things."

He went out, and came in again quickly, saying in agitation, "The red thing has come nearer and is close to the house."

The men laughed, but the boy hid himself. Almost immediately after this the men in the kashim saw a fiery figure dancing on the gut-skin covering over the roof hole, and an instant after a human skeleton came crawling into the room through the passageway, creeping on its knees and elbows.

When the skeleton was in the room it made a motion toward the people which caused them all to fall on their knees and elbows in the same position as it had. Then, turning about, it crawled out as it had come, followed by the people, who were forced to go with it. Outside, the skeleton crept through the snow toward the edge of the village, followed by all the men, and in a short time every one of them was dead and the skeleton had vanished.

Some of the villagers had been absent when the spook came, and when they returned they found dead people lying all about on the cold ground. Entering the kashim, they found the orphan boy, who told them how the people had been killed.

They followed the tracks of the skeleton through the snow, and were led up the side of the mountain till they came to an ancient grave, where the tracks ended.

It was the grave of the boy's father.



XXVIII

The Marmot And The Raven


Once when a Raven was flying over some reefs near the shore of the sea, he was seen by some Sea-birds that were perched on the rocks. They began to revile him, calling him disagreeable names: "Oh, you offal eater! Oh, you carrion eater! Oh, you black one!" until the Raven turned and flew away, crying, "Gnak, gnak, gnak! why do they call me such names?"

He flew far away across the great water until he came to a mountain on the other side, where he stopped. Just in front of him he saw a marmot hole. He said to himself, "If it is a disgrace to eat dead animals I will eat only live ones. I will become a murderer."

He stood in front of the hole watching, and very soon the marmot came home, bringing some food. Marmot said to Raven, "Please stand aside; you are right in front of my door."

"It is not my intention to stand aside," said Raven. "They called me a carrion eater, and I will show that I am not, for I will eat you."

"If you are going to eat me, you ought to be willing to do me a favor," replied Marmot. "I have heard that you are a very fine dancer, and I long to see you dance before I die. If you dance as beautifully as they say, I shall be willing to die when once I have seen it. If you will dance I will sing, and then you may eat me."

This pleased Raven so much that he began to dance and Marmot pretended to go into ecstasies about it.

"Oh, Raven, Raven, Raven, how well you dance!" he sang. "Oh, Raven, Raven, Raven, how well you dance!"

By and by they stopped to rest and Marmot said, "I am very much delighted with your dancing. Do shut your eyes and dance your best just once more, while I sing."

Raven closed his eyes and hopped clumsily about while Marmot sang, "Oh, Raven, Raven, Raven, what a graceful dancer! Oh, Raven, Raven, Raven, what a fool you are!" And with a quick run, Marmot darted between Raven's legs and was safe in his hole.

There he turned, putting out the tip of his nose and laughing mockingly as he said, "Chi-kik-kik, chi-kik-kik, chi-kik-kik! You are the greatest fool I ever met. What a ridiculous figure you made while dancing; I could scarcely sing for laughing. Look at me, and see how fat I am. Don't you wish you could eat me?"

And he tormented Raven till the latter flew away in a rage.



XXIX

Origin Of The Winds


In a village on the lower Yukon lived a man and his wife who had no children. One day the woman said to her husband, "Far out on the tundra there grows a solitary tree. Go to that and bring back a piece of the trunk, and make a doll from it. Then it will seem that we have a child."

The man went out of the house and saw a long track of bright light like that made by the moon shining on snow, leading off across the tundra in the direction he had been told to take. It was the Milky Way. Along this path he traveled far away until he saw before him a beautiful object shining in the bright light. Going up to it, he found it was the tree of which he came in search. The tree was small, so he took his hunting-knife, cut off a part of the trunk, and carried the fragment home.

He sat down in the house and carved out from the wood an image of a small boy, and his wife made two suits of clothing for it and dressed it in one of them, "saving the other to put on when he had soiled the first," she said.

"Now, Father, make your little boy a set of toy dishes," she said.

"I see no use in all this trouble. We will be no better off than we were in the first place," said the man.

"Why, yes, we are already better off," said the wife. "Before we had the doll we had nothing to talk about except ourselves. Now we have the doll to talk about and to amuse us."

To please her the husband made the toy dishes, and she placed the doll in the seat of honor on the bench opposite the door, with the dishes full of food and water before it.

When the couple had gone to bed that night the room was very dark and they heard several low, whistling sounds.

"Do you hear that? It is the doll," said the woman, shaking her husband till he awakened.

They got up at once and, making a light, saw that the Doll had eaten the food and drunk the water, and that its eyes were moving. The woman caught it up with delight and fondled and played with it for a long time. When she became tired she put it back on the bench and they went to bed again.

In the morning when they got up the Doll was gone. They looked for it all around the house, but could not find it. Then they went outside, and there were its tracks leading away from the door. They followed the tracks to the creek and along the bank to a place outside the village, where they ended; for from this place the Doll had gone up the Milky Way on the path of light upon which the man had gone to find the tree.

Doll traveled along the bright path till he came to the edge of day, where the sky comes down to the earth and walls in the light. Close beside him, in the east, he saw a skin cover fastened over a hole in the sky wall. The skin was bulging inward as if some strong force on the other side were pushing it.

"It is very quiet here. I think a little wind would make it livelier," said the Doll, drawing his knife and cutting the cover loose on one side of the hole. At once a strong wind blew through, every now and then bringing with it a live reindeer. Looking through the hole, Doll saw beyond the wall another world like the earth. He drew the cover over the hole again.

"Do not blow too hard," he said to the wind. "Sometimes blow hard, sometimes light, and sometimes do not blow at all."

Then he got upon the sky wall and walked along till he came to the southeast. Here another opening was covered like the first, and the covering was bulging inward. When he cut this covering loose a gale swept in bringing reindeer, trees, and bushes. He quickly covered the hole and said to the gale, "You are too strong. Sometimes blow hard, sometimes light, and sometimes do not blow at all. The people on earth will want variety."

Again walking along the sky wall he came to a hole in the south, and when this covering was cut a hot wind came rushing in carrying rain and spray from the great sea lying beyond the sky-hole on that side. Doll closed this opening and talked to the wind as before.

Then he passed on to the west where there was another hole which admitted heavy rainstorms, with sleet and spray from the ocean. When he had closed this and given the wind its instructions he went on to the northwest. There, when he cut away the covering, a cold blast came rushing in, bringing snow and ice, so that he was chilled to the bone and half frozen, and he made haste to close the hole as he had the others.

He started to go along the sky wall to the north, but the cold became more and more severe until at last he was obliged to leave the wall and make a circuit to the southward, going back to the north only when he came opposite the opening. There the cold was so intense that he waited some time before he could muster courage to cut the cover away. When he did so, a fearful blast rushed in, carrying great masses of snow and ice, strewing it over the entire plain of the earth. It was so bitter that he closed the hole very quickly, and told the wind from that direction to come only in the middle of the winter so that the people might not be taken unawares, and might be prepared for it.

From there he hastened down to warmer climes in the middle of the earth plain, where, looking up, he saw that the sky was supported by long, slender, arching poles, like those of a conical lodge, but made of some beautiful material unknown to him. Journeying on, he finally came to the village from which he started and went into his own home.

Doll lived in this village for a very long time; for when the foster parents who had made him died, he was taken by other people of the village and so lived on for many generations, until he finally died. Since his death parents have made dolls for their children in imitation of the Doll who first opened the wind-holes of the sky and regulated all the six winds of earth.



XXX

Raven And The Geese


For a long time Raven lived alone, but finally became tired of it and decided to take a wife. It was late in the fall and he noticed that the birds were going south in large flocks. He flew away and stopped directly in the path taken by geese and other wild fowl on their way to the land of summer.

As he sat there he saw a pretty young goose coming near. He hid his face by looking at his feet, so that she would not know but that he was a black goose, and called out, "Who wishes me for a husband? I am a very nice person."

The goose flew on without heeding him and he looked after her and sighed. Soon after a black brant passed, and Raven cried out as before, but the brant flew on. Again he waited and this time a duck passed near, and when Raven cried out she turned her head a little.

"Oh, I shall succeed this time," thought Raven, and his heart beat fast with hope. But the duck passed on, and Raven stood waiting with bowed head.

Very soon a family of white-front geese came along, consisting of the parents with four sons and a sister. Raven cried out, "Who wishes me for a husband? I am a fine hunter and am young and handsome."

As he finished speaking they alighted just beyond him, and he thought, "Surely, now I shall get a wife." He looked about and found a pretty white stone with a hole in it lying near. He picked it up and, stringing it on a long grass stem, hung it about his neck.

As soon as he had done this he pushed up his bill so that it slid to the top of his head like a mask, and he became a dark-colored young man. At the same time each of the geese pushed up its bill in the same manner, and they became nice-looking people.

Raven walked toward them, and was much pleased with the looks of the girl and, going to her, gave her the stone which she hung about her neck. By doing this she showed that she accepted him for her husband. Then they all pulled down their bills, becoming birds again, and flew away toward the south.

The geese flapped their wings heavily and worked along slowly, while Raven on his outspread wings glided along faster than his party, and the geese gazed after him in admiration, exclaiming, "How light and graceful he is!" and the little bride was very proud of her fine husband.

But Raven was not accustomed to the long, all-day flights of the geese, and he became tired.

"We would better stop early and look for a good place to spend the night," he said. The others agreed to this, so they stopped and were soon asleep.

Early the next morning the geese were astir, but Raven slept so heavily that the father goose had to shake him and say, "Wake up! Wake up! We must make haste for it will snow here soon; we must not linger."

As soon as Raven was fully awake he pretended to be eager to get away, and, as on the day before, he led all the others with his wide-spread wings, and was greatly admired by the others, especially by his young wife. He kept on, above or in front of his companions, and his bride would often say, "See how gracefully he skims along without having to flop heavy wings as we do," and she gave her brothers a side glance which made them feel that she was contrasting their clumsiness with his ease. After that tactless remark, the four brothers-in-law began to feel envious of Raven.

*       *       *       *       *

They stopped one evening on the seashore, where they feasted upon the berries which were plentiful there, and then they settled down for the night and fell asleep. In the morning the geese were making ready to start without waiting for breakfast, and Raven's stomach cried out for more of the berries. But father goose said they could not wait, and he dared not object to starting. The brothers-in-law had secretly urged the father not to wait, for they said, "Our sister needs to have some of the conceit about that husband of hers taken out of her; and so does he."

Raven dreaded the long flight across the sea, for he heard father goose say, "We will make only one stop in crossing this water. There is an island in the center of it, and there we will rest for a short time and then go on to the farther shore."

Raven was ashamed to say that he feared he could never reach that farther shore, so he determined to keep still and risk it; and off they all flew.

The geese kept steadily on and on. After a long time Raven began to fall behind. His wide-spread wings ached, yet the geese kept steadily and untiringly on. His vanity was no longer gratified by admiring remarks from his companions, for he was flapping heavily along. Sometimes he would glide on outspread pinions for a time, hoping to ease his tired wings, but he fell farther and farther behind.

Finally the geese looked back and the brothers said, sarcastically, "We thought he was light and active." The father goose said, "He must be getting tired. We must not press him too hard. We will rest."

The geese sank upon the water close together, and Raven came laboring up and dropped upon their backs, gasping for breath. In a short time he partially recovered and, putting one hand on his breast, said, "I have an arrow-head here from an old war I was in, and it pains me greatly; that is the reason I fell behind."

He had his wife put her hand on his breast to feel the arrow-head which he declared was working its way into his heart. She could feel nothing but his heart beating like a trip-hammer with no sign of an arrow-point. But she said nothing, for her brothers were whispering, "We don't believe that story about the arrow-point! How could he live with an arrow in his heart?"

They rested two or three times more, he sinking upon their backs as before; but when they saw the far-off shore before them father goose said, "We can wait for you no more," for they were eager to reach the land and find food.

They all arose and flew on, Raven slowly flapping along behind, for his wings felt heavy. The geese kept steadily on toward the shore, while he sank lower and lower, getting nearer to the dreaded water. When the waves were almost touching him he shrieked to his wife:

"Leave me the white stone; it has magical powers. Throw me the white stone."

Thus he kept crying until suddenly his wings lost their power and he floated helplessly on the water as the geese gained the shore. He tried to rise from the water but his wings seemed to be weighted down, and he drifted back and forth along the beach. The waves arose and one whitecap after another broke over him till he was soaked, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that he could get his beak above the surface to breathe a little between the billows.

After a long time a great wave cast him upon the land, and as it flowed back he dug his claws into the sand to save himself from being dragged back into the sea. As soon as he was able he struggled up the beach, an unhappy looking object. The water ran in streams from his soaked feathers and his wings dragged on the ground. He fell several times, and at last, with wide-gaping mouth, he reached some bushes. As soon as he could get his breath he took off his raven coat and pushed up his beak, becoming a small, dark-colored man.

"From this time on, forevermore I'm done with being a goose," he declared.



XXXI

Even A Grass Plant Can Become Someone If It Tries


Near the mouth of the Yukon grows a tall, slender kind of grass which the women gather and dry in the fall and use for braiding mats and baskets and for pads in the soles of skin boots.

One of these grass stalks that had been almost pulled out by the roots when the women were gathering others, did not like the fate in store for it.

"Why should I stay on in this shape and never become anything but a pad in the sole of a boot to be trodden on forever? It must be nicer to be the one who treads on the pad; but since I cannot be that, I will at least be something better than grass."

Looking about, it spied a bunch of herbs growing close by, looking so quiet and unmolested that the grass stem said, "I will be an herb; that is a higher and safer life than this."

At once it was changed into an herb like those it had envied, and for a time it remained in peace. But one day the women came back with baskets and picks and began to dig up these herbs and eat some of the roots, putting others into the baskets to take home. The changed plant was left standing when the women went home toward evening, but it had seen the fate of its companions.

"This is not very safe either, for now I should be eaten. I wish I had chosen some other form," it said.

Looking down, it saw a tiny, creeping vine clinging close to the ground. "That is the thing to be," it said. "That is so obscure and lowly that the women will never notice it. I will be a vine like that."

Without delay it became a little squawberry vine nestling under the dead leaves. It had not lived in peace and seclusion very long before the women came and tore up many of the vines, stopping just before they reached the changeling, and saying, "We will come back to-morrow and get the rest."

The one-time grass plant was filled with fear, and changed itself quickly into a small tuber-bearing plant like some that were growing near. Scarcely had the change been made when a small tundra mouse came softly through the grass and began digging at a neighboring plant, holding up the tuber in its paws and nibbling it, after which the mouse crept on again.

"To be safe, I must be a mouse," thought the changeling. "Animals are a higher kind of being than plants, anyway. I will be a mouse."

Instantly it became a mouse and ran off, glad of the change. Now and then it would pause to dig up a tuber, or would sit up on its hind feet to look around on the new scenes that came into view.

"This is much more delightful than being a plant and always staying in one place and never seeing anything of the world," it said.

While traveling nimbly along in this manner, the mouse observed a strange white animal coming through the air toward it, which kept dropping down upon the ground, and after stopping to eat something, it would fly on again.

When it came near, the mouse saw that it was a great white owl. At the same moment the owl saw the mouse and swooped down upon it. Darting off, the mouse was fortunate enough to escape by running into a hole made by one of its kind, and the owl flew off.

After a while the mouse ventured to come out of its shelter, though its heart still beat painfully from its recent fright. "I will be an owl, and in that way be safe," thought the mouse, and with the wish it was changed into a beautiful white owl.

"Oh, this is fine!" he said. "It is glorious to fly through the air, and go up almost to the sky where I can look down on all the world. I'm glad that I was not content to stay always down in the dirt."

With slow, noiseless wing flaps the owl set off toward the north, pausing every now and then to catch and eat a mouse. After a long flight Sledge Island came in view and the owl thought it would go there. When far out at sea its untried wings became so tired that only with the greatest difficulty did it manage to reach the shore, where it perched upon a piece of driftwood that stood up in the sand.

In a short time it saw two fine-looking men pass along the shore, and the old feeling of discontent arose again. "Those men were talking in a better-sounding language than mine. They seemed to understand each other, and they laughed and were having a good time. I will be a man."

With a single flap of wing it stood upon the ground, where it changed immediately into a fine young man. But, of course, the feathers were gone and the Man had no clothing. Night came down upon the earth soon after, and the Man sat down with his back against the stick of wood on which, as an owl, he had perched, and slept till morning. He was awakened by the sun shining in his eyes, and upon arising, felt stiff and lame from the cold night air.

He found some of the same grass which he had once been, and braided it into a kind of mantle which kept out a little of the cold. Seeing a reindeer grazing, he felt a sudden desire to kill it and eat its flesh. He crept close on his hands and knees, and, springing forward, seized it by the horns and broke its neck with a single effort.

He felt all over its body and found that its skin formed a covering through which he could not push his fingers. For a long time he tried to think how to remove the skin, and finally noticed a stone with a sharp edge with which he managed to cut through the hide. Then he quickly stripped the animal with his hands, and tore out a piece of flesh which he tried to swallow as he had swallowed mice when he was an owl. He found that he could not do this easily, so he tore off small bits and ground them with his teeth.

He had already discovered that by striking two stones together they grew warm and felt good to his cold hands. So now he struck them together until sparks came with which he lighted some dry weeds and brush and had a fire to cook his meat and to warm himself.

The next morning he killed another reindeer and the day following two more and wrapped himself in their skins from head to foot, with the raw side next his own flesh, as the animals had worn them. The skins soon dried on him and became like a part of his body.

As the nights grew colder and colder, he collected a quantity of driftwood from the shore, with which he built him a rude hut, which he found very comfortable. Walking over the hills one day he came near to a strange, black animal eating berries from the bushes. He crept up to it and grasped it by its hind legs. With an angry growl it turned to face him, showing its white teeth. He knew then that he must not let go his hold of it, so he swung it high over his head and brought it down on the ground with such force that the bear lay dead.

In skinning the bear he saw that it contained much fat, and that he might have a light in his house if he could find something that would hold the grease and yet not take fire itself. Going along the beach he found a long, flat stone with a hollow in one surface, and in this the oil remained very well, and with a lighted moss wick he found it much pleasanter to get about his house at night. The bearskin he hung up for a curtain to his door to keep out the cold wind.

In this way he lived for many days, but he was a human being now, and needed human society. He remembered the two young men he had seen on the beach when, as an owl, he sat on the post on the shore.

"Two men passed here once, and I liked them," said he. "They may live not far from here. I should like to see someone like myself. I will go seek them."

He went in search of people. Wandering along the coast for some distance he came to two fine new kayaks lying at the foot of a hill, and in the kayaks were spears, lines, floats, and other hunting implements. After examining these curiously, he noticed a path leading up to a hill. He followed the path and on the top of the hill he found a house with two storehouses near it and several recently killed white whales and many skulls around it.

Wishing to see the people in the house before showing himself, he went with noiseless steps into the entrance way and up to the door. Cautiously lifting one corner of the skin curtain that hung in the doorway, he looked in. Opposite the doorway was a young man sitting at work on some arrows, while a bow lay beside him. He dropped the curtain and stood for some time in doubt as to how to proceed.

"If I enter the house he may shoot me before I have time to make known my good will," thought he. But in the end he thought, "If I enter and say, 'I have come, brother,' he will not hurt me." So, raising the curtain quickly, he entered.

The householder at once seized the bow and drew an arrow to the head just as the intruder said, "I have come, brother." At this the bow and arrow were dropped and the young man cried out with delight, "Are you my brother? Come and sit beside me."

This the newcomer very gladly did, and the householder showed his pleasure and asked, "Are you really my brother? I am very glad to see you, brother, for I always believed I had one somewhere, though I never could find him. Where have you lived? Have you known any parents? How did you grow up?"

"No, I have never known any parents. I never was born and never grew up. I just found myself a man standing on the seashore. There I built me a house and made myself as comfortable as I could; but I was lonely, so I came to find you."

"I also never had any parents that I can recall. My earliest recollection was of finding myself alone in this house, where I have lived ever since, killing game for food. I was alone until this friend came to stay with me. Now you, my brother, shall live here too, and we will never be parted again."

*       *       *       *       *

And thus, by always striving to be something higher, the downtrodden grass plant became a MAN.

<eob>

The Haunted Man And The Ghost's Bargain

By

Charles Dickens



CHAPTER I-The Gift Bestowed


Everybody said so.

Far be it from me to assert that what everybody says must be true. Everybody is, often, as likely to be wrong as right. In the general experience, everybody has been wrong so often, and it has taken, in most instances, such a weary while to find out how wrong, that the authority is proved to be fallible. Everybody may sometimes be right; "but that's no rule," as the ghost of Giles Scroggins says in the ballad.

The dread word, GHOST, recalls me.

Everybody said he looked like a haunted man. The extent of my present claim for everybody is, that they were so far right. He did.

Who could have seen his hollow cheek; his sunken brilliant eye; his black-attired figure, indefinably grim, although well-knit and well-proportioned; his grizzled hair hanging, like tangled sea-weed, about his face,-as if he had been, through his whole life, a lonely mark for the chafing and beating of the great deep of humanity,-but might have said he looked like a haunted man?

Who could have observed his manner, taciturn, thoughtful, gloomy, shadowed by habitual reserve, retiring always and jocund never, with a distraught air of reverting to a bygone place and time, or of listening to some old echoes in his mind, but might have said it was the manner of a haunted man?

Who could have heard his voice, slow-speaking, deep, and grave, with a natural fulness and melody in it which he seemed to set himself against and stop, but might have said it was the voice of a haunted man?

Who that had seen him in his inner chamber, part library and part laboratory,-for he was, as the world knew, far and wide, a learned man in chemistry, and a teacher on whose lips and hands a crowd of aspiring ears and eyes hung daily,-who that had seen him there, upon a winter night, alone, surrounded by his drugs and instruments and books; the shadow of his shaded lamp a monstrous beetle on the wall, motionless among a crowd of spectral shapes raised there by the flickering of the fire upon the quaint objects around him; some of these phantoms (the reflection of glass vessels that held liquids), trembling at heart like things that knew his power to uncombine them, and to give back their component parts to fire and vapour;-who that had seen him then, his work done, and he pondering in his chair before the rusted grate and red flame, moving his thin mouth as if in speech, but silent as the dead, would not have said that the man seemed haunted and the chamber too?

Who might not, by a very easy flight of fancy, have believed that everything about him took this haunted tone, and that he lived on haunted ground?

His dwelling was so solitary and vault-like,-an old, retired part of an ancient endowment for students, once a brave edifice, planted in an open place, but now the obsolete whim of forgotten architects; smoke-age-and-weather-darkened, squeezed on every side by the overgrowing of the great city, and choked, like an old well, with stones and bricks; its small quadrangles, lying down in very pits formed by the streets and buildings, which, in course of time, had been constructed above its heavy chimney stalks; its old trees, insulted by the neighbouring smoke, which deigned to droop so low when it was very feeble and the weather very moody; its grass-plots, struggling with the mildewed earth to be grass, or to win any show of compromise; its silent pavements, unaccustomed to the tread of feet, and even to the observation of eyes, except when a stray face looked down from the upper world, wondering what nook it was; its sun-dial in a little bricked-up corner, where no sun had straggled for a hundred years, but where, in compensation for the sun's neglect, the snow would lie for weeks when it lay nowhere else, and the black east wind would spin like a huge humming-top, when in all other places it was silent and still.

His dwelling, at its heart and core-within doors-at his fireside-was so lowering and old, so crazy, yet so strong, with its worn-eaten beams of wood in the ceiling, and its sturdy floor shelving downward to the great oak chimney-piece; so environed and hemmed in by the pressure of the town yet so remote in fashion, age, and custom; so quiet, yet so thundering with echoes when a distant voice was raised or a door was shut,-echoes, not confined to the many low passages and empty rooms, but rumbling and grumbling till they were stifled in the heavy air of the forgotten Crypt where the Norman arches were half-buried in the earth.

You should have seen him in his dwelling about twilight, in the dead winter time.

When the wind was blowing, shrill and shrewd, with the going down of the blurred sun. When it was just so dark, as that the forms of things were indistinct and big-but not wholly lost. When sitters by the fire began to see wild faces and figures, mountains and abysses, ambuscades and armies, in the coals. When people in the streets bent down their heads and ran before the weather. When those who were obliged to meet it, were stopped at angry corners, stung by wandering snow-flakes alighting on the lashes of their eyes,-which fell too sparingly, and were blown away too quickly, to leave a trace upon the frozen ground. When windows of private houses closed up tight and warm. When lighted gas began to burst forth in the busy and the quiet streets, fast blackening otherwise. When stray pedestrians, shivering along the latter, looked down at the glowing fires in kitchens, and sharpened their sharp appetites by sniffing up the fragrance of whole miles of dinners.

When travellers by land were bitter cold, and looked wearily on gloomy landscapes, rustling and shuddering in the blast. When mariners at sea, outlying upon icy yards, were tossed and swung above the howling ocean dreadfully. When lighthouses, on rocks and headlands, showed solitary and watchful; and benighted sea-birds breasted on against their ponderous lanterns, and fell dead. When little readers of story-books, by the firelight, trembled to think of Cassim Baba cut into quarters, hanging in the Robbers' Cave, or had some small misgivings that the fierce little old woman, with the crutch, who used to start out of the box in the merchant Abudah's bedroom, might, one of these nights, be found upon the stairs, in the long, cold, dusky journey up to bed.

When, in rustic places, the last glimmering of daylight died away from the ends of avenues; and the trees, arching overhead, were sullen and black. When, in parks and woods, the high wet fern and sodden moss, and beds of fallen leaves, and trunks of trees, were lost to view, in masses of impenetrable shade. When mists arose from dyke, and fen, and river. When lights in old halls and in cottage windows, were a cheerful sight. When the mill stopped, the wheelwright and the blacksmith shut their workshops, the turnpike-gate closed, the plough and harrow were left lonely in the fields, the labourer and team went home, and the striking of the church clock had a deeper sound than at noon, and the churchyard wicket would be swung no more that night.

When twilight everywhere released the shadows, prisoned up all day, that now closed in and gathered like mustering swarms of ghosts. When they stood lowering, in corners of rooms, and frowned out from behind half-opened doors. When they had full possession of unoccupied apartments. When they danced upon the floors, and walls, and ceilings of inhabited chambers, while the fire was low, and withdrew like ebbing waters when it sprang into a blaze. When they fantastically mocked the shapes of household objects, making the nurse an ogress, the rocking-horse a monster, the wondering child, half-scared and half-amused, a stranger to itself,-the very tongs upon the hearth, a straddling giant with his arms a-kimbo, evidently smelling the blood of Englishmen, and wanting to grind people's bones to make his bread.

When these shadows brought into the minds of older people, other thoughts, and showed them different images. When they stole from their retreats, in the likenesses of forms and faces from the past, from the grave, from the deep, deep gulf, where the things that might have been, and never were, are always wandering.

When he sat, as already mentioned, gazing at the fire. When, as it rose and fell, the shadows went and came. When he took no heed of them, with his bodily eyes; but, let them come or let them go, looked fixedly at the fire. You should have seen him, then.

When the sounds that had arisen with the shadows, and come out of their lurking-places at the twilight summons, seemed to make a deeper stillness all about him. When the wind was rumbling in the chimney, and sometimes crooning, sometimes howling, in the house. When the old trees outside were so shaken and beaten, that one querulous old rook, unable to sleep, protested now and then, in a feeble, dozy, high-up "Caw!" When, at intervals, the window trembled, the rusty vane upon the turret-top complained, the clock beneath it recorded that another quarter of an hour was gone, or the fire collapsed and fell in with a rattle.

-When a knock came at his door, in short, as he was sitting so, and roused him.

"Who's that?" said he. "Come in!"

Surely there had been no figure leaning on the back of his chair; no face looking over it. It is certain that no gliding footstep touched the floor, as he lifted up his head, with a start, and spoke. And yet there was no mirror in the room on whose surface his own form could have cast its shadow for a moment; and, Something had passed darkly and gone!

"I'm humbly fearful, sir," said a fresh-coloured busy man, holding the door open with his foot for the admission of himself and a wooden tray he carried, and letting it go again by very gentle and careful degrees, when he and the tray had got in, lest it should close noisily, "that it's a good bit past the time to-night. But Mrs. William has been taken off her legs so often"-

"By the wind? Ay! I have heard it rising."

"-By the wind, sir-that it's a mercy she got home at all. Oh dear, yes. Yes. It was by the wind, Mr. Redlaw. By the wind."

He had, by this time, put down the tray for dinner, and was employed in lighting the lamp, and spreading a cloth on the table. From this employment he desisted in a hurry, to stir and feed the fire, and then resumed it; the lamp he had lighted, and the blaze that rose under his hand, so quickly changing the appearance of the room, that it seemed as if the mere coming in of his fresh red face and active manner had made the pleasant alteration.

"Mrs. William is of course subject at any time, sir, to be taken off her balance by the elements. She is not formed superior to that."

"No," returned Mr. Redlaw good-naturedly, though abruptly.

"No, sir. Mrs. William may be taken off her balance by Earth; as for example, last Sunday week, when sloppy and greasy, and she going out to tea with her newest sister-in-law, and having a pride in herself, and wishing to appear perfectly spotless though pedestrian. Mrs. William may be taken off her balance by Air; as being once over-persuaded by a friend to try a swing at Peckham Fair, which acted on her constitution instantly like a steam-boat. Mrs. William may be taken off her balance by Fire; as on a false alarm of engines at her mother's, when she went two miles in her nightcap. Mrs. William may be taken off her balance by Water; as at Battersea, when rowed into the piers by her young nephew, Charley Swidger junior, aged twelve, which had no idea of boats whatever. But these are elements. Mrs. William must be taken out of elements for the strength of her character to come into play."

As he stopped for a reply, the reply was "Yes," in the same tone as before.

"Yes, sir. Oh dear, yes!" said Mr. Swidger, still proceeding with his preparations, and checking them off as he made them. "That's where it is, sir. That's what I always say myself, sir. Such a many of us Swidgers!-Pepper. Why there's my father, sir, superannuated keeper and custodian of this Institution, eighty-seven year old. He's a Swidger!-Spoon."

"True, William," was the patient and abstracted answer, when he stopped again.

"Yes, sir," said Mr. Swidger. "That's what I always say, sir. You may call him the trunk of the tree!-Bread. Then you come to his successor, my unworthy self-Salt-and Mrs. William, Swidgers both.-Knife and fork. Then you come to all my brothers and their families, Swidgers, man and woman, boy and girl. Why, what with cousins, uncles, aunts, and relationships of this, that, and t'other degree, and whatnot degree, and marriages, and lyings-in, the Swidgers-Tumbler-might take hold of hands, and make a ring round England!"

Receiving no reply at all here, from the thoughtful man whom he addressed, Mr. William approached, him nearer, and made a feint of accidentally knocking the table with a decanter, to rouse him. The moment he succeeded, he went on, as if in great alacrity of acquiescence.

"Yes, sir! That's just what I say myself, sir. Mrs. William and me have often said so. 'There's Swidgers enough,' we say, 'without our voluntary contributions,'-Butter. In fact, sir, my father is a family in himself-Castors-to take care of; and it happens all for the best that we have no child of our own, though it's made Mrs. William rather quiet-like, too. Quite ready for the fowl and mashed potatoes, sir? Mrs. William said she'd dish in ten minutes when I left the Lodge."

"I am quite ready," said the other, waking as from a dream, and walking slowly to and fro.

"Mrs. William has been at it again, sir!" said the keeper, as he stood warming a plate at the fire, and pleasantly shading his face with it. Mr. Redlaw stopped in his walking, and an expression of interest appeared in him.

"What I always say myself, sir. She will do it! There's a motherly feeling in Mrs. William's breast that must and will have went."

"What has she done?"

"Why, sir, not satisfied with being a sort of mother to all the young gentlemen that come up from a variety of parts, to attend your courses of lectures at this ancient foundation-its surprising how stone-chaney catches the heat this frosty weather, to be sure!" Here he turned the plate, and cooled his fingers.

"Well?" said Mr. Redlaw.

"That's just what I say myself, sir," returned Mr. William, speaking over his shoulder, as if in ready and delighted assent. "That's exactly where it is, sir! There ain't one of our students but appears to regard Mrs. William in that light. Every day, right through the course, they puts their heads into the Lodge, one after another, and have all got something to tell her, or something to ask her. 'Swidge' is the appellation by which they speak of Mrs. William in general, among themselves, I'm told; but that's what I say, sir. Better be called ever so far out of your name, if it's done in real liking, than have it made ever so much of, and not cared about! What's a name for? To know a person by. If Mrs. William is known by something better than her name-I allude to Mrs. William's qualities and disposition-never mind her name, though it is Swidger, by rights. Let 'em call her Swidge, Widge, Bridge-Lord! London Bridge, Blackfriars, Chelsea, Putney, Waterloo, or Hammersmith Suspension-if they like."

The close of this triumphant oration brought him and the plate to the table, upon which he half laid and half dropped it, with a lively sense of its being thoroughly heated, just as the subject of his praises entered the room, bearing another tray and a lantern, and followed by a venerable old man with long grey hair.

Mrs. William, like Mr. William, was a simple, innocent-looking person, in whose smooth cheeks the cheerful red of her husband's official waistcoat was very pleasantly repeated. But whereas Mr. William's light hair stood on end all over his head, and seemed to draw his eyes up with it in an excess of bustling readiness for anything, the dark brown hair of Mrs. William was carefully smoothed down, and waved away under a trim tidy cap, in the most exact and quiet manner imaginable. Whereas Mr. William's very trousers hitched themselves up at the ankles, as if it were not in their iron-grey nature to rest without looking about them, Mrs. William's neatly-flowered skirts-red and white, like her own pretty face-were as composed and orderly, as if the very wind that blew so hard out of doors could not disturb one of their folds. Whereas his coat had something of a fly-away and half-off appearance about the collar and breast, her little bodice was so placid and neat, that there should have been protection for her, in it, had she needed any, with the roughest people. Who could have had the heart to make so calm a bosom swell with grief, or throb with fear, or flutter with a thought of shame! To whom would its repose and peace have not appealed against disturbance, like the innocent slumber of a child!

"Punctual, of course, Milly," said her husband, relieving her of the tray, "or it wouldn't be you. Here's Mrs. William, sir!-He looks lonelier than ever to-night," whispering to his wife, as he was taking the tray, "and ghostlier altogether."

Without any show of hurry or noise, or any show of herself even, she was so calm and quiet, Milly set the dishes she had brought upon the table,-Mr. William, after much clattering and running about, having only gained possession of a butter-boat of gravy, which he stood ready to serve.

"What is that the old man has in his arms?" asked Mr. Redlaw, as he sat down to his solitary meal.

"Holly, sir," replied the quiet voice of Milly.

"That's what I say myself, sir," interposed Mr. William, striking in with the butter-boat. "Berries is so seasonable to the time of year!-Brown gravy!"

"Another Christmas come, another year gone!" murmured the Chemist, with a gloomy sigh. "More figures in the lengthening sum of recollection that we work and work at to our torment, till Death idly jumbles all together, and rubs all out. So, Philip!" breaking off, and raising his voice as he addressed the old man, standing apart, with his glistening burden in his arms, from which the quiet Mrs. William took small branches, which she noiselessly trimmed with her scissors, and decorated the room with, while her aged father-in-law looked on much interested in the ceremony.

"My duty to you, sir," returned the old man. "Should have spoke before, sir, but know your ways, Mr. Redlaw-proud to say-and wait till spoke to! Merry Christmas, sir, and Happy New Year, and many of 'em. Have had a pretty many of 'em myself-ha, ha!-and may take the liberty of wishing 'em. I'm eighty-seven!"

"Have you had so many that were merry and happy?" asked the other.

"Ay, sir, ever so many," returned the old man.

"Is his memory impaired with age? It is to be expected now," said Mr. Redlaw, turning to the son, and speaking lower.

"Not a morsel of it, sir," replied Mr. William. "That's exactly what I say myself, sir. There never was such a memory as my father's. He's the most wonderful man in the world. He don't know what forgetting means. It's the very observation I'm always making to Mrs. William, sir, if you'll believe me!"

Mr. Swidger, in his polite desire to seem to acquiesce at all events, delivered this as if there were no iota of contradiction in it, and it were all said in unbounded and unqualified assent.

The Chemist pushed his plate away, and, rising from the table, walked across the room to where the old man stood looking at a little sprig of holly in his hand.

"It recalls the time when many of those years were old and new, then?" he said, observing him attentively, and touching him on the shoulder. "Does it?"

"Oh many, many!" said Philip, half awaking from his reverie. "I'm eighty-seven!"

"Merry and happy, was it?" asked the Chemist in a low voice. "Merry and happy, old man?"

"Maybe as high as that, no higher," said the old man, holding out his hand a little way above the level of his knee, and looking retrospectively at his questioner, "when I first remember 'em! Cold, sunshiny day it was, out a-walking, when some one-it was my mother as sure as you stand there, though I don't know what her blessed face was like, for she took ill and died that Christmas-time-told me they were food for birds. The pretty little fellow thought-that's me, you understand-that birds' eyes were so bright, perhaps, because the berries that they lived on in the winter were so bright. I recollect that. And I'm eighty-seven!"

"Merry and happy!" mused the other, bending his dark eyes upon the stooping figure, with a smile of compassion. "Merry and happy-and remember well?"

"Ay, ay, ay!" resumed the old man, catching the last words. "I remember 'em well in my school time, year after year, and all the merry-making that used to come along with them. I was a strong chap then, Mr. Redlaw; and, if you'll believe me, hadn't my match at football within ten mile. Where's my son William? Hadn't my match at football, William, within ten mile!"

"That's what I always say, father!" returned the son promptly, and with great respect. "You ARE a Swidger, if ever there was one of the family!"

"Dear!" said the old man, shaking his head as he again looked at the holly. "His mother-my son William's my youngest son-and I, have sat among 'em all, boys and girls, little children and babies, many a year, when the berries like these were not shining half so bright all round us, as their bright faces. Many of 'em are gone; she's gone; and my son George (our eldest, who was her pride more than all the rest!) is fallen very low: but I can see them, when I look here, alive and healthy, as they used to be in those days; and I can see him, thank God, in his innocence. It's a blessed thing to me, at eighty-seven."

The keen look that had been fixed upon him with so much earnestness, had gradually sought the ground.

"When my circumstances got to be not so good as formerly, through not being honestly dealt by, and I first come here to be custodian," said the old man, "-which was upwards of fifty years ago-where's my son William? More than half a century ago, William!"

"That's what I say, father," replied the son, as promptly and dutifully as before, "that's exactly where it is. Two times ought's an ought, and twice five ten, and there's a hundred of 'em."

"It was quite a pleasure to know that one of our founders-or more correctly speaking," said the old man, with a great glory in his subject and his knowledge of it, "one of the learned gentlemen that helped endow us in Queen Elizabeth's time, for we were founded afore her day-left in his will, among the other bequests he made us, so much to buy holly, for garnishing the walls and windows, come Christmas. There was something homely and friendly in it. Being but strange here, then, and coming at Christmas time, we took a liking for his very picter that hangs in what used to be, anciently, afore our ten poor gentlemen commuted for an annual stipend in money, our great Dinner Hall.-A sedate gentleman in a peaked beard, with a ruff round his neck, and a scroll below him, in old English letters, 'Lord! keep my memory green!' You know all about him, Mr. Redlaw?"

"I know the portrait hangs there, Philip."

"Yes, sure, it's the second on the right, above the panelling. I was going to say-he has helped to keep my memory green, I thank him; for going round the building every year, as I'm a doing now, and freshening up the bare rooms with these branches and berries, freshens up my bare old brain. One year brings back another, and that year another, and those others numbers! At last, it seems to me as if the birth-time of our Lord was the birth-time of all I have ever had affection for, or mourned for, or delighted in,-and they're a pretty many, for I'm eighty-seven!"

"Merry and happy," murmured Redlaw to himself.

The room began to darken strangely.

"So you see, sir," pursued old Philip, whose hale wintry cheek had warmed into a ruddier glow, and whose blue eyes had brightened while he spoke, "I have plenty to keep, when I keep this present season. Now, where's my quiet Mouse? Chattering's the sin of my time of life, and there's half the building to do yet, if the cold don't freeze us first, or the wind don't blow us away, or the darkness don't swallow us up."

The quiet Mouse had brought her calm face to his side, and silently taken his arm, before he finished speaking.

"Come away, my dear," said the old man. "Mr. Redlaw won't settle to his dinner, otherwise, till it's cold as the winter. I hope you'll excuse me rambling on, sir, and I wish you good night, and, once again, a merry-"

"Stay!" said Mr. Redlaw, resuming his place at the table, more, it would have seemed from his manner, to reassure the old keeper, than in any remembrance of his own appetite. "Spare me another moment, Philip. William, you were going to tell me something to your excellent wife's honour. It will not be disagreeable to her to hear you praise her. What was it?"

"Why, that's where it is, you see, sir," returned Mr. William Swidger, looking towards his wife in considerable embarrassment. "Mrs. William's got her eye upon me."

"But you're not afraid of Mrs. William's eye?"

"Why, no, sir," returned Mr. Swidger, "that's what I say myself. It wasn't made to be afraid of. It wouldn't have been made so mild, if that was the intention. But I wouldn't like to-Milly!-him, you know. Down in the Buildings."

Mr. William, standing behind the table, and rummaging disconcertedly among the objects upon it, directed persuasive glances at Mrs. William, and secret jerks of his head and thumb at Mr. Redlaw, as alluring her towards him.

"Him, you know, my love," said Mr. William. "Down in the Buildings. Tell, my dear! You're the works of Shakespeare in comparison with myself. Down in the Buildings, you know, my love.-Student."

"Student?" repeated Mr. Redlaw, raising his head.

"That's what I say, sir!" cried Mr. William, in the utmost animation of assent. "If it wasn't the poor student down in the Buildings, why should you wish to hear it from Mrs. William's lips? Mrs. William, my dear-Buildings."

"I didn't know," said Milly, with a quiet frankness, free from any haste or confusion, "that William had said anything about it, or I wouldn't have come. I asked him not to. It's a sick young gentleman, sir-and very poor, I am afraid-who is too ill to go home this holiday-time, and lives, unknown to any one, in but a common kind of lodging for a gentleman, down in Jerusalem Buildings. That's all, sir."

"Why have I never heard of him?" said the Chemist, rising hurriedly. "Why has he not made his situation known to me? Sick!-give me my hat and cloak. Poor!-what house?-what number?"

"Oh, you mustn't go there, sir," said Milly, leaving her father-in-law, and calmly confronting him with her collected little face and folded hands.

"Not go there?"

"Oh dear, no!" said Milly, shaking her head as at a most manifest and self-evident impossibility. "It couldn't be thought of!"

"What do you mean? Why not?"

"Why, you see, sir," said Mr. William Swidger, persuasively and confidentially, "that's what I say. Depend upon it, the young gentleman would never have made his situation known to one of his own sex. Mrs. Williams has got into his confidence, but that's quite different. They all confide in Mrs. William; they all trust her. A man, sir, couldn't have got a whisper out of him; but woman, sir, and Mrs. William combined-!"

"There is good sense and delicacy in what you say, William," returned Mr. Redlaw, observant of the gentle and composed face at his shoulder. And laying his finger on his lip, he secretly put his purse into her hand.

"Oh dear no, sir!" cried Milly, giving it back again. "Worse and worse! Couldn't be dreamed of!"

Such a staid matter-of-fact housewife she was, and so unruffled by the momentary haste of this rejection, that, an instant afterwards, she was tidily picking up a few leaves which had strayed from between her scissors and her apron, when she had arranged the holly.

Finding, when she rose from her stooping posture, that Mr. Redlaw was still regarding her with doubt and astonishment, she quietly repeated-looking about, the while, for any other fragments that might have escaped her observation:

"Oh dear no, sir! He said that of all the world he would not be known to you, or receive help from you-though he is a student in your class. I have made no terms of secrecy with you, but I trust to your honour completely."

"Why did he say so?"

"Indeed I can't tell, sir," said Milly, after thinking a little, "because I am not at all clever, you know; and I wanted to be useful to him in making things neat and comfortable about him, and employed myself that way. But I know he is poor, and lonely, and I think he is somehow neglected too.-How dark it is!"

The room had darkened more and more. There was a very heavy gloom and shadow gathering behind the Chemist's chair.

"What more about him?" he asked.

"He is engaged to be married when he can afford it," said Milly, "and is studying, I think, to qualify himself to earn a living. I have seen, a long time, that he has studied hard and denied himself much.-How very dark it is!"

"It's turned colder, too," said the old man, rubbing his hands. "There's a chill and dismal feeling in the room. Where's my son William? William, my boy, turn the lamp, and rouse the fire!"

Milly's voice resumed, like quiet music very softly played:

"He muttered in his broken sleep yesterday afternoon, after talking to me" (this was to herself) "about some one dead, and some great wrong done that could never be forgotten; but whether to him or to another person, I don't know. Not by him, I am sure."

"And, in short, Mrs. William, you see-which she wouldn't say herself, Mr. Redlaw, if she was to stop here till the new year after this next one-" said Mr. William, coming up to him to speak in his ear, "has done him worlds of good! Bless you, worlds of good! All at home just the same as ever-my father made as snug and comfortable-not a crumb of litter to be found in the house, if you were to offer fifty pound ready money for it-Mrs. William apparently never out of the way-yet Mrs. William backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, up and down, up and down, a mother to him!"

The room turned darker and colder, and the gloom and shadow gathering behind the chair was heavier.

"Not content with this, sir, Mrs. William goes and finds, this very night, when she was coming home (why it's not above a couple of hours ago), a creature more like a young wild beast than a young child, shivering upon a door-step. What does Mrs. William do, but brings it home to dry it, and feed it, and keep it till our old Bounty of food and flannel is given away, on Christmas morning! If it ever felt a fire before, it's as much as ever it did; for it's sitting in the old Lodge chimney, staring at ours as if its ravenous eyes would never shut again. It's sitting there, at least," said Mr. William, correcting himself, on reflection, "unless it's bolted!"

"Heaven keep her happy!" said the Chemist aloud, "and you too, Philip! and you, William! I must consider what to do in this. I may desire to see this student, I'll not detain you any longer now. Good-night!"

"I thank'ee, sir, I thank'ee!" said the old man, "for Mouse, and for my son William, and for myself. Where's my son William? William, you take the lantern and go on first, through them long dark passages, as you did last year and the year afore. Ha ha! I remember-though I'm eighty-seven! 'Lord, keep my memory green!' It's a very good prayer, Mr. Redlaw, that of the learned gentleman in the peaked beard, with a ruff round his neck-hangs up, second on the right above the panelling, in what used to be, afore our ten poor gentlemen commuted, our great Dinner Hall. 'Lord, keep my memory green!' It's very good and pious, sir. Amen! Amen!"

As they passed out and shut the heavy door, which, however carefully withheld, fired a long train of thundering reverberations when it shut at last, the room turned darker.

As he fell a musing in his chair alone, the healthy holly withered on the wall, and dropped-dead branches.

As the gloom and shadow thickened behind him, in that place where it had been gathering so darkly, it took, by slow degrees,-or out of it there came, by some unreal, unsubstantial process-not to be traced by any human sense,-an awful likeness of himself!

Ghastly and cold, colourless in its leaden face and hands, but with his features, and his bright eyes, and his grizzled hair, and dressed in the gloomy shadow of his dress, it came into his terrible appearance of existence, motionless, without a sound. As he leaned his arm upon the elbow of his chair, ruminating before the fire, it leaned upon the chair-back, close above him, with its appalling copy of his face looking where his face looked, and bearing the expression his face bore.

This, then, was the Something that had passed and gone already. This was the dread companion of the haunted man!

It took, for some moments, no more apparent heed of him, than he of it. The Christmas Waits were playing somewhere in the distance, and, through his thoughtfulness, he seemed to listen to the music. It seemed to listen too.

At length he spoke; without moving or lifting up his face.

"Here again!" he said.

"Here again," replied the Phantom.

"I see you in the fire," said the haunted man; "I hear you in music, in the wind, in the dead stillness of the night."

The Phantom moved its head, assenting.

"Why do you come, to haunt me thus?"

"I come as I am called," replied the Ghost.

"No. Unbidden," exclaimed the Chemist.

"Unbidden be it," said the Spectre. "It is enough. I am here."

Hitherto the light of the fire had shone on the two faces-if the dread lineaments behind the chair might be called a face-both addressed towards it, as at first, and neither looking at the other. But, now, the haunted man turned, suddenly, and stared upon the Ghost. The Ghost, as sudden in its motion, passed to before the chair, and stared on him.

The living man, and the animated image of himself dead, might so have looked, the one upon the other. An awful survey, in a lonely and remote part of an empty old pile of building, on a winter night, with the loud wind going by upon its journey of mystery-whence or whither, no man knowing since the world began-and the stars, in unimaginable millions, glittering through it, from eternal space, where the world's bulk is as a grain, and its hoary age is infancy.

"Look upon me!" said the Spectre. "I am he, neglected in my youth, and miserably poor, who strove and suffered, and still strove and suffered, until I hewed out knowledge from the mine where it was buried, and made rugged steps thereof, for my worn feet to rest and rise on."

"I am that man," returned the Chemist.

"No mother's self-denying love," pursued the Phantom, "no father's counsel, aided me. A stranger came into my father's place when I was but a child, and I was easily an alien from my mother's heart. My parents, at the best, were of that sort whose care soon ends, and whose duty is soon done; who cast their offspring loose, early, as birds do theirs; and, if they do well, claim the merit; and, if ill, the pity."

It paused, and seemed to tempt and goad him with its look, and with the manner of its speech, and with its smile.

"I am he," pursued the Phantom, "who, in this struggle upward, found a friend. I made him-won him-bound him to me! We worked together, side by side. All the love and confidence that in my earlier youth had had no outlet, and found no expression, I bestowed on him."

"Not all," said Redlaw, hoarsely.

"No, not all," returned the Phantom. "I had a sister."

The haunted man, with his head resting on his hands, replied "I had!" The Phantom, with an evil smile, drew closer to the chair, and resting its chin upon its folded hands, its folded hands upon the back, and looking down into his face with searching eyes, that seemed instinct with fire, went on:

"Such glimpses of the light of home as I had ever known, had streamed from her. How young she was, how fair, how loving! I took her to the first poor roof that I was master of, and made it rich. She came into the darkness of my life, and made it bright.-She is before me!"

"I saw her, in the fire, but now. I hear her in music, in the wind, in the dead stillness of the night," returned the haunted man.

"Did he love her?" said the Phantom, echoing his contemplative tone. "I think he did, once. I am sure he did. Better had she loved him less-less secretly, less dearly, from the shallower depths of a more divided heart!"

"Let me forget it!" said the Chemist, with an angry motion of his hand. "Let me blot it from my memory!"

The Spectre, without stirring, and with its unwinking, cruel eyes still fixed upon his face, went on:

"A dream, like hers, stole upon my own life."

"It did," said Redlaw.

"A love, as like hers," pursued the Phantom, "as my inferior nature might cherish, arose in my own heart. I was too poor to bind its object to my fortune then, by any thread of promise or entreaty. I loved her far too well, to seek to do it. But, more than ever I had striven in my life, I strove to climb! Only an inch gained, brought me something nearer to the height. I toiled up! In the late pauses of my labour at that time,-my sister (sweet companion!) still sharing with me the expiring embers and the cooling hearth,-when day was breaking, what pictures of the future did I see!"

"I saw them, in the fire, but now," he murmured. "They come back to me in music, in the wind, in the dead stillness of the night, in the revolving years."

"-Pictures of my own domestic life, in aftertime, with her who was the inspiration of my toil. Pictures of my sister, made the wife of my dear friend, on equal terms-for he had some inheritance, we none-pictures of our sobered age and mellowed happiness, and of the golden links, extending back so far, that should bind us, and our children, in a radiant garland," said the Phantom.

"Pictures," said the haunted man, "that were delusions. Why is it my doom to remember them too well!"

"Delusions," echoed the Phantom in its changeless voice, and glaring on him with its changeless eyes. "For my friend (in whose breast my confidence was locked as in my own), passing between me and the centre of the system of my hopes and struggles, won her to himself, and shattered my frail universe. My sister, doubly dear, doubly devoted, doubly cheerful in my home, lived on to see me famous, and my old ambition so rewarded when its spring was broken, and then-"

"Then died," he interposed. "Died, gentle as ever; happy; and with no concern but for her brother. Peace!"

The Phantom watched him silently.

"Remembered!" said the haunted man, after a pause. "Yes. So well remembered, that even now, when years have passed, and nothing is more idle or more visionary to me than the boyish love so long outlived, I think of it with sympathy, as if it were a younger brother's or a son's. Sometimes I even wonder when her heart first inclined to him, and how it had been affected towards me.-Not lightly, once, I think.-But that is nothing. Early unhappiness, a wound from a hand I loved and trusted, and a loss that nothing can replace, outlive such fancies."

"Thus," said the Phantom, "I bear within me a Sorrow and a Wrong. Thus I prey upon myself. Thus, memory is my curse; and, if I could forget my sorrow and my wrong, I would!"

"Mocker!" said the Chemist, leaping up, and making, with a wrathful hand, at the throat of his other self. "Why have I always that taunt in my ears?"

"Forbear!" exclaimed the Spectre in an awful voice. "Lay a hand on Me, and die!"

He stopped midway, as if its words had paralysed him, and stood looking on it. It had glided from him; it had its arm raised high in warning; and a smile passed over its unearthly features, as it reared its dark figure in triumph.

"If I could forget my sorrow and wrong, I would," the Ghost repeated. "If I could forget my sorrow and my wrong, I would!"

"Evil spirit of myself," returned the haunted man, in a low, trembling tone, "my life is darkened by that incessant whisper."

"It is an echo," said the Phantom.

"If it be an echo of my thoughts-as now, indeed, I know it is," rejoined the haunted man, "why should I, therefore, be tormented? It is not a selfish thought. I suffer it to range beyond myself. All men and women have their sorrows,-most of them their wrongs; ingratitude, and sordid jealousy, and interest, besetting all degrees of life. Who would not forget their sorrows and their wrongs?"

"Who would not, truly, and be happier and better for it?" said the Phantom.

"These revolutions of years, which we commemorate," proceeded Redlaw, "what do they recall! Are there any minds in which they do not re-awaken some sorrow, or some trouble? What is the remembrance of the old man who was here to-night? A tissue of sorrow and trouble."

"But common natures," said the Phantom, with its evil smile upon its glassy face, "unenlightened minds and ordinary spirits, do not feel or reason on these things like men of higher cultivation and profounder thought."

"Tempter," answered Redlaw, "whose hollow look and voice I dread more than words can express, and from whom some dim foreshadowing of greater fear is stealing over me while I speak, I hear again an echo of my own mind."

"Receive it as a proof that I am powerful," returned the Ghost. "Hear what I offer! Forget the sorrow, wrong, and trouble you have known!"

"Forget them!" he repeated.

"I have the power to cancel their remembrance-to leave but very faint, confused traces of them, that will die out soon," returned the Spectre. "Say! Is it done?"

"Stay!" cried the haunted man, arresting by a terrified gesture the uplifted hand. "I tremble with distrust and doubt of you; and the dim fear you cast upon me deepens into a nameless horror I can hardly bear.-I would not deprive myself of any kindly recollection, or any sympathy that is good for me, or others. What shall I lose, if I assent to this? What else will pass from my remembrance?"

"No knowledge; no result of study; nothing but the intertwisted chain of feelings and associations, each in its turn dependent on, and nourished by, the banished recollections. Those will go."

"Are they so many?" said the haunted man, reflecting in alarm.

"They have been wont to show themselves in the fire, in music, in the wind, in the dead stillness of the night, in the revolving years," returned the Phantom scornfully.

"In nothing else?"

The Phantom held its peace.

But having stood before him, silent, for a little while, it moved towards the fire; then stopped.

"Decide!" it said, "before the opportunity is lost!"

"A moment! I call Heaven to witness," said the agitated man, "that I have never been a hater of any kind,-never morose, indifferent, or hard, to anything around me. If, living here alone, I have made too much of all that was and might have been, and too little of what is, the evil, I believe, has fallen on me, and not on others. But, if there were poison in my body, should I not, possessed of antidotes and knowledge how to use them, use them? If there be poison in my mind, and through this fearful shadow I can cast it out, shall I not cast it out?"

"Say," said the Spectre, "is it done?"

"A moment longer!" he answered hurriedly. "I would forget it if I could! Have I thought that, alone, or has it been the thought of thousands upon thousands, generation after generation? All human memory is fraught with sorrow and trouble. My memory is as the memory of other men, but other men have not this choice. Yes, I close the bargain. Yes! I WILL forget my sorrow, wrong, and trouble!"

"Say," said the Spectre, "is it done?"

"It is!"

"IT IS. And take this with you, man whom I here renounce! The gift that I have given, you shall give again, go where you will. Without recovering yourself the power that you have yielded up, you shall henceforth destroy its like in all whom you approach. Your wisdom has discovered that the memory of sorrow, wrong, and trouble is the lot of all mankind, and that mankind would be the happier, in its other memories, without it. Go! Be its benefactor! Freed from such remembrance, from this hour, carry involuntarily the blessing of such freedom with you. Its diffusion is inseparable and inalienable from you. Go! Be happy in the good you have won, and in the good you do!"

The Phantom, which had held its bloodless hand above him while it spoke, as if in some unholy invocation, or some ban; and which had gradually advanced its eyes so close to his, that he could see how they did not participate in the terrible smile upon its face, but were a fixed, unalterable, steady horror melted before him and was gone.

As he stood rooted to the spot, possessed by fear and wonder, and imagining he heard repeated in melancholy echoes, dying away fainter and fainter, the words, "Destroy its like in all whom you approach!" a shrill cry reached his ears. It came, not from the passages beyond the door, but from another part of the old building, and sounded like the cry of some one in the dark who had lost the way.

He looked confusedly upon his hands and limbs, as if to be assured of his identity, and then shouted in reply, loudly and wildly; for there was a strangeness and terror upon him, as if he too were lost.

The cry responding, and being nearer, he caught up the lamp, and raised a heavy curtain in the wall, by which he was accustomed to pass into and out of the theatre where he lectured,-which adjoined his room. Associated with youth and animation, and a high amphitheatre of faces which his entrance charmed to interest in a moment, it was a ghostly place when all this life was faded out of it, and stared upon him like an emblem of Death.

"Halloa!" he cried. "Halloa! This way! Come to the light!" When, as he held the curtain with one hand, and with the other raised the lamp and tried to pierce the gloom that filled the place, something rushed past him into the room like a wild-cat, and crouched down in a corner.

"What is it?" he said, hastily.

He might have asked "What is it?" even had he seen it well, as presently he did when he stood looking at it gathered up in its corner.

A bundle of tatters, held together by a hand, in size and form almost an infant's, but in its greedy, desperate little clutch, a bad old man's. A face rounded and smoothed by some half-dozen years, but pinched and twisted by the experiences of a life. Bright eyes, but not youthful. Naked feet, beautiful in their childish delicacy,-ugly in the blood and dirt that cracked upon them. A baby savage, a young monster, a child who had never been a child, a creature who might live to take the outward form of man, but who, within, would live and perish a mere beast.

Used, already, to be worried and hunted like a beast, the boy crouched down as he was looked at, and looked back again, and interposed his arm to ward off the expected blow.

"I'll bite," he said, "if you hit me!"

The time had been, and not many minutes since, when such a sight as this would have wrung the Chemist's heart. He looked upon it now, coldly; but with a heavy effort to remember something-he did not know what-he asked the boy what he did there, and whence he came.

"Where's the woman?" he replied. "I want to find the woman."

"Who?"

"The woman. Her that brought me here, and set me by the large fire. She was so long gone, that I went to look for her, and lost myself. I don't want you. I want the woman."

He made a spring, so suddenly, to get away, that the dull sound of his naked feet upon the floor was near the curtain, when Redlaw caught him by his rags.

"Come! you let me go!" muttered the boy, struggling, and clenching his teeth. "I've done nothing to you. Let me go, will you, to the woman!"

"That is not the way. There is a nearer one," said Redlaw, detaining him, in the same blank effort to remember some association that ought, of right, to bear upon this monstrous object. "What is your name?"

"Got none."

"Where do you live?

"Live! What's that?"

The boy shook his hair from his eyes to look at him for a moment, and then, twisting round his legs and wrestling with him, broke again into his repetition of "You let me go, will you? I want to find the woman."

The Chemist led him to the door. "This way," he said, looking at him still confusedly, but with repugnance and avoidance, growing out of his coldness. "I'll take you to her."

The sharp eyes in the child's head, wandering round the room, lighted on the table where the remnants of the dinner were.

"Give me some of that!" he said, covetously.

"Has she not fed you?"

"I shall be hungry again to-morrow, sha'n't I? Ain't I hungry every day?"

Finding himself released, he bounded at the table like some small animal of prey, and hugging to his breast bread and meat, and his own rags, all together, said:

"There! Now take me to the woman!"

As the Chemist, with a new-born dislike to touch him, sternly motioned him to follow, and was going out of the door, he trembled and stopped.

"The gift that I have given, you shall give again, go where you will!"

The Phantom's words were blowing in the wind, and the wind blew chill upon him.

"I'll not go there, to-night," he murmured faintly. "I'll go nowhere to-night. Boy! straight down this long-arched passage, and past the great dark door into the yard,-you see the fire shining on the window there."

"The woman's fire?" inquired the boy.

He nodded, and the naked feet had sprung away. He came back with his lamp, locked his door hastily, and sat down in his chair, covering his face like one who was frightened at himself.

For now he was, indeed, alone. Alone, alone.



CHAPTER II-The Gift Diffused


A small man sat in a small parlour, partitioned off from a small shop by a small screen, pasted all over with small scraps of newspapers. In company with the small man, was almost any amount of small children you may please to name-at least it seemed so; they made, in that very limited sphere of action, such an imposing effect, in point of numbers.

Of these small fry, two had, by some strong machinery, been got into bed in a corner, where they might have reposed snugly enough in the sleep of innocence, but for a constitutional propensity to keep awake, and also to scuffle in and out of bed. The immediate occasion of these predatory dashes at the waking world, was the construction of an oyster-shell wall in a corner, by two other youths of tender age; on which fortification the two in bed made harassing descents (like those accursed Picts and Scots who beleaguer the early historical studies of most young Britons), and then withdrew to their own territory.

In addition to the stir attendant on these inroads, and the retorts of the invaded, who pursued hotly, and made lunges at the bed-clothes under which the marauders took refuge, another little boy, in another little bed, contributed his mite of confusion to the family stock, by casting his boots upon the waters; in other words, by launching these and several small objects, inoffensive in themselves, though of a hard substance considered as missiles, at the disturbers of his repose,-who were not slow to return these compliments.

Besides which, another little boy-the biggest there, but still little-was tottering to and fro, bent on one side, and considerably affected in his knees by the weight of a large baby, which he was supposed by a fiction that obtains sometimes in sanguine families, to be hushing to sleep. But oh! the inexhaustible regions of contemplation and watchfulness into which this baby's eyes were then only beginning to compose themselves to stare, over his unconscious shoulder!

It was a very Moloch of a baby, on whose insatiate altar the whole existence of this particular young brother was offered up a daily sacrifice. Its personality may be said to have consisted in its never being quiet, in any one place, for five consecutive minutes, and never going to sleep when required. "Tetterby's baby" was as well known in the neighbourhood as the postman or the pot-boy. It roved from door-step to door-step, in the arms of little Johnny Tetterby, and lagged heavily at the rear of troops of juveniles who followed the Tumblers or the Monkey, and came up, all on one side, a little too late for everything that was attractive, from Monday morning until Saturday night. Wherever childhood congregated to play, there was little Moloch making Johnny fag and toil. Wherever Johnny desired to stay, little Moloch became fractious, and would not remain. Whenever Johnny wanted to go out, Moloch was asleep, and must be watched. Whenever Johnny wanted to stay at home, Moloch was awake, and must be taken out. Yet Johnny was verily persuaded that it was a faultless baby, without its peer in the realm of England, and was quite content to catch meek glimpses of things in general from behind its skirts, or over its limp flapping bonnet, and to go staggering about with it like a very little porter with a very large parcel, which was not directed to anybody, and could never be delivered anywhere.

The small man who sat in the small parlour, making fruitless attempts to read his newspaper peaceably in the midst of this disturbance, was the father of the family, and the chief of the firm described in the inscription over the little shop front, by the name and title of A. TETTERBY AND CO., NEWSMEN. Indeed, strictly speaking, he was the only personage answering to that designation, as Co. was a mere poetical abstraction, altogether baseless and impersonal.

Tetterby's was the corner shop in Jerusalem Buildings. There was a good show of literature in the window, chiefly consisting of picture-newspapers out of date, and serial pirates, and footpads. Walking-sticks, likewise, and marbles, were included in the stock in trade. It had once extended into the light confectionery line; but it would seem that those elegancies of life were not in demand about Jerusalem Buildings, for nothing connected with that branch of commerce remained in the window, except a sort of small glass lantern containing a languishing mass of bull's-eyes, which had melted in the summer and congealed in the winter until all hope of ever getting them out, or of eating them without eating the lantern too, was gone for ever. Tetterby's had tried its hand at several things. It had once made a feeble little dart at the toy business; for, in another lantern, there was a heap of minute wax dolls, all sticking together upside down, in the direst confusion, with their feet on one another's heads, and a precipitate of broken arms and legs at the bottom. It had made a move in the millinery direction, which a few dry, wiry bonnet-shapes remained in a corner of the window to attest. It had fancied that a living might lie hidden in the tobacco trade, and had stuck up a representation of a native of each of the three integral portions of the British Empire, in the act of consuming that fragrant weed; with a poetic legend attached, importing that united in one cause they sat and joked, one chewed tobacco, one took snuff, one smoked: but nothing seemed to have come of it-except flies. Time had been when it had put a forlorn trust in imitative jewellery, for in one pane of glass there was a card of cheap seals, and another of pencil-cases, and a mysterious black amulet of inscrutable intention, labelled ninepence. But, to that hour, Jerusalem Buildings had bought none of them. In short, Tetterby's had tried so hard to get a livelihood out of Jerusalem Buildings in one way or other, and appeared to have done so indifferently in all, that the best position in the firm was too evidently Co.'s; Co., as a bodiless creation, being untroubled with the vulgar inconveniences of hunger and thirst, being chargeable neither to the poor's-rates nor the assessed taxes, and having no young family to provide for.

Tetterby himself, however, in his little parlour, as already mentioned, having the presence of a young family impressed upon his mind in a manner too clamorous to be disregarded, or to comport with the quiet perusal of a newspaper, laid down his paper, wheeled, in his distraction, a few times round the parlour, like an undecided carrier-pigeon, made an ineffectual rush at one or two flying little figures in bed-gowns that skimmed past him, and then, bearing suddenly down upon the only unoffending member of the family, boxed the ears of little Moloch's nurse.

"You bad boy!" said Mr. Tetterby, "haven't you any feeling for your poor father after the fatigues and anxieties of a hard winter's day, since five o'clock in the morning, but must you wither his rest, and corrode his latest intelligence, with your wicious tricks? Isn't it enough, sir, that your brother 'Dolphus is toiling and moiling in the fog and cold, and you rolling in the lap of luxury with a-with a baby, and everything you can wish for," said Mr. Tetterby, heaping this up as a great climax of blessings, "but must you make a wilderness of home, and maniacs of your parents? Must you, Johnny? Hey?" At each interrogation, Mr. Tetterby made a feint of boxing his ears again, but thought better of it, and held his hand.

"Oh, father!" whimpered Johnny, "when I wasn't doing anything, I'm sure, but taking such care of Sally, and getting her to sleep. Oh, father!"

"I wish my little woman would come home!" said Mr. Tetterby, relenting and repenting, "I only wish my little woman would come home! I ain't fit to deal with 'em. They make my head go round, and get the better of me. Oh, Johnny! Isn't it enough that your dear mother has provided you with that sweet sister?" indicating Moloch; "isn't it enough that you were seven boys before without a ray of gal, and that your dear mother went through what she did go through, on purpose that you might all of you have a little sister, but must you so behave yourself as to make my head swim?"

Softening more and more, as his own tender feelings and those of his injured son were worked on, Mr. Tetterby concluded by embracing him, and immediately breaking away to catch one of the real delinquents. A reasonably good start occurring, he succeeded, after a short but smart run, and some rather severe cross-country work under and over the bedsteads, and in and out among the intricacies of the chairs, in capturing this infant, whom he condignly punished, and bore to bed. This example had a powerful, and apparently, mesmeric influence on him of the boots, who instantly fell into a deep sleep, though he had been, but a moment before, broad awake, and in the highest possible feather. Nor was it lost upon the two young architects, who retired to bed, in an adjoining closet, with great privacy and speed. The comrade of the Intercepted One also shrinking into his nest with similar discretion, Mr. Tetterby, when he paused for breath, found himself unexpectedly in a scene of peace.

"My little woman herself," said Mr. Tetterby, wiping his flushed face, "could hardly have done it better! I only wish my little woman had had it to do, I do indeed!"

Mr. Tetterby sought upon his screen for a passage appropriate to be impressed upon his children's minds on the occasion, and read the following.

"'It is an undoubted fact that all remarkable men have had remarkable mothers, and have respected them in after life as their best friends.' Think of your own remarkable mother, my boys," said Mr. Tetterby, "and know her value while she is still among you!"

He sat down again in his chair by the fire, and composed himself, cross-legged, over his newspaper.

"Let anybody, I don't care who it is, get out of bed again," said Tetterby, as a general proclamation, delivered in a very soft-hearted manner, "and astonishment will be the portion of that respected contemporary!"-which expression Mr. Tetterby selected from his screen. "Johnny, my child, take care of your only sister, Sally; for she's the brightest gem that ever sparkled on your early brow."

Johnny sat down on a little stool, and devotedly crushed himself beneath the weight of Moloch.

"Ah, what a gift that baby is to you, Johnny!" said his father, "and how thankful you ought to be! 'It is not generally known, Johnny,'" he was now referring to the screen again, "'but it is a fact ascertained, by accurate calculations, that the following immense percentage of babies never attain to two years old; that is to say-'"

"Oh, don't, father, please!" cried Johnny. "I can't bear it, when I think of Sally."

Mr. Tetterby desisting, Johnny, with a profound sense of his trust, wiped his eyes, and hushed his sister.

"Your brother 'Dolphus," said his father, poking the fire, "is late to-night, Johnny, and will come home like a lump of ice. What's got your precious mother?"

"Here's mother, and 'Dolphus too, father!" exclaimed Johnny, "I think."

"You're right!" returned his father, listening. "Yes, that's the footstep of my little woman."

The process of induction, by which Mr. Tetterby had come to the conclusion that his wife was a little woman, was his own secret. She would have made two editions of himself, very easily. Considered as an individual, she was rather remarkable for being robust and portly; but considered with reference to her husband, her dimensions became magnificent. Nor did they assume a less imposing proportion, when studied with reference to the size of her seven sons, who were but diminutive. In the case of Sally, however, Mrs. Tetterby had asserted herself, at last; as nobody knew better than the victim Johnny, who weighed and measured that exacting idol every hour in the day.

Mrs. Tetterby, who had been marketing, and carried a basket, threw back her bonnet and shawl, and sitting down, fatigued, commanded Johnny to bring his sweet charge to her straightway, for a kiss. Johnny having complied, and gone back to his stool, and again crushed himself, Master Adolphus Tetterby, who had by this time unwound his torso out of a prismatic comforter, apparently interminable, requested the same favour. Johnny having again complied, and again gone back to his stool, and again crushed himself, Mr. Tetterby, struck by a sudden thought, preferred the same claim on his own parental part. The satisfaction of this third desire completely exhausted the sacrifice, who had hardly breath enough left to get back to his stool, crush himself again, and pant at his relations.

"Whatever you do, Johnny," said Mrs. Tetterby, shaking her head, "take care of her, or never look your mother in the face again."

"Nor your brother," said Adolphus.

"Nor your father, Johnny," added Mr. Tetterby.

Johnny, much affected by this conditional renunciation of him, looked down at Moloch's eyes to see that they were all right, so far, and skilfully patted her back (which was uppermost), and rocked her with his foot.

"Are you wet, 'Dolphus, my boy?" said his father. "Come and take my chair, and dry yourself."

"No, father, thank'ee," said Adolphus, smoothing himself down with his hands. "I an't very wet, I don't think. Does my face shine much, father?"

"Well, it does look waxy, my boy," returned Mr. Tetterby.

"It's the weather, father," said Adolphus, polishing his cheeks on the worn sleeve of his jacket. "What with rain, and sleet, and wind, and snow, and fog, my face gets quite brought out into a rash sometimes. And shines, it does-oh, don't it, though!"

Master Adolphus was also in the newspaper line of life, being employed, by a more thriving firm than his father and Co., to vend newspapers at a railway station, where his chubby little person, like a shabbily-disguised Cupid, and his shrill little voice (he was not much more than ten years old), were as well known as the hoarse panting of the locomotives, running in and out. His juvenility might have been at some loss for a harmless outlet, in this early application to traffic, but for a fortunate discovery he made of a means of entertaining himself, and of dividing the long day into stages of interest, without neglecting business. This ingenious invention, remarkable, like many great discoveries, for its simplicity, consisted in varying the first vowel in the word "paper," and substituting, in its stead, at different periods of the day, all the other vowels in grammatical succession. Thus, before daylight in the winter-time, he went to and fro, in his little oilskin cap and cape, and his big comforter, piercing the heavy air with his cry of "Morn-ing Pa-per!" which, about an hour before noon, changed to "Morn-ing Pepper!" which, at about two, changed to "Morn-ing Pip-per!" which in a couple of hours changed to "Morn-ing Pop-per!" and so declined with the sun into "Eve-ning Pup-per!" to the great relief and comfort of this young gentleman's spirits.

Mrs. Tetterby, his lady-mother, who had been sitting with her bonnet and shawl thrown back, as aforesaid, thoughtfully turning her wedding-ring round and round upon her finger, now rose, and divesting herself of her out-of-door attire, began to lay the cloth for supper.

"Ah, dear me, dear me, dear me!" said Mrs. Tetterby. "That's the way the world goes!"

"Which is the way the world goes, my dear?" asked Mr. Tetterby, looking round.

"Oh, nothing," said Mrs. Tetterby.

Mr. Tetterby elevated his eyebrows, folded his newspaper afresh, and carried his eyes up it, and down it, and across it, but was wandering in his attention, and not reading it.

Mrs. Tetterby, at the same time, laid the cloth, but rather as if she were punishing the table than preparing the family supper; hitting it unnecessarily hard with the knives and forks, slapping it with the plates, dinting it with the salt-cellar, and coming heavily down upon it with the loaf.

"Ah, dear me, dear me, dear me!" said Mrs. Tetterby. "That's the way the world goes!"

"My duck," returned her husband, looking round again, "you said that before. Which is the way the world goes?"

"Oh, nothing!" said Mrs. Tetterby.

"Sophia!" remonstrated her husband, "you said that before, too."

"Well, I'll say it again if you like," returned Mrs. Tetterby. "Oh nothing-there! And again if you like, oh nothing-there! And again if you like, oh nothing-now then!"

Mr. Tetterby brought his eye to bear upon the partner of his bosom, and said, in mild astonishment:

"My little woman, what has put you out?"

"I'm sure I don't know," she retorted. "Don't ask me. Who said I was put out at all? I never did."

Mr. Tetterby gave up the perusal of his newspaper as a bad job, and, taking a slow walk across the room, with his hands behind him, and his shoulders raised-his gait according perfectly with the resignation of his manner-addressed himself to his two eldest offspring.

"Your supper will be ready in a minute, 'Dolphus," said Mr. Tetterby. "Your mother has been out in the wet, to the cook's shop, to buy it. It was very good of your mother so to do. You shall get some supper too, very soon, Johnny. Your mother's pleased with you, my man, for being so attentive to your precious sister."

Mrs. Tetterby, without any remark, but with a decided subsidence of her animosity towards the table, finished her preparations, and took, from her ample basket, a substantial slab of hot pease pudding wrapped in paper, and a basin covered with a saucer, which, on being uncovered, sent forth an odour so agreeable, that the three pair of eyes in the two beds opened wide and fixed themselves upon the banquet. Mr. Tetterby, without regarding this tacit invitation to be seated, stood repeating slowly, "Yes, yes, your supper will be ready in a minute, 'Dolphus-your mother went out in the wet, to the cook's shop, to buy it. It was very good of your mother so to do"-until Mrs. Tetterby, who had been exhibiting sundry tokens of contrition behind him, caught him round the neck, and wept.

"Oh, Dolphus!" said Mrs. Tetterby, "how could I go and behave so?"

This reconciliation affected Adolphus the younger and Johnny to that degree, that they both, as with one accord, raised a dismal cry, which had the effect of immediately shutting up the round eyes in the beds, and utterly routing the two remaining little Tetterbys, just then stealing in from the adjoining closet to see what was going on in the eating way.

"I am sure, 'Dolphus," sobbed Mrs. Tetterby, "coming home, I had no more idea than a child unborn-"

Mr. Tetterby seemed to dislike this figure of speech, and observed, "Say than the baby, my dear."

"-Had no more idea than the baby," said Mrs. Tetterby.-"Johnny, don't look at me, but look at her, or she'll fall out of your lap and be killed, and then you'll die in agonies of a broken heart, and serve you right.-No more idea I hadn't than that darling, of being cross when I came home; but somehow, 'Dolphus-" Mrs. Tetterby paused, and again turned her wedding-ring round and round upon her finger.

"I see!" said Mr. Tetterby. "I understand! My little woman was put out. Hard times, and hard weather, and hard work, make it trying now and then. I see, bless your soul! No wonder! Dolf, my man," continued Mr. Tetterby, exploring the basin with a fork, "here's your mother been and bought, at the cook's shop, besides pease pudding, a whole knuckle of a lovely roast leg of pork, with lots of crackling left upon it, and with seasoning gravy and mustard quite unlimited. Hand in your plate, my boy, and begin while it's simmering."

Master Adolphus, needing no second summons, received his portion with eyes rendered moist by appetite, and withdrawing to his particular stool, fell upon his supper tooth and nail. Johnny was not forgotten, but received his rations on bread, lest he should, in a flush of gravy, trickle any on the baby. He was required, for similar reasons, to keep his pudding, when not on active service, in his pocket.

There might have been more pork on the knucklebone,-which knucklebone the carver at the cook's shop had assuredly not forgotten in carving for previous customers-but there was no stint of seasoning, and that is an accessory dreamily suggesting pork, and pleasantly cheating the sense of taste. The pease pudding, too, the gravy and mustard, like the Eastern rose in respect of the nightingale, if they were not absolutely pork, had lived near it; so, upon the whole, there was the flavour of a middle-sized pig. It was irresistible to the Tetterbys in bed, who, though professing to slumber peacefully, crawled out when unseen by their parents, and silently appealed to their brothers for any gastronomic token of fraternal affection. They, not hard of heart, presenting scraps in return, it resulted that a party of light skirmishers in nightgowns were careering about the parlour all through supper, which harassed Mr. Tetterby exceedingly, and once or twice imposed upon him the necessity of a charge, before which these guerilla troops retired in all directions and in great confusion.

Mrs. Tetterby did not enjoy her supper. There seemed to be something on Mrs. Tetterby's mind. At one time she laughed without reason, and at another time she cried without reason, and at last she laughed and cried together in a manner so very unreasonable that her husband was confounded.

"My little woman," said Mr. Tetterby, "if the world goes that way, it appears to go the wrong way, and to choke you."

"Give me a drop of water," said Mrs. Tetterby, struggling with herself, "and don't speak to me for the present, or take any notice of me. Don't do it!"

Mr. Tetterby having administered the water, turned suddenly on the unlucky Johnny (who was full of sympathy), and demanded why he was wallowing there, in gluttony and idleness, instead of coming forward with the baby, that the sight of her might revive his mother. Johnny immediately approached, borne down by its weight; but Mrs. Tetterby holding out her hand to signify that she was not in a condition to bear that trying appeal to her feelings, he was interdicted from advancing another inch, on pain of perpetual hatred from all his dearest connections; and accordingly retired to his stool again, and crushed himself as before.

After a pause, Mrs. Tetterby said she was better now, and began to laugh.

"My little woman," said her husband, dubiously, "are you quite sure you're better? Or are you, Sophia, about to break out in a fresh direction?"

"No, 'Dolphus, no," replied his wife. "I'm quite myself." With that, settling her hair, and pressing the palms of her hands upon her eyes, she laughed again.

"What a wicked fool I was, to think so for a moment!" said Mrs. Tetterby. "Come nearer, 'Dolphus, and let me ease my mind, and tell you what I mean. Let me tell you all about it."

Mr. Tetterby bringing his chair closer, Mrs. Tetterby laughed again, gave him a hug, and wiped her eyes.

"You know, Dolphus, my dear," said Mrs. Tetterby, "that when I was single, I might have given myself away in several directions. At one time, four after me at once; two of them were sons of Mars."

"We're all sons of Ma's, my dear," said Mr. Tetterby, "jointly with Pa's."

"I don't mean that," replied his wife, "I mean soldiers-serjeants."

"Oh!" said Mr. Tetterby.

"Well, 'Dolphus, I'm sure I never think of such things now, to regret them; and I'm sure I've got as good a husband, and would do as much to prove that I was fond of him, as-"

"As any little woman in the world," said Mr. Tetterby. "Very good. Very good."

If Mr. Tetterby had been ten feet high, he could not have expressed a gentler consideration for Mrs. Tetterby's fairy-like stature; and if Mrs. Tetterby had been two feet high, she could not have felt it more appropriately her due.

"But you see, 'Dolphus," said Mrs. Tetterby, "this being Christmas-time, when all people who can, make holiday, and when all people who have got money, like to spend some, I did, somehow, get a little out of sorts when I was in the streets just now. There were so many things to be sold-such delicious things to eat, such fine things to look at, such delightful things to have-and there was so much calculating and calculating necessary, before I durst lay out a sixpence for the commonest thing; and the basket was so large, and wanted so much in it; and my stock of money was so small, and would go such a little way;-you hate me, don't you, 'Dolphus?"

"Not quite," said Mr. Tetterby, "as yet."

"Well! I'll tell you the whole truth," pursued his wife, penitently, "and then perhaps you will. I felt all this, so much, when I was trudging about in the cold, and when I saw a lot of other calculating faces and large baskets trudging about, too, that I began to think whether I mightn't have done better, and been happier, if-I-hadn't-" the wedding-ring went round again, and Mrs. Tetterby shook her downcast head as she turned it.

"I see," said her husband quietly; "if you hadn't married at all, or if you had married somebody else?"

"Yes," sobbed Mrs. Tetterby. "That's really what I thought. Do you hate me now, 'Dolphus?"

"Why no," said Mr. Tetterby. "I don't find that I do, as yet."

Mrs. Tetterby gave him a thankful kiss, and went on.

"I begin to hope you won't, now, 'Dolphus, though I'm afraid I haven't told you the worst. I can't think what came over me. I don't know whether I was ill, or mad, or what I was, but I couldn't call up anything that seemed to bind us to each other, or to reconcile me to my fortune. All the pleasures and enjoyments we had ever had-they seemed so poor and insignificant, I hated them. I could have trodden on them. And I could think of nothing else, except our being poor, and the number of mouths there were at home."

"Well, well, my dear," said Mr. Tetterby, shaking her hand encouragingly, "that's truth, after all. We are poor, and there are a number of mouths at home here."

"Ah! but, Dolf, Dolf!" cried his wife, laying her hands upon his neck, "my good, kind, patient fellow, when I had been at home a very little while-how different! Oh, Dolf, dear, how different it was! I felt as if there was a rush of recollection on me, all at once, that softened my hard heart, and filled it up till it was bursting. All our struggles for a livelihood, all our cares and wants since we have been married, all the times of sickness, all the hours of watching, we have ever had, by one another, or by the children, seemed to speak to me, and say that they had made us one, and that I never might have been, or could have been, or would have been, any other than the wife and mother I am. Then, the cheap enjoyments that I could have trodden on so cruelly, got to be so precious to me-Oh so priceless, and dear!-that I couldn't bear to think how much I had wronged them; and I said, and say again a hundred times, how could I ever behave so, 'Dolphus, how could I ever have the heart to do it!"

The good woman, quite carried away by her honest tenderness and remorse, was weeping with all her heart, when she started up with a scream, and ran behind her husband. Her cry was so terrified, that the children started from their sleep and from their beds, and clung about her. Nor did her gaze belie her voice, as she pointed to a pale man in a black cloak who had come into the room.

"Look at that man! Look there! What does he want?"

"My dear," returned her husband, "I'll ask him if you'll let me go. What's the matter! How you shake!"

"I saw him in the street, when I was out just now. He looked at me, and stood near me. I am afraid of him."

"Afraid of him! Why?"

"I don't know why-I-stop! husband!" for he was going towards the stranger.

She had one hand pressed upon her forehead, and one upon her breast; and there was a peculiar fluttering all over her, and a hurried unsteady motion of her eyes, as if she had lost something.

"Are you ill, my dear?"

"What is it that is going from me again?" she muttered, in a low voice. "What is this that is going away?"

Then she abruptly answered: "Ill? No, I am quite well," and stood looking vacantly at the floor.

Her husband, who had not been altogether free from the infection of her fear at first, and whom the present strangeness of her manner did not tend to reassure, addressed himself to the pale visitor in the black cloak, who stood still, and whose eyes were bent upon the ground.

"What may be your pleasure, sir," he asked, "with us?"

"I fear that my coming in unperceived," returned the visitor, "has alarmed you; but you were talking and did not hear me."

"My little woman says-perhaps you heard her say it," returned Mr. Tetterby, "that it's not the first time you have alarmed her to-night."

"I am sorry for it. I remember to have observed her, for a few moments only, in the street. I had no intention of frightening her."

As he raised his eyes in speaking, she raised hers. It was extraordinary to see what dread she had of him, and with what dread he observed it-and yet how narrowly and closely.

"My name," he said, "is Redlaw. I come from the old college hard by. A young gentleman who is a student there, lodges in your house, does he not?"

"Mr. Denham?" said Tetterby.

"Yes."

It was a natural action, and so slight as to be hardly noticeable; but the little man, before speaking again, passed his hand across his forehead, and looked quickly round the room, as though he were sensible of some change in its atmosphere. The Chemist, instantly transferring to him the look of dread he had directed towards the wife, stepped back, and his face turned paler.

"The gentleman's room," said Tetterby, "is upstairs, sir. There's a more convenient private entrance; but as you have come in here, it will save your going out into the cold, if you'll take this little staircase," showing one communicating directly with the parlour, "and go up to him that way, if you wish to see him."

"Yes, I wish to see him," said the Chemist. "Can you spare a light?"

The watchfulness of his haggard look, and the inexplicable distrust that darkened it, seemed to trouble Mr. Tetterby. He paused; and looking fixedly at him in return, stood for a minute or so, like a man stupefied, or fascinated.

At length he said, "I'll light you, sir, if you'll follow me."

"No," replied the Chemist, "I don't wish to be attended, or announced to him. He does not expect me. I would rather go alone. Please to give me the light, if you can spare it, and I'll find the way."

In the quickness of his expression of this desire, and in taking the candle from the newsman, he touched him on the breast. Withdrawing his hand hastily, almost as though he had wounded him by accident (for he did not know in what part of himself his new power resided, or how it was communicated, or how the manner of its reception varied in different persons), he turned and ascended the stair.

But when he reached the top, he stopped and looked down. The wife was standing in the same place, twisting her ring round and round upon her finger. The husband, with his head bent forward on his breast, was musing heavily and sullenly. The children, still clustering about the mother, gazed timidly after the visitor, and nestled together when they saw him looking down.

"Come!" said the father, roughly. "There's enough of this. Get to bed here!"

"The place is inconvenient and small enough," the mother added, "without you. Get to bed!"

The whole brood, scared and sad, crept away; little Johnny and the baby lagging last. The mother, glancing contemptuously round the sordid room, and tossing from her the fragments of their meal, stopped on the threshold of her task of clearing the table, and sat down, pondering idly and dejectedly. The father betook himself to the chimney-corner, and impatiently raking the small fire together, bent over it as if he would monopolise it all. They did not interchange a word.

The Chemist, paler than before, stole upward like a thief; looking back upon the change below, and dreading equally to go on or return.

"What have I done!" he said, confusedly. "What am I going to do!"

"To be the benefactor of mankind," he thought he heard a voice reply.

He looked round, but there was nothing there; and a passage now shutting out the little parlour from his view, he went on, directing his eyes before him at the way he went.

"It is only since last night," he muttered gloomily, "that I have remained shut up, and yet all things are strange to me. I am strange to myself. I am here, as in a dream. What interest have I in this place, or in any place that I can bring to my remembrance? My mind is going blind!"

There was a door before him, and he knocked at it. Being invited, by a voice within, to enter, he complied.

"Is that my kind nurse?" said the voice. "But I need not ask her. There is no one else to come here."

It spoke cheerfully, though in a languid tone, and attracted his attention to a young man lying on a couch, drawn before the chimney-piece, with the back towards the door. A meagre scanty stove, pinched and hollowed like a sick man's cheeks, and bricked into the centre of a hearth that it could scarcely warm, contained the fire, to which his face was turned. Being so near the windy house-top, it wasted quickly, and with a busy sound, and the burning ashes dropped down fast.

"They chink when they shoot out here," said the student, smiling, "so, according to the gossips, they are not coffins, but purses. I shall be well and rich yet, some day, if it please God, and shall live perhaps to love a daughter Milly, in remembrance of the kindest nature and the gentlest heart in the world."

He put up his hand as if expecting her to take it, but, being weakened, he lay still, with his face resting on his other hand, and did not turn round.

The Chemist glanced about the room;-at the student's books and papers, piled upon a table in a corner, where they, and his extinguished reading-lamp, now prohibited and put away, told of the attentive hours that had gone before this illness, and perhaps caused it;-at such signs of his old health and freedom, as the out-of-door attire that hung idle on the wall;-at those remembrances of other and less solitary scenes, the little miniatures upon the chimney-piece, and the drawing of home;-at that token of his emulation, perhaps, in some sort, of his personal attachment too, the framed engraving of himself, the looker-on. The time had been, only yesterday, when not one of these objects, in its remotest association of interest with the living figure before him, would have been lost on Redlaw. Now, they were but objects; or, if any gleam of such connexion shot upon him, it perplexed, and not enlightened him, as he stood looking round with a dull wonder.

The student, recalling the thin hand which had remained so long untouched, raised himself on the couch, and turned his head.

"Mr. Redlaw!" he exclaimed, and started up.

Redlaw put out his arm.

"Don't come nearer to me. I will sit here. Remain you, where you are!"

He sat down on a chair near the door, and having glanced at the young man standing leaning with his hand upon the couch, spoke with his eyes averted towards the ground.

"I heard, by an accident, by what accident is no matter, that one of my class was ill and solitary. I received no other description of him, than that he lived in this street. Beginning my inquiries at the first house in it, I have found him."

"I have been ill, sir," returned the student, not merely with a modest hesitation, but with a kind of awe of him, "but am greatly better. An attack of fever-of the brain, I believe-has weakened me, but I am much better. I cannot say I have been solitary, in my illness, or I should forget the ministering hand that has been near me."

"You are speaking of the keeper's wife," said Redlaw.

"Yes." The student bent his head, as if he rendered her some silent homage.

The Chemist, in whom there was a cold, monotonous apathy, which rendered him more like a marble image on the tomb of the man who had started from his dinner yesterday at the first mention of this student's case, than the breathing man himself, glanced again at the student leaning with his hand upon the couch, and looked upon the ground, and in the air, as if for light for his blinded mind.

"I remembered your name," he said, "when it was mentioned to me down stairs, just now; and I recollect your face. We have held but very little personal communication together?"

"Very little."

"You have retired and withdrawn from me, more than any of the rest, I think?"

The student signified assent.

"And why?" said the Chemist; not with the least expression of interest, but with a moody, wayward kind of curiosity. "Why? How comes it that you have sought to keep especially from me, the knowledge of your remaining here, at this season, when all the rest have dispersed, and of your being ill? I want to know why this is?"

The young man, who had heard him with increasing agitation, raised his downcast eyes to his face, and clasping his hands together, cried with sudden earnestness and with trembling lips:

"Mr. Redlaw! You have discovered me. You know my secret!"

"Secret?" said the Chemist, harshly. "I know?"

"Yes! Your manner, so different from the interest and sympathy which endear you to so many hearts, your altered voice, the constraint there is in everything you say, and in your looks," replied the student, "warn me that you know me. That you would conceal it, even now, is but a proof to me (God knows I need none!) of your natural kindness and of the bar there is between us."

A vacant and contemptuous laugh, was all his answer.

"But, Mr. Redlaw," said the student, "as a just man, and a good man, think how innocent I am, except in name and descent, of participation in any wrong inflicted on you or in any sorrow you have borne."

"Sorrow!" said Redlaw, laughing. "Wrong! What are those to me?"

"For Heaven's sake," entreated the shrinking student, "do not let the mere interchange of a few words with me change you like this, sir! Let me pass again from your knowledge and notice. Let me occupy my old reserved and distant place among those whom you instruct. Know me only by the name I have assumed, and not by that of Longford-"

"Longford!" exclaimed the other.

He clasped his head with both his hands, and for a moment turned upon the young man his own intelligent and thoughtful face. But the light passed from it, like the sun-beam of an instant, and it clouded as before.

"The name my mother bears, sir," faltered the young man, "the name she took, when she might, perhaps, have taken one more honoured. Mr. Redlaw," hesitating, "I believe I know that history. Where my information halts, my guesses at what is wanting may supply something not remote from the truth. I am the child of a marriage that has not proved itself a well-assorted or a happy one. From infancy, I have heard you spoken of with honour and respect-with something that was almost reverence. I have heard of such devotion, of such fortitude and tenderness, of such rising up against the obstacles which press men down, that my fancy, since I learnt my little lesson from my mother, has shed a lustre on your name. At last, a poor student myself, from whom could I learn but you?"

Redlaw, unmoved, unchanged, and looking at him with a staring frown, answered by no word or sign.

"I cannot say," pursued the other, "I should try in vain to say, how much it has impressed me, and affected me, to find the gracious traces of the past, in that certain power of winning gratitude and confidence which is associated among us students (among the humblest of us, most) with Mr. Redlaw's generous name. Our ages and positions are so different, sir, and I am so accustomed to regard you from a distance, that I wonder at my own presumption when I touch, however lightly, on that theme. But to one who-I may say, who felt no common interest in my mother once-it may be something to hear, now that all is past, with what indescribable feelings of affection I have, in my obscurity, regarded him; with what pain and reluctance I have kept aloof from his encouragement, when a word of it would have made me rich; yet how I have felt it fit that I should hold my course, content to know him, and to be unknown. Mr. Redlaw," said the student, faintly, "what I would have said, I have said ill, for my strength is strange to me as yet; but for anything unworthy in this fraud of mine, forgive me, and for all the rest forget me!"

The staring frown remained on Redlaw's face, and yielded to no other expression until the student, with these words, advanced towards him, as if to touch his hand, when he drew back and cried to him:

"Don't come nearer to me!"

The young man stopped, shocked by the eagerness of his recoil, and by the sternness of his repulsion; and he passed his hand, thoughtfully, across his forehead.

"The past is past," said the Chemist. "It dies like the brutes. Who talks to me of its traces in my life? He raves or lies! What have I to do with your distempered dreams? If you want money, here it is. I came to offer it; and that is all I came for. There can be nothing else that brings me here," he muttered, holding his head again, with both his hands. "There can be nothing else, and yet-"

He had tossed his purse upon the table. As he fell into this dim cogitation with himself, the student took it up, and held it out to him.

"Take it back, sir," he said proudly, though not angrily. "I wish you could take from me, with it, the remembrance of your words and offer."

"You do?" he retorted, with a wild light in his eyes. "You do?"

"I do!"

The Chemist went close to him, for the first time, and took the purse, and turned him by the arm, and looked him in the face.

"There is sorrow and trouble in sickness, is there not?" he demanded, with a laugh.

The wondering student answered, "Yes."

"In its unrest, in its anxiety, in its suspense, in all its train of physical and mental miseries?" said the Chemist, with a wild unearthly exultation. "All best forgotten, are they not?"

The student did not answer, but again passed his hand, confusedly, across his forehead. Redlaw still held him by the sleeve, when Milly's voice was heard outside.

"I can see very well now," she said, "thank you, Dolf. Don't cry, dear. Father and mother will be comfortable again, to-morrow, and home will be comfortable too. A gentleman with him, is there!"

Redlaw released his hold, as he listened.

"I have feared, from the first moment," he murmured to himself, "to meet her. There is a steady quality of goodness in her, that I dread to influence. I may be the murderer of what is tenderest and best within her bosom."

She was knocking at the door.

"Shall I dismiss it as an idle foreboding, or still avoid her?" he muttered, looking uneasily around.

She was knocking at the door again.

"Of all the visitors who could come here," he said, in a hoarse alarmed voice, turning to his companion, "this is the one I should desire most to avoid. Hide me!"

The student opened a frail door in the wall, communicating where the garret-roof began to slope towards the floor, with a small inner room. Redlaw passed in hastily, and shut it after him.

The student then resumed his place upon the couch, and called to her to enter.

"Dear Mr. Edmund," said Milly, looking round, "they told me there was a gentleman here."

"There is no one here but I."

"There has been some one?"

"Yes, yes, there has been some one."

She put her little basket on the table, and went up to the back of the couch, as if to take the extended hand-but it was not there. A little surprised, in her quiet way, she leaned over to look at his face, and gently touched him on the brow.

"Are you quite as well to-night? Your head is not so cool as in the afternoon."

"Tut!" said the student, petulantly, "very little ails me."

A little more surprise, but no reproach, was expressed in her face, as she withdrew to the other side of the table, and took a small packet of needlework from her basket. But she laid it down again, on second thoughts, and going noiselessly about the room, set everything exactly in its place, and in the neatest order; even to the cushions on the couch, which she touched with so light a hand, that he hardly seemed to know it, as he lay looking at the fire. When all this was done, and she had swept the hearth, she sat down, in her modest little bonnet, to her work, and was quietly busy on it directly.

"It's the new muslin curtain for the window, Mr. Edmund," said Milly, stitching away as she talked. "It will look very clean and nice, though it costs very little, and will save your eyes, too, from the light. My William says the room should not be too light just now, when you are recovering so well, or the glare might make you giddy."

He said nothing; but there was something so fretful and impatient in his change of position, that her quick fingers stopped, and she looked at him anxiously.

"The pillows are not comfortable," she said, laying down her work and rising. "I will soon put them right."

"They are very well," he answered. "Leave them alone, pray. You make so much of everything."

He raised his head to say this, and looked at her so thanklessly, that, after he had thrown himself down again, she stood timidly pausing. However, she resumed her seat, and her needle, without having directed even a murmuring look towards him, and was soon as busy as before.

"I have been thinking, Mr. Edmund, that you have been often thinking of late, when I have been sitting by, how true the saying is, that adversity is a good teacher. Health will be more precious to you, after this illness, than it has ever been. And years hence, when this time of year comes round, and you remember the days when you lay here sick, alone, that the knowledge of your illness might not afflict those who are dearest to you, your home will be doubly dear and doubly blest. Now, isn't that a good, true thing?"

She was too intent upon her work, and too earnest in what she said, and too composed and quiet altogether, to be on the watch for any look he might direct towards her in reply; so the shaft of his ungrateful glance fell harmless, and did not wound her.

"Ah!" said Milly, with her pretty head inclining thoughtfully on one side, as she looked down, following her busy fingers with her eyes. "Even on me-and I am very different from you, Mr. Edmund, for I have no learning, and don't know how to think properly-this view of such things has made a great impression, since you have been lying ill. When I have seen you so touched by the kindness and attention of the poor people down stairs, I have felt that you thought even that experience some repayment for the loss of health, and I have read in your face, as plain as if it was a book, that but for some trouble and sorrow we should never know half the good there is about us."

His getting up from the couch, interrupted her, or she was going on to say more.

"We needn't magnify the merit, Mrs. William," he rejoined slightingly. "The people down stairs will be paid in good time I dare say, for any little extra service they may have rendered me; and perhaps they anticipate no less. I am much obliged to you, too."

Her fingers stopped, and she looked at him.

"I can't be made to feel the more obliged by your exaggerating the case," he said. "I am sensible that you have been interested in me, and I say I am much obliged to you. What more would you have?"

Her work fell on her lap, as she still looked at him walking to and fro with an intolerant air, and stopping now and then.

"I say again, I am much obliged to you. Why weaken my sense of what is your due in obligation, by preferring enormous claims upon me? Trouble, sorrow, affliction, adversity! One might suppose I had been dying a score of deaths here!"

"Do you believe, Mr. Edmund," she asked, rising and going nearer to him, "that I spoke of the poor people of the house, with any reference to myself? To me?" laying her hand upon her bosom with a simple and innocent smile of astonishment.

"Oh! I think nothing about it, my good creature," he returned. "I have had an indisposition, which your solicitude-observe! I say solicitude-makes a great deal more of, than it merits; and it's over, and we can't perpetuate it."

He coldly took a book, and sat down at the table.

She watched him for a little while, until her smile was quite gone, and then, returning to where her basket was, said gently:

"Mr. Edmund, would you rather be alone?"

"There is no reason why I should detain you here," he replied.

"Except-" said Milly, hesitating, and showing her work.

"Oh! the curtain," he answered, with a supercilious laugh. "That's not worth staying for."

She made up the little packet again, and put it in her basket. Then, standing before him with such an air of patient entreaty that he could not choose but look at her, she said:

"If you should want me, I will come back willingly. When you did want me, I was quite happy to come; there was no merit in it. I think you must be afraid, that, now you are getting well, I may be troublesome to you; but I should not have been, indeed. I should have come no longer than your weakness and confinement lasted. You owe me nothing; but it is right that you should deal as justly by me as if I was a lady-even the very lady that you love; and if you suspect me of meanly making much of the little I have tried to do to comfort your sick room, you do yourself more wrong than ever you can do me. That is why I am sorry. That is why I am very sorry."

If she had been as passionate as she was quiet, as indignant as she was calm, as angry in her look as she was gentle, as loud of tone as she was low and clear, she might have left no sense of her departure in the room, compared with that which fell upon the lonely student when she went away.

He was gazing drearily upon the place where she had been, when Redlaw came out of his concealment, and came to the door.

"When sickness lays its hand on you again," he said, looking fiercely back at him, "-may it be soon!-Die here! Rot here!"

"What have you done?" returned the other, catching at his cloak. "What change have you wrought in me? What curse have you brought upon me? Give me back myself!"

"Give me back myself!" exclaimed Redlaw like a madman. "I am infected! I am infectious! I am charged with poison for my own mind, and the minds of all mankind. Where I felt interest, compassion, sympathy, I am turning into stone. Selfishness and ingratitude spring up in my blighting footsteps. I am only so much less base than the wretches whom I make so, that in the moment of their transformation I can hate them."

As he spoke-the young man still holding to his cloak-he cast him off, and struck him: then, wildly hurried out into the night air where the wind was blowing, the snow falling, the cloud-drift sweeping on, the moon dimly shining; and where, blowing in the wind, falling with the snow, drifting with the clouds, shining in the moonlight, and heavily looming in the darkness, were the Phantom's words, "The gift that I have given, you shall give again, go where you will!"

Whither he went, he neither knew nor cared, so that he avoided company. The change he felt within him made the busy streets a desert, and himself a desert, and the multitude around him, in their manifold endurances and ways of life, a mighty waste of sand, which the winds tossed into unintelligible heaps and made a ruinous confusion of. Those traces in his breast which the Phantom had told him would "die out soon," were not, as yet, so far upon their way to death, but that he understood enough of what he was, and what he made of others, to desire to be alone.

This put it in his mind-he suddenly bethought himself, as he was going along, of the boy who had rushed into his room. And then he recollected, that of those with whom he had communicated since the Phantom's disappearance, that boy alone had shown no sign of being changed.

Monstrous and odious as the wild thing was to him, he determined to seek it out, and prove if this were really so; and also to seek it with another intention, which came into his thoughts at the same time.

So, resolving with some difficulty where he was, he directed his steps back to the old college, and to that part of it where the general porch was, and where, alone, the pavement was worn by the tread of the students' feet.

The keeper's house stood just within the iron gates, forming a part of the chief quadrangle. There was a little cloister outside, and from that sheltered place he knew he could look in at the window of their ordinary room, and see who was within. The iron gates were shut, but his hand was familiar with the fastening, and drawing it back by thrusting in his wrist between the bars, he passed through softly, shut it again, and crept up to the window, crumbling the thin crust of snow with his feet.

The fire, to which he had directed the boy last night, shining brightly through the glass, made an illuminated place upon the ground. Instinctively avoiding this, and going round it, he looked in at the window. At first, he thought that there was no one there, and that the blaze was reddening only the old beams in the ceiling and the dark walls; but peering in more narrowly, he saw the object of his search coiled asleep before it on the floor. He passed quickly to the door, opened it, and went in.

The creature lay in such a fiery heat, that, as the Chemist stooped to rouse him, it scorched his head. So soon as he was touched, the boy, not half awake, clutching his rags together with the instinct of flight upon him, half rolled and half ran into a distant corner of the room, where, heaped upon the ground, he struck his foot out to defend himself.

"Get up!" said the Chemist. "You have not forgotten me?"

"You let me alone!" returned the boy. "This is the woman's house-not yours."

The Chemist's steady eye controlled him somewhat, or inspired him with enough submission to be raised upon his feet, and looked at.

"Who washed them, and put those bandages where they were bruised and cracked?" asked the Chemist, pointing to their altered state.

"The woman did."

"And is it she who has made you cleaner in the face, too?"

"Yes, the woman."

Redlaw asked these questions to attract his eyes towards himself, and with the same intent now held him by the chin, and threw his wild hair back, though he loathed to touch him. The boy watched his eyes keenly, as if he thought it needful to his own defence, not knowing what he might do next; and Redlaw could see well that no change came over him.

"Where are they?" he inquired.

"The woman's out."

"I know she is. Where is the old man with the white hair, and his son?"

"The woman's husband, d'ye mean?" inquired the boy.

"Ay. Where are those two?"

"Out. Something's the matter, somewhere. They were fetched out in a hurry, and told me to stop here."

"Come with me," said the Chemist, "and I'll give you money."

"Come where? and how much will you give?"

"I'll give you more shillings than you ever saw, and bring you back soon. Do you know your way to where you came from?"

"You let me go," returned the boy, suddenly twisting out of his grasp. "I'm not a going to take you there. Let me be, or I'll heave some fire at you!"

He was down before it, and ready, with his savage little hand, to pluck the burning coals out.

What the Chemist had felt, in observing the effect of his charmed influence stealing over those with whom he came in contact, was not nearly equal to the cold vague terror with which he saw this baby-monster put it at defiance. It chilled his blood to look on the immovable impenetrable thing, in the likeness of a child, with its sharp malignant face turned up to his, and its almost infant hand, ready at the bars.

"Listen, boy!" he said. "You shall take me where you please, so that you take me where the people are very miserable or very wicked. I want to do them good, and not to harm them. You shall have money, as I have told you, and I will bring you back. Get up! Come quickly!" He made a hasty step towards the door, afraid of her returning.

"Will you let me walk by myself, and never hold me, nor yet touch me?" said the boy, slowly withdrawing the hand with which he threatened, and beginning to get up.

"I will!"

"And let me go, before, behind, or anyways I like?"

"I will!"

"Give me some money first, then, and go."

The Chemist laid a few shillings, one by one, in his extended hand. To count them was beyond the boy's knowledge, but he said "one," every time, and avariciously looked at each as it was given, and at the donor. He had nowhere to put them, out of his hand, but in his mouth; and he put them there.

Redlaw then wrote with his pencil on a leaf of his pocket-book, that the boy was with him; and laying it on the table, signed to him to follow. Keeping his rags together, as usual, the boy complied, and went out with his bare head and naked feet into the winter night.

Preferring not to depart by the iron gate by which he had entered, where they were in danger of meeting her whom he so anxiously avoided, the Chemist led the way, through some of those passages among which the boy had lost himself, and by that portion of the building where he lived, to a small door of which he had the key. When they got into the street, he stopped to ask his guide-who instantly retreated from him-if he knew where they were.

The savage thing looked here and there, and at length, nodding his head, pointed in the direction he designed to take. Redlaw going on at once, he followed, something less suspiciously; shifting his money from his mouth into his hand, and back again into his mouth, and stealthily rubbing it bright upon his shreds of dress, as he went along.

Three times, in their progress, they were side by side. Three times they stopped, being side by side. Three times the Chemist glanced down at his face, and shuddered as it forced upon him one reflection.

The first occasion was when they were crossing an old churchyard, and Redlaw stopped among the graves, utterly at a loss how to connect them with any tender, softening, or consolatory thought.

The second was, when the breaking forth of the moon induced him to look up at the Heavens, where he saw her in her glory, surrounded by a host of stars he still knew by the names and histories which human science has appended to them; but where he saw nothing else he had been wont to see, felt nothing he had been wont to feel, in looking up there, on a bright night.

The third was when he stopped to listen to a plaintive strain of music, but could only hear a tune, made manifest to him by the dry mechanism of the instruments and his own ears, with no address to any mystery within him, without a whisper in it of the past, or of the future, powerless upon him as the sound of last year's running water, or the rushing of last year's wind.

At each of these three times, he saw with horror that, in spite of the vast intellectual distance between them, and their being unlike each other in all physical respects, the expression on the boy's face was the expression on his own.

They journeyed on for some time-now through such crowded places, that he often looked over his shoulder thinking he had lost his guide, but generally finding him within his shadow on his other side; now by ways so quiet, that he could have counted his short, quick, naked footsteps coming on behind-until they arrived at a ruinous collection of houses, and the boy touched him and stopped.

"In there!" he said, pointing out one house where there were shattered lights in the windows, and a dim lantern in the doorway, with "Lodgings for Travellers" painted on it.

Redlaw looked about him; from the houses to the waste piece of ground on which the houses stood, or rather did not altogether tumble down, unfenced, undrained, unlighted, and bordered by a sluggish ditch; from that, to the sloping line of arches, part of some neighbouring viaduct or bridge with which it was surrounded, and which lessened gradually towards them, until the last but one was a mere kennel for a dog, the last a plundered little heap of bricks; from that, to the child, close to him, cowering and trembling with the cold, and limping on one little foot, while he coiled the other round his leg to warm it, yet staring at all these things with that frightful likeness of expression so apparent in his face, that Redlaw started from him.

"In there!" said the boy, pointing out the house again. "I'll wait."

"Will they let me in?" asked Redlaw.

"Say you're a doctor," he answered with a nod. "There's plenty ill here."

Looking back on his way to the house-door, Redlaw saw him trail himself upon the dust and crawl within the shelter of the smallest arch, as if he were a rat. He had no pity for the thing, but he was afraid of it; and when it looked out of its den at him, he hurried to the house as a retreat.

"Sorrow, wrong, and trouble," said the Chemist, with a painful effort at some more distinct remembrance, "at least haunt this place darkly. He can do no harm, who brings forgetfulness of such things here!"

With these words, he pushed the yielding door, and went in.

There was a woman sitting on the stairs, either asleep or forlorn, whose head was bent down on her hands and knees. As it was not easy to pass without treading on her, and as she was perfectly regardless of his near approach, he stopped, and touched her on the shoulder. Looking up, she showed him quite a young face, but one whose bloom and promise were all swept away, as if the haggard winter should unnaturally kill the spring.

With little or no show of concern on his account, she moved nearer to the wall to leave him a wider passage.

"What are you?" said Redlaw, pausing, with his hand upon the broken stair-rail.

"What do you think I am?" she answered, showing him her face again.

He looked upon the ruined Temple of God, so lately made, so soon disfigured; and something, which was not compassion-for the springs in which a true compassion for such miseries has its rise, were dried up in his breast-but which was nearer to it, for the moment, than any feeling that had lately struggled into the darkening, but not yet wholly darkened, night of his mind-mingled a touch of softness with his next words.

"I am come here to give relief, if I can," he said. "Are you thinking of any wrong?"

She frowned at him, and then laughed; and then her laugh prolonged itself into a shivering sigh, as she dropped her head again, and hid her fingers in her hair.

"Are you thinking of a wrong?" he asked once more.

"I am thinking of my life," she said, with a mometary look at him.

He had a perception that she was one of many, and that he saw the type of thousands, when he saw her, drooping at his feet.

"What are your parents?" he demanded.

"I had a good home once. My father was a gardener, far away, in the country."

"Is he dead?"

"He's dead to me. All such things are dead to me. You a gentleman, and not know that!" She raised her eyes again, and laughed at him.

"Girl!" said Redlaw, sternly, "before this death, of all such things, was brought about, was there no wrong done to you? In spite of all that you can do, does no remembrance of wrong cleave to you? Are there not times upon times when it is misery to you?"

So little of what was womanly was left in her appearance, that now, when she burst into tears, he stood amazed. But he was more amazed, and much disquieted, to note that in her awakened recollection of this wrong, the first trace of her old humanity and frozen tenderness appeared to show itself.

He drew a little off, and in doing so, observed that her arms were black, her face cut, and her bosom bruised.

"What brutal hand has hurt you so?" he asked.

"My own. I did it myself!" she answered quickly.

"It is impossible."

"I'll swear I did! He didn't touch me. I did it to myself in a passion, and threw myself down here. He wasn't near me. He never laid a hand upon me!"

In the white determination of her face, confronting him with this untruth, he saw enough of the last perversion and distortion of good surviving in that miserable breast, to be stricken with remorse that he had ever come near her.

"Sorrow, wrong, and trouble!" he muttered, turning his fearful gaze away. "All that connects her with the state from which she has fallen, has those roots! In the name of God, let me go by!"

Afraid to look at her again, afraid to touch her, afraid to think of having sundered the last thread by which she held upon the mercy of Heaven, he gathered his cloak about him, and glided swiftly up the stairs.

Opposite to him, on the landing, was a door, which stood partly open, and which, as he ascended, a man with a candle in his hand, came forward from within to shut. But this man, on seeing him, drew back, with much emotion in his manner, and, as if by a sudden impulse, mentioned his name aloud.

In the surprise of such a recognition there, he stopped, endeavouring to recollect the wan and startled face. He had no time to consider it, for, to his yet greater amazement, old Philip came out of the room, and took him by the hand.

"Mr. Redlaw," said the old man, "this is like you, this is like you, sir! you have heard of it, and have come after us to render any help you can. Ah, too late, too late!"

Redlaw, with a bewildered look, submitted to be led into the room. A man lay there, on a truckle-bed, and William Swidger stood at the bedside.

"Too late!" murmured the old man, looking wistfully into the Chemist's face; and the tears stole down his cheeks.

"That's what I say, father," interposed his son in a low voice. "That's where it is, exactly. To keep as quiet as ever we can while he's a dozing, is the only thing to do. You're right, father!"

Redlaw paused at the bedside, and looked down on the figure that was stretched upon the mattress. It was that of a man, who should have been in the vigour of his life, but on whom it was not likely the sun would ever shine again. The vices of his forty or fifty years' career had so branded him, that, in comparison with their effects upon his face, the heavy hand of Time upon the old man's face who watched him had been merciful and beautifying.

"Who is this?" asked the Chemist, looking round.

"My son George, Mr. Redlaw," said the old man, wringing his hands. "My eldest son, George, who was more his mother's pride than all the rest!"

Redlaw's eyes wandered from the old man's grey head, as he laid it down upon the bed, to the person who had recognised him, and who had kept aloof, in the remotest corner of the room. He seemed to be about his own age; and although he knew no such hopeless decay and broken man as he appeared to be, there was something in the turn of his figure, as he stood with his back towards him, and now went out at the door, that made him pass his hand uneasily across his brow.

"William," he said in a gloomy whisper, "who is that man?"

"Why you see, sir," returned Mr. William, "that's what I say, myself. Why should a man ever go and gamble, and the like of that, and let himself down inch by inch till he can't let himself down any lower!"

"Has he done so?" asked Redlaw, glancing after him with the same uneasy action as before.

"Just exactly that, sir," returned William Swidger, "as I'm told. He knows a little about medicine, sir, it seems; and having been wayfaring towards London with my unhappy brother that you see here," Mr. William passed his coat-sleeve across his eyes, "and being lodging up stairs for the night-what I say, you see, is that strange companions come together here sometimes-he looked in to attend upon him, and came for us at his request. What a mournful spectacle, sir! But that's where it is. It's enough to kill my father!"

Redlaw looked up, at these words, and, recalling where he was and with whom, and the spell he carried with him-which his surprise had obscured-retired a little, hurriedly, debating with himself whether to shun the house that moment, or remain.

Yielding to a certain sullen doggedness, which it seemed to be a part of his condition to struggle with, he argued for remaining.

"Was it only yesterday," he said, "when I observed the memory of this old man to be a tissue of sorrow and trouble, and shall I be afraid, to-night, to shake it? Are such remembrances as I can drive away, so precious to this dying man that I need fear for him? No! I'll stay here."

But he stayed in fear and trembling none the less for these words; and, shrouded in his black cloak with his face turned from them, stood away from the bedside, listening to what they said, as if he felt himself a demon in the place.

"Father!" murmured the sick man, rallying a little from stupor.

"My boy! My son George!" said old Philip.

"You spoke, just now, of my being mother's favourite, long ago. It's a dreadful thing to think now, of long ago!"

"No, no, no;" returned the old man. "Think of it. Don't say it's dreadful. It's not dreadful to me, my son."

"It cuts you to the heart, father." For the old man's tears were falling on him.

"Yes, yes," said Philip, "so it does; but it does me good. It's a heavy sorrow to think of that time, but it does me good, George. Oh, think of it too, think of it too, and your heart will be softened more and more! Where's my son William? William, my boy, your mother loved him dearly to the last, and with her latest breath said, 'Tell him I forgave him, blessed him, and prayed for him.' Those were her words to me. I have never forgotten them, and I'm eighty-seven!"

"Father!" said the man upon the bed, "I am dying, I know. I am so far gone, that I can hardly speak, even of what my mind most runs on. Is there any hope for me beyond this bed?"

"There is hope," returned the old man, "for all who are softened and penitent. There is hope for all such. Oh!" he exclaimed, clasping his hands and looking up, "I was thankful, only yesterday, that I could remember this unhappy son when he was an innocent child. But what a comfort it is, now, to think that even God himself has that remembrance of him!"

Redlaw spread his hands upon his face, and shrank, like a murderer.

"Ah!" feebly moaned the man upon the bed. "The waste since then, the waste of life since then!"

"But he was a child once," said the old man. "He played with children. Before he lay down on his bed at night, and fell into his guiltless rest, he said his prayers at his poor mother's knee. I have seen him do it, many a time; and seen her lay his head upon her breast, and kiss him. Sorrowful as it was to her and me, to think of this, when he went so wrong, and when our hopes and plans for him were all broken, this gave him still a hold upon us, that nothing else could have given. Oh, Father, so much better than the fathers upon earth! Oh, Father, so much more afflicted by the errors of Thy children! take this wanderer back! Not as he is, but as he was then, let him cry to Thee, as he has so often seemed to cry to us!"

As the old man lifted up his trembling hands, the son, for whom he made the supplication, laid his sinking head against him for support and comfort, as if he were indeed the child of whom he spoke.

When did man ever tremble, as Redlaw trembled, in the silence that ensued! He knew it must come upon them, knew that it was coming fast.

"My time is very short, my breath is shorter," said the sick man, supporting himself on one arm, and with the other groping in the air, "and I remember there is something on my mind concerning the man who was here just now, Father and William-wait!-is there really anything in black, out there?"

"Yes, yes, it is real," said his aged father.

"Is it a man?"

"What I say myself, George," interposed his brother, bending kindly over him. "It's Mr. Redlaw."

"I thought I had dreamed of him. Ask him to come here."

The Chemist, whiter than the dying man, appeared before him. Obedient to the motion of his hand, he sat upon the bed.

"It has been so ripped up, to-night, sir," said the sick man, laying his hand upon his heart, with a look in which the mute, imploring agony of his condition was concentrated, "by the sight of my poor old father, and the thought of all the trouble I have been the cause of, and all the wrong and sorrow lying at my door, that-"

Was it the extremity to which he had come, or was it the dawning of another change, that made him stop?

"-that what I can do right, with my mind running on so much, so fast, I'll try to do. There was another man here. Did you see him?"

Redlaw could not reply by any word; for when he saw that fatal sign he knew so well now, of the wandering hand upon the forehead, his voice died at his lips. But he made some indication of assent.

"He is penniless, hungry, and destitute. He is completely beaten down, and has no resource at all. Look after him! Lose no time! I know he has it in his mind to kill himself."

It was working. It was on his face. His face was changing, hardening, deepening in all its shades, and losing all its sorrow.

"Don't you remember? Don't you know him?" he pursued.

He shut his face out for a moment, with the hand that again wandered over his forehead, and then it lowered on Redlaw, reckless, ruffianly, and callous.

"Why, d-n you!" he said, scowling round, "what have you been doing to me here! I have lived bold, and I mean to die bold. To the Devil with you!"

And so lay down upon his bed, and put his arms up, over his head and ears, as resolute from that time to keep out all access, and to die in his indifference.

If Redlaw had been struck by lightning, it could not have struck him from the bedside with a more tremendous shock. But the old man, who had left the bed while his son was speaking to him, now returning, avoided it quickly likewise, and with abhorrence.

"Where's my boy William?" said the old man hurriedly. "William, come away from here. We'll go home."

"Home, father!" returned William. "Are you going to leave your own son?"

"Where's my own son?" replied the old man.

"Where? why, there!"

"That's no son of mine," said Philip, trembling with resentment. "No such wretch as that, has any claim on me. My children are pleasant to look at, and they wait upon me, and get my meat and drink ready, and are useful to me. I've a right to it! I'm eighty-seven!"

"You're old enough to be no older," muttered William, looking at him grudgingly, with his hands in his pockets. "I don't know what good you are, myself. We could have a deal more pleasure without you."

"My son, Mr. Redlaw!" said the old man. "My son, too! The boy talking to me of my son! Why, what has he ever done to give me any pleasure, I should like to know?"

"I don't know what you have ever done to give me any pleasure," said William, sulkily.

"Let me think," said the old man. "For how many Christmas times running, have I sat in my warm place, and never had to come out in the cold night air; and have made good cheer, without being disturbed by any such uncomfortable, wretched sight as him there? Is it twenty, William?"

"Nigher forty, it seems," he muttered. "Why, when I look at my father, sir, and come to think of it," addressing Redlaw, with an impatience and irritation that were quite new, "I'm whipped if I can see anything in him but a calendar of ever so many years of eating and drinking, and making himself comfortable, over and over again."

"I-I'm eighty-seven," said the old man, rambling on, childishly and weakly, "and I don't know as I ever was much put out by anything. I'm not going to begin now, because of what he calls my son. He's not my son. I've had a power of pleasant times. I recollect once-no I don't-no, it's broken off. It was something about a game of cricket and a friend of mine, but it's somehow broken off. I wonder who he was-I suppose I liked him? And I wonder what became of him-I suppose he died? But I don't know. And I don't care, neither; I don't care a bit."

In his drowsy chuckling, and the shaking of his head, he put his hands into his waistcoat pockets. In one of them he found a bit of holly (left there, probably last night), which he now took out, and looked at.

"Berries, eh?" said the old man. "Ah! It's a pity they're not good to eat. I recollect, when I was a little chap about as high as that, and out a walking with-let me see-who was I out a walking with?-no, I don't remember how that was. I don't remember as I ever walked with any one particular, or cared for any one, or any one for me. Berries, eh? There's good cheer when there's berries. Well; I ought to have my share of it, and to be waited on, and kept warm and comfortable; for I'm eighty-seven, and a poor old man. I'm eigh-ty-seven. Eigh-ty-seven!"

The drivelling, pitiable manner in which, as he repeated this, he nibbled at the leaves, and spat the morsels out; the cold, uninterested eye with which his youngest son (so changed) regarded him; the determined apathy with which his eldest son lay hardened in his sin; impressed themselves no more on Redlaw's observation,-for he broke his way from the spot to which his feet seemed to have been fixed, and ran out of the house.

His guide came crawling forth from his place of refuge, and was ready for him before he reached the arches.

"Back to the woman's?" he inquired.

"Back, quickly!" answered Redlaw. "Stop nowhere on the way!"

For a short distance the boy went on before; but their return was more like a flight than a walk, and it was as much as his bare feet could do, to keep pace with the Chemist's rapid strides. Shrinking from all who passed, shrouded in his cloak, and keeping it drawn closely about him, as though there were mortal contagion in any fluttering touch of his garments, he made no pause until they reached the door by which they had come out. He unlocked it with his key, went in, accompanied by the boy, and hastened through the dark passages to his own chamber.

The boy watched him as he made the door fast, and withdrew behind the table, when he looked round.

"Come!" he said. "Don't you touch me! You've not brought me here to take my money away."

Redlaw threw some more upon the ground. He flung his body on it immediately, as if to hide it from him, lest the sight of it should tempt him to reclaim it; and not until he saw him seated by his lamp, with his face hidden in his hands, began furtively to pick it up. When he had done so, he crept near the fire, and, sitting down in a great chair before it, took from his breast some broken scraps of food, and fell to munching, and to staring at the blaze, and now and then to glancing at his shillings, which he kept clenched up in a bunch, in one hand.

"And this," said Redlaw, gazing on him with increased repugnance and fear, "is the only one companion I have left on earth!"

How long it was before he was aroused from his contemplation of this creature, whom he dreaded so-whether half-an-hour, or half the night-he knew not. But the stillness of the room was broken by the boy (whom he had seen listening) starting up, and running towards the door.

"Here's the woman coming!" he exclaimed.

The Chemist stopped him on his way, at the moment when she knocked.

"Let me go to her, will you?" said the boy.

"Not now," returned the Chemist. "Stay here. Nobody must pass in or out of the room now. Who's that?"

"It's I, sir," cried Milly. "Pray, sir, let me in!"

"No! not for the world!" he said.

"Mr. Redlaw, Mr. Redlaw, pray, sir, let me in."

"What is the matter?" he said, holding the boy.

"The miserable man you saw, is worse, and nothing I can say will wake him from his terrible infatuation. William's father has turned childish in a moment, William himself is changed. The shock has been too sudden for him; I cannot understand him; he is not like himself. Oh, Mr. Redlaw, pray advise me, help me!"

"No! No! No!" he answered.

"Mr. Redlaw! Dear sir! George has been muttering, in his doze, about the man you saw there, who, he fears, will kill himself."

"Better he should do it, than come near me!"

"He says, in his wandering, that you know him; that he was your friend once, long ago; that he is the ruined father of a student here-my mind misgives me, of the young gentleman who has been ill. What is to be done? How is he to be followed? How is he to be saved? Mr. Redlaw, pray, oh, pray, advise me! Help me!"

All this time he held the boy, who was half-mad to pass him, and let her in.

"Phantoms! Punishers of impious thoughts!" cried Redlaw, gazing round in anguish, "look upon me! From the darkness of my mind, let the glimmering of contrition that I know is there, shine up and show my misery! In the material world as I have long taught, nothing can be spared; no step or atom in the wondrous structure could be lost, without a blank being made in the great universe. I know, now, that it is the same with good and evil, happiness and sorrow, in the memories of men. Pity me! Relieve me!"

There was no response, but her "Help me, help me, let me in!" and the boy's struggling to get to her.

"Shadow of myself! Spirit of my darker hours!" cried Redlaw, in distraction, "come back, and haunt me day and night, but take this gift away! Or, if it must still rest with me, deprive me of the dreadful power of giving it to others. Undo what I have done. Leave me benighted, but restore the day to those whom I have cursed. As I have spared this woman from the first, and as I never will go forth again, but will die here, with no hand to tend me, save this creature's who is proof against me,-hear me!"

The only reply still was, the boy struggling to get to her, while he held him back; and the cry, increasing in its energy, "Help! let me in. He was your friend once, how shall he be followed, how shall he be saved? They are all changed, there is no one else to help me, pray, pray, let me in!"



CHAPTER III-The Gift Reversed


Night was still heavy in the sky. On open plains, from hill-tops, and from the decks of solitary ships at sea, a distant low-lying line, that promised by-and-by to change to light, was visible in the dim horizon; but its promise was remote and doubtful, and the moon was striving with the night-clouds busily.

The shadows upon Redlaw's mind succeeded thick and fast to one another, and obscured its light as the night-clouds hovered between the moon and earth, and kept the latter veiled in darkness. Fitful and uncertain as the shadows which the night-clouds cast, were their concealments from him, and imperfect revelations to him; and, like the night-clouds still, if the clear light broke forth for a moment, it was only that they might sweep over it, and make the darkness deeper than before.

Without, there was a profound and solemn hush upon the ancient pile of building, and its buttresses and angles made dark shapes of mystery upon the ground, which now seemed to retire into the smooth white snow and now seemed to come out of it, as the moon's path was more or less beset. Within, the Chemist's room was indistinct and murky, by the light of the expiring lamp; a ghostly silence had succeeded to the knocking and the voice outside; nothing was audible but, now and then, a low sound among the whitened ashes of the fire, as of its yielding up its last breath. Before it on the ground the boy lay fast asleep. In his chair, the Chemist sat, as he had sat there since the calling at his door had ceased-like a man turned to stone.

At such a time, the Christmas music he had heard before, began to play. He listened to it at first, as he had listened in the church-yard; but presently-it playing still, and being borne towards him on the night air, in a low, sweet, melancholy strain-he rose, and stood stretching his hands about him, as if there were some friend approaching within his reach, on whom his desolate touch might rest, yet do no harm. As he did this, his face became less fixed and wondering; a gentle trembling came upon him; and at last his eyes filled with tears, and he put his hands before them, and bowed down his head.

His memory of sorrow, wrong, and trouble, had not come back to him; he knew that it was not restored; he had no passing belief or hope that it was. But some dumb stir within him made him capable, again, of being moved by what was hidden, afar off, in the music. If it were only that it told him sorrowfully the value of what he had lost, he thanked Heaven for it with a fervent gratitude.

As the last chord died upon his ear, he raised his head to listen to its lingering vibration. Beyond the boy, so that his sleeping figure lay at its feet, the Phantom stood, immovable and silent, with its eyes upon him.

Ghastly it was, as it had ever been, but not so cruel and relentless in its aspect-or he thought or hoped so, as he looked upon it trembling. It was not alone, but in its shadowy hand it held another hand.

And whose was that? Was the form that stood beside it indeed Milly's, or but her shade and picture? The quiet head was bent a little, as her manner was, and her eyes were looking down, as if in pity, on the sleeping child. A radiant light fell on her face, but did not touch the Phantom; for, though close beside her, it was dark and colourless as ever.

"Spectre!" said the Chemist, newly troubled as he looked, "I have not been stubborn or presumptuous in respect of her. Oh, do not bring her here. Spare me that!"

"This is but a shadow," said the Phantom; "when the morning shines seek out the reality whose image I present before you."

"Is it my inexorable doom to do so?" cried the Chemist.

"It is," replied the Phantom.

"To destroy her peace, her goodness; to make her what I am myself, and what I have made of others!"

"I have said seek her out," returned the Phantom. "I have said no more."

"Oh, tell me," exclaimed Redlaw, catching at the hope which he fancied might lie hidden in the words. "Can I undo what I have done?"

"No," returned the Phantom.

"I do not ask for restoration to myself," said Redlaw. "What I abandoned, I abandoned of my own free will, and have justly lost. But for those to whom I have transferred the fatal gift; who never sought it; who unknowingly received a curse of which they had no warning, and which they had no power to shun; can I do nothing?"

"Nothing," said the Phantom.

"If I cannot, can any one?"

The Phantom, standing like a statue, kept its gaze upon him for a while; then turned its head suddenly, and looked upon the shadow at its side.

"Ah! Can she?" cried Redlaw, still looking upon the shade.

The Phantom released the hand it had retained till now, and softly raised its own with a gesture of dismissal. Upon that, her shadow, still preserving the same attitude, began to move or melt away.

"Stay," cried Redlaw with an earnestness to which he could not give enough expression. "For a moment! As an act of mercy! I know that some change fell upon me, when those sounds were in the air just now. Tell me, have I lost the power of harming her? May I go near her without dread? Oh, let her give me any sign of hope!"

The Phantom looked upon the shade as he did-not at him-and gave no answer.

"At least, say this-has she, henceforth, the consciousness of any power to set right what I have done?"

"She has not," the Phantom answered.

"Has she the power bestowed on her without the consciousness?"

The phantom answered: "Seek her out."

And her shadow slowly vanished.

They were face to face again, and looking on each other, as intently and awfully as at the time of the bestowal of the gift, across the boy who still lay on the ground between them, at the Phantom's feet.

"Terrible instructor," said the Chemist, sinking on his knee before it, in an attitude of supplication, "by whom I was renounced, but by whom I am revisited (in which, and in whose milder aspect, I would fain believe I have a gleam of hope), I will obey without inquiry, praying that the cry I have sent up in the anguish of my soul has been, or will be, heard, in behalf of those whom I have injured beyond human reparation. But there is one thing-"

"You speak to me of what is lying here," the phantom interposed, and pointed with its finger to the boy.

"I do," returned the Chemist. "You know what I would ask. Why has this child alone been proof against my influence, and why, why, have I detected in its thoughts a terrible companionship with mine?"

"This," said the Phantom, pointing to the boy, "is the last, completest illustration of a human creature, utterly bereft of such remembrances as you have yielded up. No softening memory of sorrow, wrong, or trouble enters here, because this wretched mortal from his birth has been abandoned to a worse condition than the beasts, and has, within his knowledge, no one contrast, no humanising touch, to make a grain of such a memory spring up in his hardened breast. All within this desolate creature is barren wilderness. All within the man bereft of what you have resigned, is the same barren wilderness. Woe to such a man! Woe, tenfold, to the nation that shall count its monsters such as this, lying here, by hundreds and by thousands!"

Redlaw shrank, appalled, from what he heard.

"There is not," said the Phantom, "one of these-not one-but sows a harvest that mankind MUST reap. From every seed of evil in this boy, a field of ruin is grown that shall be gathered in, and garnered up, and sown again in many places in the world, until regions are overspread with wickedness enough to raise the waters of another Deluge. Open and unpunished murder in a city's streets would be less guilty in its daily toleration, than one such spectacle as this."

It seemed to look down upon the boy in his sleep. Redlaw, too, looked down upon him with a new emotion.

"There is not a father," said the Phantom, "by whose side in his daily or his nightly walk, these creatures pass; there is not a mother among all the ranks of loving mothers in this land; there is no one risen from the state of childhood, but shall be responsible in his or her degree for this enormity. There is not a country throughout the earth on which it would not bring a curse. There is no religion upon earth that it would not deny; there is no people upon earth it would not put to shame."

The Chemist clasped his hands, and looked, with trembling fear and pity, from the sleeping boy to the Phantom, standing above him with his finger pointing down.

"Behold, I say," pursued the Spectre, "the perfect type of what it was your choice to be. Your influence is powerless here, because from this child's bosom you can banish nothing. His thoughts have been in 'terrible companionship' with yours, because you have gone down to his unnatural level. He is the growth of man's indifference; you are the growth of man's presumption. The beneficent design of Heaven is, in each case, overthrown, and from the two poles of the immaterial world you come together."

The Chemist stooped upon the ground beside the boy, and, with the same kind of compassion for him that he now felt for himself, covered him as he slept, and no longer shrank from him with abhorrence or indifference.

Soon, now, the distant line on the horizon brightened, the darkness faded, the sun rose red and glorious, and the chimney stacks and gables of the ancient building gleamed in the clear air, which turned the smoke and vapour of the city into a cloud of gold. The very sun-dial in his shady corner, where the wind was used to spin with such unwindy constancy, shook off the finer particles of snow that had accumulated on his dull old face in the night, and looked out at the little white wreaths eddying round and round him. Doubtless some blind groping of the morning made its way down into the forgotten crypt so cold and earthy, where the Norman arches were half buried in the ground, and stirred the dull sap in the lazy vegetation hanging to the walls, and quickened the slow principle of life within the little world of wonderful and delicate creation which existed there, with some faint knowledge that the sun was up.

The Tetterbys were up, and doing. Mr. Tetterby took down the shutters of the shop, and, strip by strip, revealed the treasures of the window to the eyes, so proof against their seductions, of Jerusalem Buildings. Adolphus had been out so long already, that he was halfway on to "Morning Pepper." Five small Tetterbys, whose ten round eyes were much inflamed by soap and friction, were in the tortures of a cool wash in the back kitchen; Mrs. Tetterby presiding. Johnny, who was pushed and hustled through his toilet with great rapidity when Moloch chanced to be in an exacting frame of mind (which was always the case), staggered up and down with his charge before the shop door, under greater difficulties than usual; the weight of Moloch being much increased by a complication of defences against the cold, composed of knitted worsted-work, and forming a complete suit of chain-armour, with a head-piece and blue gaiters.

It was a peculiarity of this baby to be always cutting teeth. Whether they never came, or whether they came and went away again, is not in evidence; but it had certainly cut enough, on the showing of Mrs. Tetterby, to make a handsome dental provision for the sign of the Bull and Mouth. All sorts of objects were impressed for the rubbing of its gums, notwithstanding that it always carried, dangling at its waist (which was immediately under its chin), a bone ring, large enough to have represented the rosary of a young nun. Knife-handles, umbrella-tops, the heads of walking-sticks selected from the stock, the fingers of the family in general, but especially of Johnny, nutmeg-graters, crusts, the handles of doors, and the cool knobs on the tops of pokers, were among the commonest instruments indiscriminately applied for this baby's relief. The amount of electricity that must have been rubbed out of it in a week, is not to be calculated. Still Mrs. Tetterby always said "it was coming through, and then the child would be herself;" and still it never did come through, and the child continued to be somebody else.

The tempers of the little Tetterbys had sadly changed with a few hours. Mr. and Mrs. Tetterby themselves were not more altered than their offspring. Usually they were an unselfish, good-natured, yielding little race, sharing short commons when it happened (which was pretty often) contentedly and even generously, and taking a great deal of enjoyment out of a very little meat. But they were fighting now, not only for the soap and water, but even for the breakfast which was yet in perspective. The hand of every little Tetterby was against the other little Tetterbys; and even Johnny's hand-the patient, much-enduring, and devoted Johnny-rose against the baby! Yes, Mrs. Tetterby, going to the door by mere accident, saw him viciously pick out a weak place in the suit of armour where a slap would tell, and slap that blessed child.

Mrs. Tetterby had him into the parlour by the collar, in that same flash of time, and repaid him the assault with usury thereto.

"You brute, you murdering little boy," said Mrs. Tetterby. "Had you the heart to do it?"

"Why don't her teeth come through, then," retorted Johnny, in a loud rebellious voice, "instead of bothering me? How would you like it yourself?"

"Like it, sir!" said Mrs. Tetterby, relieving him of his dishonoured load.

"Yes, like it," said Johnny. "How would you? Not at all. If you was me, you'd go for a soldier. I will, too. There an't no babies in the Army."

Mr. Tetterby, who had arrived upon the scene of action, rubbed his chin thoughtfully, instead of correcting the rebel, and seemed rather struck by this view of a military life.

"I wish I was in the Army myself, if the child's in the right," said Mrs. Tetterby, looking at her husband, "for I have no peace of my life here. I'm a slave-a Virginia slave:" some indistinct association with their weak descent on the tobacco trade perhaps suggested this aggravated expression to Mrs. Tetterby. "I never have a holiday, or any pleasure at all, from year's end to year's end! Why, Lord bless and save the child," said Mrs. Tetterby, shaking the baby with an irritability hardly suited to so pious an aspiration, "what's the matter with her now?"

Not being able to discover, and not rendering the subject much clearer by shaking it, Mrs. Tetterby put the baby away in a cradle, and, folding her arms, sat rocking it angrily with her foot.

"How you stand there, 'Dolphus," said Mrs. Tetterby to her husband. "Why don't you do something?"

"Because I don't care about doing anything," Mr. Tetterby replied.

"I am sure I don't," said Mrs. Tetterby.

"I'll take my oath I don't," said Mr. Tetterby.

A diversion arose here among Johnny and his five younger brothers, who, in preparing the family breakfast table, had fallen to skirmishing for the temporary possession of the loaf, and were buffeting one another with great heartiness; the smallest boy of all, with precocious discretion, hovering outside the knot of combatants, and harassing their legs. Into the midst of this fray, Mr. and Mrs. Tetterby both precipitated themselves with great ardour, as if such ground were the only ground on which they could now agree; and having, with no visible remains of their late soft-heartedness, laid about them without any lenity, and done much execution, resumed their former relative positions.

"You had better read your paper than do nothing at all," said Mrs. Tetterby.

"What's there to read in a paper?" returned Mr. Tetterby, with excessive discontent.

"What?" said Mrs. Tetterby. "Police."

"It's nothing to me," said Tetterby. "What do I care what people do, or are done to?"

"Suicides," suggested Mrs. Tetterby.

"No business of mine," replied her husband.

"Births, deaths, and marriages, are those nothing to you?" said Mrs. Tetterby.

"If the births were all over for good, and all to-day; and the deaths were all to begin to come off to-morrow; I don't see why it should interest me, till I thought it was a coming to my turn," grumbled Tetterby. "As to marriages, I've done it myself. I know quite enough about them."

To judge from the dissatisfied expression of her face and manner, Mrs. Tetterby appeared to entertain the same opinions as her husband; but she opposed him, nevertheless, for the gratification of quarrelling with him.

"Oh, you're a consistent man," said Mrs. Tetterby, "an't you? You, with the screen of your own making there, made of nothing else but bits of newspapers, which you sit and read to the children by the half-hour together!"

"Say used to, if you please," returned her husband. "You won't find me doing so any more. I'm wiser now."

"Bah! wiser, indeed!" said Mrs. Tetterby. "Are you better?"

The question sounded some discordant note in Mr. Tetterby's breast. He ruminated dejectedly, and passed his hand across and across his forehead.

"Better!" murmured Mr. Tetterby. "I don't know as any of us are better, or happier either. Better, is it?"

He turned to the screen, and traced about it with his finger, until he found a certain paragraph of which he was in quest.

"This used to be one of the family favourites, I recollect," said Tetterby, in a forlorn and stupid way, "and used to draw tears from the children, and make 'em good, if there was any little bickering or discontent among 'em, next to the story of the robin redbreasts in the wood. 'Melancholy case of destitution. Yesterday a small man, with a baby in his arms, and surrounded by half-a-dozen ragged little ones, of various ages between ten and two, the whole of whom were evidently in a famishing condition, appeared before the worthy magistrate, and made the following recital:'-Ha! I don't understand it, I'm sure," said Tetterby; "I don't see what it has got to do with us."

"How old and shabby he looks," said Mrs. Tetterby, watching him. "I never saw such a change in a man. Ah! dear me, dear me, dear me, it was a sacrifice!"

"What was a sacrifice?" her husband sourly inquired.

Mrs. Tetterby shook her head; and without replying in words, raised a complete sea-storm about the baby, by her violent agitation of the cradle.

"If you mean your marriage was a sacrifice, my good woman-" said her husband.

"I do mean it," said his wife.

"Why, then I mean to say," pursued Mr. Tetterby, as sulkily and surlily as she, "that there are two sides to that affair; and that I was the sacrifice; and that I wish the sacrifice hadn't been accepted."

"I wish it hadn't, Tetterby, with all my heart and soul I do assure you," said his wife. "You can't wish it more than I do, Tetterby."

"I don't know what I saw in her," muttered the newsman, "I'm sure;-certainly, if I saw anything, it's not there now. I was thinking so, last night, after supper, by the fire. She's fat, she's ageing, she won't bear comparison with most other women."

"He's common-looking, he has no air with him, he's small, he's beginning to stoop and he's getting bald," muttered Mrs. Tetterby.

"I must have been half out of my mind when I did it," muttered Mr. Tetterby.

"My senses must have forsook me. That's the only way in which I can explain it to myself," said Mrs. Tetterby with elaboration.

In this mood they sat down to breakfast. The little Tetterbys were not habituated to regard that meal in the light of a sedentary occupation, but discussed it as a dance or trot; rather resembling a savage ceremony, in the occasionally shrill whoops, and brandishings of bread and butter, with which it was accompanied, as well as in the intricate filings off into the street and back again, and the hoppings up and down the door-steps, which were incidental to the performance. In the present instance, the contentions between these Tetterby children for the milk-and-water jug, common to all, which stood upon the table, presented so lamentable an instance of angry passions risen very high indeed, that it was an outrage on the memory of Dr. Watts. It was not until Mr. Tetterby had driven the whole herd out at the front door, that a moment's peace was secured; and even that was broken by the discovery that Johnny had surreptitiously come back, and was at that instant choking in the jug like a ventriloquist, in his indecent and rapacious haste.

"These children will be the death of me at last!" said Mrs. Tetterby, after banishing the culprit. "And the sooner the better, I think."

"Poor people," said Mr. Tetterby, "ought not to have children at all. They give us no pleasure."

He was at that moment taking up the cup which Mrs. Tetterby had rudely pushed towards him, and Mrs. Tetterby was lifting her own cup to her lips, when they both stopped, as if they were transfixed.

"Here! Mother! Father!" cried Johnny, running into the room. "Here's Mrs. William coming down the street!"

And if ever, since the world began, a young boy took a baby from a cradle with the care of an old nurse, and hushed and soothed it tenderly, and tottered away with it cheerfully, Johnny was that boy, and Moloch was that baby, as they went out together!

Mr. Tetterby put down his cup; Mrs. Tetterby put down her cup. Mr. Tetterby rubbed his forehead; Mrs. Tetterby rubbed hers. Mr. Tetterby's face began to smooth and brighten; Mrs. Tetterby's began to smooth and brighten.

"Why, Lord forgive me," said Mr. Tetterby to himself, "what evil tempers have I been giving way to? What has been the matter here!"

"How could I ever treat him ill again, after all I said and felt last night!" sobbed Mrs. Tetterby, with her apron to her eyes.

"Am I a brute," said Mr. Tetterby, "or is there any good in me at all? Sophia! My little woman!"

"'Dolphus dear," returned his wife.

"I-I've been in a state of mind," said Mr. Tetterby, "that I can't abear to think of, Sophy."

"Oh! It's nothing to what I've been in, Dolf," cried his wife in a great burst of grief.

"My Sophia," said Mr. Tetterby, "don't take on. I never shall forgive myself. I must have nearly broke your heart, I know."

"No, Dolf, no. It was me! Me!" cried Mrs. Tetterby.

"My little woman," said her husband, "don't. You make me reproach myself dreadful, when you show such a noble spirit. Sophia, my dear, you don't know what I thought. I showed it bad enough, no doubt; but what I thought, my little woman!-"

"Oh, dear Dolf, don't! Don't!" cried his wife.

"Sophia," said Mr. Tetterby, "I must reveal it. I couldn't rest in my conscience unless I mentioned it. My little woman-"

"Mrs. William's very nearly here!" screamed Johnny at the door.

"My little woman, I wondered how," gasped Mr. Tetterby, supporting himself by his chair, "I wondered how I had ever admired you-I forgot the precious children you have brought about me, and thought you didn't look as slim as I could wish. I-I never gave a recollection," said Mr. Tetterby, with severe self-accusation, "to the cares you've had as my wife, and along of me and mine, when you might have had hardly any with another man, who got on better and was luckier than me (anybody might have found such a man easily I am sure); and I quarrelled with you for having aged a little in the rough years you have lightened for me. Can you believe it, my little woman? I hardly can myself."

Mrs. Tetterby, in a whirlwind of laughing and crying, caught his face within her hands, and held it there.

"Oh, Dolf!" she cried. "I am so happy that you thought so; I am so grateful that you thought so! For I thought that you were common-looking, Dolf; and so you are, my dear, and may you be the commonest of all sights in my eyes, till you close them with your own good hands. I thought that you were small; and so you are, and I'll make much of you because you are, and more of you because I love my husband. I thought that you began to stoop; and so you do, and you shall lean on me, and I'll do all I can to keep you up. I thought there was no air about you; but there is, and it's the air of home, and that's the purest and the best there is, and God bless home once more, and all belonging to it, Dolf!"

"Hurrah! Here's Mrs. William!" cried Johnny.

So she was, and all the children with her; and so she came in, they kissed her, and kissed one another, and kissed the baby, and kissed their father and mother, and then ran back and flocked and danced about her, trooping on with her in triumph.

Mr. and Mrs. Tetterby were not a bit behind-hand in the warmth of their reception. They were as much attracted to her as the children were; they ran towards her, kissed her hands, pressed round her, could not receive her ardently or enthusiastically enough. She came among them like the spirit of all goodness, affection, gentle consideration, love, and domesticity.

"What! are you all so glad to see me, too, this bright Christmas morning?" said Milly, clapping her hands in a pleasant wonder. "Oh dear, how delightful this is!"

More shouting from the children, more kissing, more trooping round her, more happiness, more love, more joy, more honour, on all sides, than she could bear.

"Oh dear!" said Milly, "what delicious tears you make me shed. How can I ever have deserved this! What have I done to be so loved?"

"Who can help it!" cried Mr. Tetterby.

"Who can help it!" cried Mrs. Tetterby.

"Who can help it!" echoed the children, in a joyful chorus. And they danced and trooped about her again, and clung to her, and laid their rosy faces against her dress, and kissed and fondled it, and could not fondle it, or her, enough.

"I never was so moved," said Milly, drying her eyes, "as I have been this morning. I must tell you, as soon as I can speak.-Mr. Redlaw came to me at sunrise, and with a tenderness in his manner, more as if I had been his darling daughter than myself, implored me to go with him to where William's brother George is lying ill. We went together, and all the way along he was so kind, and so subdued, and seemed to put such trust and hope in me, that I could not help crying with pleasure. When we got to the house, we met a woman at the door (somebody had bruised and hurt her, I am afraid), who caught me by the hand, and blessed me as I passed."

"She was right!" said Mr. Tetterby. Mrs. Tetterby said she was right. All the children cried out that she was right.

"Ah, but there's more than that," said Milly. "When we got up stairs, into the room, the sick man who had lain for hours in a state from which no effort could rouse him, rose up in his bed, and, bursting into tears, stretched out his arms to me, and said that he had led a mis-spent life, but that he was truly repentant now, in his sorrow for the past, which was all as plain to him as a great prospect, from which a dense black cloud had cleared away, and that he entreated me to ask his poor old father for his pardon and his blessing, and to say a prayer beside his bed. And when I did so, Mr. Redlaw joined in it so fervently, and then so thanked and thanked me, and thanked Heaven, that my heart quite overflowed, and I could have done nothing but sob and cry, if the sick man had not begged me to sit down by him,-which made me quiet of course. As I sat there, he held my hand in his until he sank in a doze; and even then, when I withdrew my hand to leave him to come here (which Mr. Redlaw was very earnest indeed in wishing me to do), his hand felt for mine, so that some one else was obliged to take my place and make believe to give him my hand back. Oh dear, oh dear," said Milly, sobbing. "How thankful and how happy I should feel, and do feel, for all this!"

While she was speaking, Redlaw had come in, and, after pausing for a moment to observe the group of which she was the centre, had silently ascended the stairs. Upon those stairs he now appeared again; remaining there, while the young student passed him, and came running down.

"Kind nurse, gentlest, best of creatures," he said, falling on his knee to her, and catching at her hand, "forgive my cruel ingratitude!"

"Oh dear, oh dear!" cried Milly innocently, "here's another of them! Oh dear, here's somebody else who likes me. What shall I ever do!"

The guileless, simple way in which she said it, and in which she put her hands before her eyes and wept for very happiness, was as touching as it was delightful.

"I was not myself," he said. "I don't know what it was-it was some consequence of my disorder perhaps-I was mad. But I am so no longer. Almost as I speak, I am restored. I heard the children crying out your name, and the shade passed from me at the very sound of it. Oh, don't weep! Dear Milly, if you could read my heart, and only knew with what affection and what grateful homage it is glowing, you would not let me see you weep. It is such deep reproach."

"No, no," said Milly, "it's not that. It's not indeed. It's joy. It's wonder that you should think it necessary to ask me to forgive so little, and yet it's pleasure that you do."

"And will you come again? and will you finish the little curtain?"

"No," said Milly, drying her eyes, and shaking her head. "You won't care for my needlework now."

"Is it forgiving me, to say that?"

She beckoned him aside, and whispered in his ear.

"There is news from your home, Mr. Edmund."

"News? How?"

"Either your not writing when you were very ill, or the change in your handwriting when you began to be better, created some suspicion of the truth; however that is-but you're sure you'll not be the worse for any news, if it's not bad news?"

"Sure."

"Then there's some one come!" said Milly.

"My mother?" asked the student, glancing round involuntarily towards Redlaw, who had come down from the stairs.

"Hush! No," said Milly.

"It can be no one else."

"Indeed?" said Milly, "are you sure?"

"It is not-" Before he could say more, she put her hand upon his mouth.

"Yes it is!" said Milly. "The young lady (she is very like the miniature, Mr. Edmund, but she is prettier) was too unhappy to rest without satisfying her doubts, and came up, last night, with a little servant-maid. As you always dated your letters from the college, she came there; and before I saw Mr. Redlaw this morning, I saw her. She likes me too!" said Milly. "Oh dear, that's another!"

"This morning! Where is she now?"

"Why, she is now," said Milly, advancing her lips to his ear, "in my little parlour in the Lodge, and waiting to see you."

He pressed her hand, and was darting off, but she detained him.

"Mr. Redlaw is much altered, and has told me this morning that his memory is impaired. Be very considerate to him, Mr. Edmund; he needs that from us all."

The young man assured her, by a look, that her caution was not ill-bestowed; and as he passed the Chemist on his way out, bent respectfully and with an obvious interest before him.

Redlaw returned the salutation courteously and even humbly, and looked after him as he passed on. He dropped his head upon his hand too, as trying to reawaken something he had lost. But it was gone.

The abiding change that had come upon him since the influence of the music, and the Phantom's reappearance, was, that now he truly felt how much he had lost, and could compassionate his own condition, and contrast it, clearly, with the natural state of those who were around him. In this, an interest in those who were around him was revived, and a meek, submissive sense of his calamity was bred, resembling that which sometimes obtains in age, when its mental powers are weakened, without insensibility or sullenness being added to the list of its infirmities.

He was conscious that, as he redeemed, through Milly, more and more of the evil he had done, and as he was more and more with her, this change ripened itself within him. Therefore, and because of the attachment she inspired him with (but without other hope), he felt that he was quite dependent on her, and that she was his staff in his affliction.

So, when she asked him whether they should go home now, to where the old man and her husband were, and he readily replied "yes"-being anxious in that regard-he put his arm through hers, and walked beside her; not as if he were the wise and learned man to whom the wonders of Nature were an open book, and hers were the uninstructed mind, but as if their two positions were reversed, and he knew nothing, and she all.

He saw the children throng about her, and caress her, as he and she went away together thus, out of the house; he heard the ringing of their laughter, and their merry voices; he saw their bright faces, clustering around him like flowers; he witnessed the renewed contentment and affection of their parents; he breathed the simple air of their poor home, restored to its tranquillity; he thought of the unwholesome blight he had shed upon it, and might, but for her, have been diffusing then; and perhaps it is no wonder that he walked submissively beside her, and drew her gentle bosom nearer to his own.

When they arrived at the Lodge, the old man was sitting in his chair in the chimney-corner, with his eyes fixed on the ground, and his son was leaning against the opposite side of the fire-place, looking at him. As she came in at the door, both started, and turned round towards her, and a radiant change came upon their faces.

"Oh dear, dear, dear, they are all pleased to see me like the rest!" cried Milly, clapping her hands in an ecstasy, and stopping short. "Here are two more!"

Pleased to see her! Pleasure was no word for it. She ran into her husband's arms, thrown wide open to receive her, and he would have been glad to have her there, with her head lying on his shoulder, through the short winter's day. But the old man couldn't spare her. He had arms for her too, and he locked her in them.

"Why, where has my quiet Mouse been all this time?" said the old man. "She has been a long while away. I find that it's impossible for me to get on without Mouse. I-where's my son William?-I fancy I have been dreaming, William."

"That's what I say myself, father," returned his son. "I have been in an ugly sort of dream, I think.-How are you, father? Are you pretty well?"

"Strong and brave, my boy," returned the old man.

It was quite a sight to see Mr. William shaking hands with his father, and patting him on the back, and rubbing him gently down with his hand, as if he could not possibly do enough to show an interest in him.

"What a wonderful man you are, father!-How are you, father? Are you really pretty hearty, though?" said William, shaking hands with him again, and patting him again, and rubbing him gently down again.

"I never was fresher or stouter in my life, my boy."

"What a wonderful man you are, father! But that's exactly where it is," said Mr. William, with enthusiasm. "When I think of all that my father's gone through, and all the chances and changes, and sorrows and troubles, that have happened to him in the course of his long life, and under which his head has grown grey, and years upon years have gathered on it, I feel as if we couldn't do enough to honour the old gentleman, and make his old age easy.-How are you, father? Are you really pretty well, though?"

Mr. William might never have left off repeating this inquiry, and shaking hands with him again, and patting him again, and rubbing him down again, if the old man had not espied the Chemist, whom until now he had not seen.

"I ask your pardon, Mr. Redlaw," said Philip, "but didn't know you were here, sir, or should have made less free. It reminds me, Mr. Redlaw, seeing you here on a Christmas morning, of the time when you was a student yourself, and worked so hard that you were backwards and forwards in our Library even at Christmas time. Ha! ha! I'm old enough to remember that; and I remember it right well, I do, though I am eighty-seven. It was after you left here that my poor wife died. You remember my poor wife, Mr. Redlaw?"

The Chemist answered yes.

"Yes," said the old man. "She was a dear creetur.-I recollect you come here one Christmas morning with a young lady-I ask your pardon, Mr. Redlaw, but I think it was a sister you was very much attached to?"

The Chemist looked at him, and shook his head. "I had a sister," he said vacantly. He knew no more.

"One Christmas morning," pursued the old man, "that you come here with her-and it began to snow, and my wife invited the lady to walk in, and sit by the fire that is always a burning on Christmas Day in what used to be, before our ten poor gentlemen commuted, our great Dinner Hall. I was there; and I recollect, as I was stirring up the blaze for the young lady to warm her pretty feet by, she read the scroll out loud, that is underneath that pictur, 'Lord, keep my memory green!' She and my poor wife fell a talking about it; and it's a strange thing to think of, now, that they both said (both being so unlike to die) that it was a good prayer, and that it was one they would put up very earnestly, if they were called away young, with reference to those who were dearest to them. 'My brother,' says the young lady-'My husband,' says my poor wife.-'Lord, keep his memory of me, green, and do not let me be forgotten!'"

Tears more painful, and more bitter than he had ever shed in all his life, coursed down Redlaw's face. Philip, fully occupied in recalling his story, had not observed him until now, nor Milly's anxiety that he should not proceed.

"Philip!" said Redlaw, laying his hand upon his arm, "I am a stricken man, on whom the hand of Providence has fallen heavily, although deservedly. You speak to me, my friend, of what I cannot follow; my memory is gone."

"Merciful power!" cried the old man.

"I have lost my memory of sorrow, wrong, and trouble," said the Chemist, "and with that I have lost all man would remember!"

To see old Philip's pity for him, to see him wheel his own great chair for him to rest in, and look down upon him with a solemn sense of his bereavement, was to know, in some degree, how precious to old age such recollections are.

The boy came running in, and ran to Milly.

"Here's the man," he said, "in the other room. I don't want him."

"What man does he mean?" asked Mr. William.

"Hush!" said Milly.

Obedient to a sign from her, he and his old father softly withdrew. As they went out, unnoticed, Redlaw beckoned to the boy to come to him.

"I like the woman best," he answered, holding to her skirts.

"You are right," said Redlaw, with a faint smile. "But you needn't fear to come to me. I am gentler than I was. Of all the world, to you, poor child!"

The boy still held back at first, but yielding little by little to her urging, he consented to approach, and even to sit down at his feet. As Redlaw laid his hand upon the shoulder of the child, looking on him with compassion and a fellow-feeling, he put out his other hand to Milly. She stooped down on that side of him, so that she could look into his face, and after silence, said:

"Mr. Redlaw, may I speak to you?"

"Yes," he answered, fixing his eyes upon her. "Your voice and music are the same to me."

"May I ask you something?"

"What you will."

"Do you remember what I said, when I knocked at your door last night? About one who was your friend once, and who stood on the verge of destruction?"

"Yes. I remember," he said, with some hesitation.

"Do you understand it?"

He smoothed the boy's hair-looking at her fixedly the while, and shook his head.

"This person," said Milly, in her clear, soft voice, which her mild eyes, looking at him, made clearer and softer, "I found soon afterwards. I went back to the house, and, with Heaven's help, traced him. I was not too soon. A very little and I should have been too late."

He took his hand from the boy, and laying it on the back of that hand of hers, whose timid and yet earnest touch addressed him no less appealingly than her voice and eyes, looked more intently on her.

"He is the father of Mr. Edmund, the young gentleman we saw just now. His real name is Longford.-You recollect the name?"

"I recollect the name."

"And the man?"

"No, not the man. Did he ever wrong me?"

"Yes!"

"Ah! Then it's hopeless-hopeless."

He shook his head, and softly beat upon the hand he held, as though mutely asking her commiseration.

"I did not go to Mr. Edmund last night," said Milly,-"You will listen to me just the same as if you did remember all?"

"To every syllable you say."

"Both, because I did not know, then, that this really was his father, and because I was fearful of the effect of such intelligence upon him, after his illness, if it should be. Since I have known who this person is, I have not gone either; but that is for another reason. He has long been separated from his wife and son-has been a stranger to his home almost from this son's infancy, I learn from him-and has abandoned and deserted what he should have held most dear. In all that time he has been falling from the state of a gentleman, more and more, until-" she rose up, hastily, and going out for a moment, returned, accompanied by the wreck that Redlaw had beheld last night.

"Do you know me?" asked the Chemist.

"I should be glad," returned the other, "and that is an unwonted word for me to use, if I could answer no."

The Chemist looked at the man, standing in self-abasement and degradation before him, and would have looked longer, in an ineffectual struggle for enlightenment, but that Milly resumed her late position by his side, and attracted his attentive gaze to her own face.

"See how low he is sunk, how lost he is!" she whispered, stretching out her arm towards him, without looking from the Chemist's face. "If you could remember all that is connected with him, do you not think it would move your pity to reflect that one you ever loved (do not let us mind how long ago, or in what belief that he has forfeited), should come to this?"

"I hope it would," he answered. "I believe it would."

His eyes wandered to the figure standing near the door, but came back speedily to her, on whom he gazed intently, as if he strove to learn some lesson from every tone of her voice, and every beam of her eyes.

"I have no learning, and you have much," said Milly; "I am not used to think, and you are always thinking. May I tell you why it seems to me a good thing for us, to remember wrong that has been done us?"

"Yes."

"That we may forgive it."

"Pardon me, great Heaven!" said Redlaw, lifting up his eyes, "for having thrown away thine own high attribute!"

"And if," said Milly, "if your memory should one day be restored, as we will hope and pray it may be, would it not be a blessing to you to recall at once a wrong and its forgiveness?"

He looked at the figure by the door, and fastened his attentive eyes on her again; a ray of clearer light appeared to him to shine into his mind, from her bright face.

"He cannot go to his abandoned home. He does not seek to go there. He knows that he could only carry shame and trouble to those he has so cruelly neglected; and that the best reparation he can make them now, is to avoid them. A very little money carefully bestowed, would remove him to some distant place, where he might live and do no wrong, and make such atonement as is left within his power for the wrong he has done. To the unfortunate lady who is his wife, and to his son, this would be the best and kindest boon that their best friend could give them-one too that they need never know of; and to him, shattered in reputation, mind, and body, it might be salvation."

He took her head between her hands, and kissed it, and said: "It shall be done. I trust to you to do it for me, now and secretly; and to tell him that I would forgive him, if I were so happy as to know for what."

As she rose, and turned her beaming face towards the fallen man, implying that her mediation had been successful, he advanced a step, and without raising his eyes, addressed himself to Redlaw.

"You are so generous," he said, "-you ever were-that you will try to banish your rising sense of retribution in the spectacle that is before you. I do not try to banish it from myself, Redlaw. If you can, believe me."

The Chemist entreated Milly, by a gesture, to come nearer to him; and, as he listened looked in her face, as if to find in it the clue to what he heard.

"I am too decayed a wretch to make professions; I recollect my own career too well, to array any such before you. But from the day on which I made my first step downward, in dealing falsely by you, I have gone down with a certain, steady, doomed progression. That, I say."

Redlaw, keeping her close at his side, turned his face towards the speaker, and there was sorrow in it. Something like mournful recognition too.

"I might have been another man, my life might have been another life, if I had avoided that first fatal step. I don't know that it would have been. I claim nothing for the possibility. Your sister is at rest, and better than she could have been with me, if I had continued even what you thought me: even what I once supposed myself to be."

Redlaw made a hasty motion with his hand, as if he would have put that subject on one side.

"I speak," the other went on, "like a man taken from the grave. I should have made my own grave, last night, had it not been for this blessed hand."

"Oh dear, he likes me too!" sobbed Milly, under her breath. "That's another!"

"I could not have put myself in your way, last night, even for bread. But, to-day, my recollection of what has been is so strongly stirred, and is presented to me, I don't know how, so vividly, that I have dared to come at her suggestion, and to take your bounty, and to thank you for it, and to beg you, Redlaw, in your dying hour, to be as merciful to me in your thoughts, as you are in your deeds."

He turned towards the door, and stopped a moment on his way forth.

"I hope my son may interest you, for his mother's sake. I hope he may deserve to do so. Unless my life should be preserved a long time, and I should know that I have not misused your aid, I shall never look upon him more."

Going out, he raised his eyes to Redlaw for the first time. Redlaw, whose steadfast gaze was fixed upon him, dreamily held out his hand. He returned and touched it-little more-with both his own; and bending down his head, went slowly out.

In the few moments that elapsed, while Milly silently took him to the gate, the Chemist dropped into his chair, and covered his face with his hands. Seeing him thus, when she came back, accompanied by her husband and his father (who were both greatly concerned for him), she avoided disturbing him, or permitting him to be disturbed; and kneeled down near the chair to put some warm clothing on the boy.

"That's exactly where it is. That's what I always say, father!" exclaimed her admiring husband. "There's a motherly feeling in Mrs. William's breast that must and will have went!"

"Ay, ay," said the old man; "you're right. My son William's right!"

"It happens all for the best, Milly dear, no doubt," said Mr. William, tenderly, "that we have no children of our own; and yet I sometimes wish you had one to love and cherish. Our little dead child that you built such hopes upon, and that never breathed the breath of life-it has made you quiet-like, Milly."

"I am very happy in the recollection of it, William dear," she answered. "I think of it every day."

"I was afraid you thought of it a good deal."

"Don't say, afraid; it is a comfort to me; it speaks to me in so many ways. The innocent thing that never lived on earth, is like an angel to me, William."

"You are like an angel to father and me," said Mr. William, softly. "I know that."

"When I think of all those hopes I built upon it, and the many times I sat and pictured to myself the little smiling face upon my bosom that never lay there, and the sweet eyes turned up to mine that never opened to the light," said Milly, "I can feel a greater tenderness, I think, for all the disappointed hopes in which there is no harm. When I see a beautiful child in its fond mother's arms, I love it all the better, thinking that my child might have been like that, and might have made my heart as proud and happy."

Redlaw raised his head, and looked towards her.

"All through life, it seems by me," she continued, "to tell me something. For poor neglected children, my little child pleads as if it were alive, and had a voice I knew, with which to speak to me. When I hear of youth in suffering or shame, I think that my child might have come to that, perhaps, and that God took it from me in His mercy. Even in age and grey hair, such as father's, it is present: saying that it too might have lived to be old, long and long after you and I were gone, and to have needed the respect and love of younger people."

Her quiet voice was quieter than ever, as she took her husband's arm, and laid her head against it.

"Children love me so, that sometimes I half fancy-it's a silly fancy, William-they have some way I don't know of, of feeling for my little child, and me, and understanding why their love is precious to me. If I have been quiet since, I have been more happy, William, in a hundred ways. Not least happy, dear, in this-that even when my little child was born and dead but a few days, and I was weak and sorrowful, and could not help grieving a little, the thought arose, that if I tried to lead a good life, I should meet in Heaven a bright creature, who would call me, Mother!"

Redlaw fell upon his knees, with a loud cry.

"O Thou," he said, "who through the teaching of pure love, hast graciously restored me to the memory which was the memory of Christ upon the Cross, and of all the good who perished in His cause, receive my thanks, and bless her!"

Then, he folded her to his heart; and Milly, sobbing more than ever, cried, as she laughed, "He is come back to himself! He likes me very much indeed, too! Oh, dear, dear, dear me, here's another!"

Then, the student entered, leading by the hand a lovely girl, who was afraid to come. And Redlaw so changed towards him, seeing in him and his youthful choice, the softened shadow of that chastening passage in his own life, to which, as to a shady tree, the dove so long imprisoned in his solitary ark might fly for rest and company, fell upon his neck, entreating them to be his children.

Then, as Christmas is a time in which, of all times in the year, the memory of every remediable sorrow, wrong, and trouble in the world around us, should be active with us, not less than our own experiences, for all good, he laid his hand upon the boy, and, silently calling Him to witness who laid His hand on children in old time, rebuking, in the majesty of His prophetic knowledge, those who kept them from Him, vowed to protect him, teach him, and reclaim him.

Then, he gave his right hand cheerily to Philip, and said that they would that day hold a Christmas dinner in what used to be, before the ten poor gentlemen commuted, their great Dinner Hall; and that they would bid to it as many of that Swidger family, who, his son had told him, were so numerous that they might join hands and make a ring round England, as could be brought together on so short a notice.

And it was that day done. There were so many Swidgers there, grown up and children, that an attempt to state them in round numbers might engender doubts, in the distrustful, of the veracity of this history. Therefore the attempt shall not be made. But there they were, by dozens and scores-and there was good news and good hope there, ready for them, of George, who had been visited again by his father and brother, and by Milly, and again left in a quiet sleep. There, present at the dinner, too, were the Tetterbys, including young Adolphus, who arrived in his prismatic comforter, in good time for the beef. Johnny and the baby were too late, of course, and came in all on one side, the one exhausted, the other in a supposed state of double-tooth; but that was customary, and not alarming.

It was sad to see the child who had no name or lineage, watching the other children as they played, not knowing how to talk with them, or sport with them, and more strange to the ways of childhood than a rough dog. It was sad, though in a different way, to see what an instinctive knowledge the youngest children there had of his being different from all the rest, and how they made timid approaches to him with soft words and touches, and with little presents, that he might not be unhappy. But he kept by Milly, and began to love her-that was another, as she said!-and, as they all liked her dearly, they were glad of that, and when they saw him peeping at them from behind her chair, they were pleased that he was so close to it.

All this, the Chemist, sitting with the student and his bride that was to be, Philip, and the rest, saw.

Some people have said since, that he only thought what has been herein set down; others, that he read it in the fire, one winter night about the twilight time; others, that the Ghost was but the representation of his gloomy thoughts, and Milly the embodiment of his better wisdom. I say nothing.

-Except this. That as they were assembled in the old Hall, by no other light than that of a great fire (having dined early), the shadows once more stole out of their hiding-places, and danced about the room, showing the children marvellous shapes and faces on the walls, and gradually changing what was real and familiar there, to what was wild and magical. But that there was one thing in the Hall, to which the eyes of Redlaw, and of Milly and her husband, and of the old man, and of the student, and his bride that was to be, were often turned, which the shadows did not obscure or change. Deepened in its gravity by the fire-light, and gazing from the darkness of the panelled wall like life, the sedate face in the portrait, with the beard and ruff, looked down at them from under its verdant wreath of holly, as they looked up at it; and, clear and plain below, as if a voice had uttered them, were the words.

* * * * *

Lord keep my Memory green.

<eob>

Jarwin And Cuffy

By

R.M. Ballantyne



Chapter One.

Adrift On The Ocean.

On a certain morning, not very long ago, the sun, according to his ancient and admirable custom, rose at a very early hour, and casting his bright beams far and wide over the Pacific, lighted up the yellow sands and the verdant hills of one of the loveliest of the islands of that mighty sea.

It was early morning, as we have said, and there was plenty of life --  animal as well as vegetable -- to be seen on land and sea, and in the warm, hazy atmosphere. But there were no indications of man's presence in that beautiful scene. The air was perfectly calm, yet the gentle swell of the ocean terminated in great waves, which came rolling in like walls of glass, and fell on the coral-reef like rushing snow-wreaths with a roar as loud as thunder.

Thousands of sea-birds screamed and circled in the sky. Fish leaped high out of their native element into the air, as if they wished to catch the gulls, while the gulls, seemingly smitten with a similar desire, dived into the water as if they wished to catch the fish. It might have been observed, however, that while the fish never succeeded in catching the gulls, the latter very frequently caught the fish, and, without taking the trouble to kill them, bolted them down alive.

Cocoanut-palms cast the shadows of their long stems and graceful tops upon the beach, while, farther inland, a dense forest of tropical plants -- bread-fruit trees, bananas, etcetera -- rose up the mountain-sides. Here and there open patches might be seen, that looked like fields and lawns, but there were no cottages or villas. Droves of pigs rambled about the valleys and on the hill-sides, but they were wild pigs. No man tended them. The bread-fruits, the cocoanuts, the bananas, the plantains, the plums, all were beautiful and fit for food, but no man owned them or used them, for, like many other spots in that sea of coral isles and savage men, the island was uninhabited.

In all the wide expanse of ocean that surrounded that island, there was nothing visible save one small, solitary speck on the far-off horizon. It might have been mistaken for a seagull, but it was in reality a raft -- a mass of spars and planks rudely bound together with ropes. A boat's mast rose from the centre of it, on which hung a rag of sail, and a small red flag drooped motionless from its summit. There were a few casks on the highest part of the raft, but no living soul was visible. Nevertheless, it was not without tenants. In a hollow between two of the spars, under the shadow of one of the casks, lay the form of a man. The canvas trousers, cotton shirt, blue jacket, and open necktie, bespoke him a sailor, but it seemed as though there were nothing left save the dead body of the unfortunate tar, so pale and thin and ghastly were his features. A terrier dog lay beside him, so shrunken that it looked like a mere scrap of door-matting. Both man and dog were apparently dead, but they were not so in reality, for, after lying about an hour quite motionless, the man slowly opened his eyes.

Ah, reader, it would have touched your heart to have seen those eyes! They were so deep set, as if in dark caverns, and so unnaturally large. They gazed round in a vacant way for a few moments, until they fell on the dog. Then a gleam of fire shot through them, and their owner raised his large, gaunt, wasted frame on one elbow, while he gazed with a look of eagerness, which was perfectly awful, at his dumb companion.

"Not dead yet!" he said, drawing a long sigh.

There was a strange, incongruous mixture of satisfaction and discontent in the remark, which was muttered in a faint whisper.

Another gleam shot through the large eyes. It was not a pleasant look. Slowly, and as if with difficulty, the man drew a clasp-knife from his pocket, and opened it. As he did so, his brows lowered and his teeth became clenched. It was quite plain what he meant to do. As he held the open knife over the dog's head, he muttered, "Am I to die for the sake of a dog!"

Either the terrier's slumbers had come to an end naturally, at a fortunate moment, or the master's voice had awakened it, for it opened its eyes, raised its head, and looked up in the sailor's face. The hand with the knife drooped a little. The dog rose and licked it. Hunger had done its work on the poor creature, for it could hardly stand, yet it managed to look in its master's face with that grave, simple gaze of self-forgetting love, which appears to be peculiar to the canine race. The savage glare of the seaman's eyes vanished. He dropped the knife.

"Thanks, Cuffy; thanks for stoppin' me. It would have been murder! No, no, my doggie, you and I shall die together."

His voice sank into a murmur, partly from weakness and partly from the ideas suggested by his concluding words.

"Die together!" he repeated, "surely it ain't come to that yet. Wot, John Jarwin, you're not goin' to give in like that, are you? to haul down your colours on a fine day with a clear sky like this overhead? Come, cheer up, lad; you're young and can hold out a good while yet. Hey, old dog, wot say you?"

The dog made a motion that would, in ordinary circumstances, have resulted in the wagging of its tail, but the tail was powerless to respond.

At that moment a gull flew towards the raft; Jarwin watched it eagerly as it approached. "Ah," he muttered, clasping his bony hand as tightly over his heart as his strength would allow and addressing the gull, "if I only had hold of you, I'd tear you limb from limb, and drink your blood!"

He watched the bird intently as it flew straight over him. Leaning back, he continued slowly to follow its flight, until his head rested on the block of wood which had served him for a pillow. The support felt agreeable, he forgot the gull, closed his eyes, and sank with a deep sigh into a slumber that strongly resembled death.

Presently he awoke with a start, and, once more raising himself, gazed round upon the sea. No ship was to be seen. How often he had gazed round the watery circle with the same anxious look only to meet with disappointment! The hills of the coral island were visible like a blue cloud on the horizon, but Jarwin's eyes were too dim and worn out to observe them.

"Come," he exclaimed, suddenly, scrambling to his feet, "rouse up, Cuffy; you an' I ain't a-goin' to die without a good fight for life. Come along, my hearty; we'll have another glass of grog -- Adam's grog it is, but it has been good grog to you an' me, doggie -- an' then we shall have another inspection o' the locker; mayhap there's the half of a crumb left."

The comparatively cheery tone in which the sailor said this seemed to invigorate the dog, for it rose and actually succeeded in wriggling its tail as it staggered after its master -- indubitable sign of hope and love not yet subdued!

Jarwin went to a cask which still contained a small quantity of fresh water. Three weeks before the point at which we take up his story, a storm had left him and his dog the sole survivors on the raft of the crew of a barque which had sprung a leak, and gone to the bottom. His provision at the time was a very small quantity of biscuit and a cask of fresh water. Several days before this the last biscuit had been consumed but the water had not yet failed. Hitherto John Jarwin had husbanded his provisions, but now, feeling desperate, he drank deeply of the few remaining drops of that liquid which, at the time, was almost as vital to him as his life-blood. He gave a full draught also to the little dog.

"Share and share alike, doggie," he said, patting its head, as it eagerly lapped up the water; "but there's no wittles, Cuffy, an' ye don't care for baccy, or ye should be heartily welcome to a quid."

So saying, the sailor supplied his own cheek with a small piece of his favourite weed, and stood up on the highest part of the raft to survey the surrounding prospect. He did so without much hope, for "hope deferred" had at last made his heart sick. Suddenly his wandering gaze became fixed and intense. He shaded his eyes with one hand, and steadied himself against the mast with the other. There could be no doubt of it! "Land ho!" he shouted, with a degree of strength that surprised himself, and even drew from Cuffy the ghost of a bark. On the strength of the discovery Jarwin and his dumb friend immediately treated themselves to another glass of Adam's grog.

But poor Jarwin had his patience further tried. Hours passed away, and still the island seemed as far off as ever. Night drew on, and it gradually faded from his view. But he had unquestionably seen land; so, with this to comfort him, the starving tar lay down beside his dog to spend another night -- as he had already spent many days and nights -- a castaway on the wide ocean.

Morning dawned, and the sailor rose with difficulty. He had forgotten, for a moment, the discovery of land on the previous night, but it was brought suddenly to his remembrance by the roar of breakers near at hand. Turning in the direction whence the sound came, he beheld an island quite close to him, with heavy "rollers" breaking furiously on the encircling ring of the coral-reef. The still water between the reef and the shore, which was about a quarter of a mile wide, reflected every tree and crag of the island, as if in a mirror. It was a grand, a glorious sight, and caused Jarwin's heart to swell with emotions that he had never felt before; but his attention was quickly turned to a danger which was imminent, and which seemed to threaten the total destruction of his raft, and the loss of his life.

A very slight breeze -- a mere zephyr -- which had carried him during the night towards the island, was now bearing him straight, though slowly, down on the reef, where, if he had once got involved in the breakers, the raft must certainly have been dashed to pieces; and he knew full well, that in his weak condition, he was utterly incapable of contending with such a surf.

Being a man of promptitude, his first act, on making this discovery, was to lower the sail. This was, fortunately, done in time; had he kept it up a few minutes longer, he must inevitably have passed the only opening in the reef that existed on that side of the island. This opening was not more than fifty yards wide. To the right and left of it the breakers on the reef extended, in lines of seething foam. Already the raft was rolling in the commotion caused by these breakers, as it drifted towards the opening.

Jarwin was by no means devoid of courage. Many a time, in days gone by, when his good ship was tossing on the stormy sea, or scudding under bare poles, had he stood on the deck with unshaken confidence and a calm heart, but now he was face to face with the seaman's most dreaded enemy -- "breakers ahead!" -- nay, worse, breakers around him everywhere, save at that one narrow passage, which appeared so small, and so involved in the general turmoil, as to afford scarcely an element of hope. For the first time in his life Jarwin's heart sank within him -- at least so he said in after years while talking of the event -- but we suspect that John was underrating himself. At all events, he showed no symptoms of fear as he sat there calmly awaiting his fate.

As the raft approached the reef, each successive roller lifted it up and dropped it behind more violently, until at last the top of one of the glittering green walls broke just as it passed under the end of the raft nearest the shore. Jarwin now knew that the next billow would seal his fate.

There was a wide space between each of those mighty waves. He looked out to sea, and beheld the swell rising and taking form, and increasing in speed as it came on. Calmly divesting himself of his coat and boots, he sat down beside his dog, and awaited the event. At that moment he observed, with intense gratitude to the Almighty, that the raft was drifting so straight towards the middle of the channel in the reef, that there seemed every probability of being carried through it; but the hope thus raised was somewhat chilled by the feeling of weakness which pervaded his frame.

"Now, Cuffy," said he, patting the terrier gently, "rouse up, my doggie; we must make a brave struggle for life. It's neck or nothing this time. If we touch that reef in passing, Cuff, you an' I shall be food for the sharks to-night, an' it's my opinion that the shark as gits us won't have much occasion to boast of his supper."

The sailor ceased speaking abruptly. As he looked back at the approaching roller he felt solemnised and somewhat alarmed, for it appeared so perpendicular and so high from his low position, that it seemed as if it would fall on and overwhelm the raft. There was, indeed, some danger of this. Glancing along its length, Jarwin saw that here and there the edge was lipping over, while in one place, not far off, the thunder of its fall had already begun. Another moment, and it appeared to hang over his head; the raft was violently lifted at the stern, caught up, and whirled onward at railway speed, like a cork in the midst of a boiling cauldron of foam. The roar was deafening. The tumultuous heaving almost overturned it several times. Jarwin held on firmly to the mast with his right arm, and grasped the terrier with his left hand, for the poor creature had not strength to resist such furious motion. It all passed with bewildering speed. It seemed as if, in one instant, the raft was hurled through the narrows, and launched into the calm harbour within. An eddy, at the inner side of the opening, swept it round, and fixed the end of one of the largest spars of which it was composed on the beach.

There were fifty yards or so of sandy coral-reef between the beach outside, that faced the sea, and the beach inside, which faced the land; yet how great the difference! The one beach, buffeted for ever, day and night, by the breakers -- in calm by the grand successive rollers that, as it were, symbolised the ocean's latent power -- in storm by the mad deluge of billows which displayed that power in all its terrible grandeur. The other beach, a smooth, sloping circlet of fair white sand, laved only by the ripples of the lagoon, or by its tiny wavelets, when a gale chanced to sweep over it from the land.

Jarwin soon gained this latter beach with Cuffy in his arms, and sat down to rest, for his strength had been so much reduced that the mere excitement of passing through the reef had almost exhausted him. Cuffy, however, seemed to derive new life from the touch of earth again, for it ran about in a staggering drunken sort of way; wagged its tail at the root, -- without, however, being able to influence the point, -- and made numerous futile efforts to bark.

In the midst of its weakly gambols the terrier chanced to discover a dead fish on the sands. Instantly it darted forward and began to devour it with great voracity.

"Halo! Cuffy," shouted Jarwin, who observed him; "ho! hold on, you rascal! share and share alike, you know. Here, fetch it here!"

Cuffy had learned the first great principle of a good and useful life --  whether of man or beast -- namely, prompt obedience. That meek but jovial little dog, on receiving this order, restrained its appetite, lifted the fish in its longing jaws, and, carrying it to his master, humbly laid it at his feet. He was rewarded with a hearty pat on the head, and a full half of the coveted fish -- for Jarwin appeared to regard the "share-and-share-alike" principle as a point of honour between them.

The fish was not good, neither was it large, and of course it was raw, besides being somewhat decayed; nevertheless, both man and dog ate it, bones and all, with quiet satisfaction. Nay, reader, do not shudder! If you were reduced to similar straits, you would certainly enjoy, with equal gusto, a similar meal, supposing that you had the good fortune to get it. Small though it was, it sufficed to appease the appetite of the two friends, and to give them a feeling of strength which they had not experienced for many a day.

Under the influence of this feeling, Jarwin remarked to Cuffy, that "a man could eat a-most anything when hard put to it," and that "it wos now high time to think about goin' ashore."

To which Cuffy replied with a bark, which one might imagine should come from a dog in the last stage of whooping-cough, and with a wag of his tail -- not merely at the root thereof, but a distinct wag -- that extended obviously along its entire length to the extreme point. Jarwin observed the successful effort, laughed feebly, and said, "Brayvo, Cuffy," with evident delight; for it reminded him of the days when that little shred of a door-mat, in the might of its vigour, was wont to wag its tail so violently as to convulse its whole body, insomuch that it was difficult to decide whether the tail wagged the body, or the body the tail!

But, although Jarwin made light of his sufferings, his gaunt, wasted frame would have been a sad sight to any pitiful spectator, as with weary aspect and unsteady gait he moved about on the sandy ridge in search of more food, or gazed with longing eyes on the richly-wooded island.

For it must be remembered that our castaway had not landed on the island itself, but on that narrow ring of coral-reef which almost encircled it, and from which it was separated by the lagoon, or enclosed portion of the sea, which was, as we have said, about a quarter of a mile wide.

John Jarwin would have thought little of swimming over that narrow belt of smooth water in ordinary circumstances, but now he felt that his strength was not equal to such a feat. Moreover, he knew that there were sharks in these waters, so he dismissed the idea of swimming, and cast about in his mind how he should manage to get across. With Jarwin, action soon followed thought. He resolved to form a small raft out of portions of the large one. Fortunately his clasp-knife had been attached, as seamen frequently have it, to his waist-belt, when he forsook his ship. This was the only implement that he possessed, but it was invaluable. With it he managed to cut the thick ropes that he could not have untied, and, in the course of two hours -- for he laboured with extreme difficulty -- a few broken planks and spars were lashed together. Embarking on this frail vessel with his dog, he pushed off, and using a piece of plank for an oar, sculled himself over the lagoon.

It was touching, even to himself, to observe the slowness of his progress. All the strength that remained in him was barely sufficient to move the raft. But the lagoon was as still as a mill-pond. Looking down into its clear depths, he could see the rich gardens of coral and sea-weed, among which fish, of varied and brilliant colours, sported many fathoms below. The air, too, was perfectly calm.

Very slowly he left the reef astern; the middle of the lagoon was gained; then, gradually, he neared the island-shore, but oh! it was a long, weary pull, although the space was so short, and, to add to the poor man's misery, the fish which he had eaten caused him intolerable thirst. But he reached the shore at last.

The first thing that greeted his eye as he landed was the sparkle of a clear spring at the foot of some cocoanut-trees. He staggered eagerly towards it, and fell down beside a hollow in the rock, like a large cup or bowl, which had been scooped out by it.

Who shall presume to describe the feelings of that shipwrecked sailor as he and his dog drank from the same cup at that sparkling crystal fountain? Delicious odours of lime and citron trees, and well-nigh forgotten herbage, filled his nostrils, and the twitter of birds thrilled his ears, seeming to bid him welcome to the land, as he sank down on the soft grass, and raised his eyes in thanksgiving to heaven. An irresistible tendency to sleep then seized him.

"If there's a heaven upon earth, I'm in it now," he murmured, as he laid down his head and closed his eyes.

Cuffy, nestling into his breast, placed his chin on his neck, and heaved a deep, contented sigh. This was the last sound the sailor recognised, as he sank into profound repose.



Chapter Two.

Island Life.

There are few of the minor sweets of life more agreeable than to awake refreshed, and to become gradually impressed with the conviction that you are a perfectly free agent, -- that you may rise when you choose, or lie still if you please, or do what you like, without let or hindrance.

So thought our hero, John Jarwin, when he awoke, on the same spot where he had thrown himself down, after several hours of life-giving slumber. He was still weak, but his weakness did not now oppress him. The slight meal, the long draught, and the deep sleep, had restored enough of vigour to his naturally robust frame to enable him, while lying on his back, to enjoy his existence once more. He was, on first awaking, in that happy condition of mind and body in which the former does not care to think and the latter does not wish to move -- yet both are pleased to be largely conscious of their own identity.

That he had not moved an inch since he lay down, became somewhat apparent to Jarwin from the fact that Cuffy's chin still rested immovable on his neck, but his mind was too indolent to pursue the thought. He had not the most remote idea as to where he was, but he cared nothing for that. He was in absolute ignorance of the time of day, but he cared, if possible, still less for that. Food, he knew, was necessary to his existence, but the thought gave him no anxiety. In short, John and his dog were in a state of quiescent felicity, and would probably have remained so for some hours to come, had not the setting sun shone forth at that moment with a farewell gleam so intense, that it appeared to set the world of clouds overhead on fire, converting them into hills and dales, and towering domes and walls and battlements of molten glass and gold. Even to the wearied seaman's sleepy vision the splendour of the scene became so fascinating, that he shook off his lethargy, and raised himself on one elbow.

"Why, Cuffy!" he exclaimed, to the yawning dog, "seems to me that the heavens is a-fire! Hope it won't come on dirty weather before you an' I get up somethin' in the shape o' a hut. That minds me, doggie," he added, glancing slowly round him, "that we must look after prokoorin' of our supper. I do believe we've bin an' slep away a whole day! Well, well, it don't much matter, seein' that we hain't got no dooty for to do -- no trick at the wheel, no greasin' the masts -- wust of all, no splicin' the main brace, and no grub."

This latter remark appeared to reach the understanding of the dog, for it uttered a melancholy howl as it gazed into its master's eyes.

"Ah, Cuffy!" continued the sailor with a sigh, "you've good reason to yowl, for the half of a rotten fish ain't enough for a dog o' your appetite. Come, let's see if we can't find somethin' more to our tastes."

Saying this the man rose, stretched himself, yawned, looked helplessly round for a few seconds, and then, with a cheery "Hallo! Cuff, come along, my hearty," went down to the beach in quest of food.

In this search he was not unsuccessful, for the beach abounded with shell-fish of various kinds; but Jarwin ate sparingly of these, having been impressed, in former years, by some stories which he had heard of shipwrecked sailors having been poisoned by shell-fish. For the same reason he administered a moderate supply to Cuffy, telling him that "it warn't safe wittles, an' that if they was to be pisoned, it was as well to be pisoned in moderation." The dog, however, did not appear to agree with its master on this point, for it went picking up little tit-bits here and there, and selfishly ignoring the "share-and-share-alike" compact, until it became stuffed alarmingly, and could scarcely follow its master back to the fountain.

Arrived there, the two slaked their thirst together, and then Jarwin sat down to enjoy a pipe, and Cuffy lay down to suffer the well-merited reward of gluttony.

We have said that Jarwin sat down to enjoy a pipe, but he did not enjoy it that night, for he discovered that the much-loved little implement, which he had cherished tenderly while on the raft, was broken to atoms in his coat-pocket! In his eagerness to drink on first landing, he had thrown himself down on it, and now smoking was an impossibility, at least for that night. He reflected, however, that it would not be difficult to make a wooden pipe, and that cigarettes might perhaps be made by means of leaves, or bark, while his tobacco lasted; so he consoled himself in the meantime with hopeful anticipations, and a quid. Being still weak and weary, he lay down again beside the fountain, and almost immediately fell into a sleep, which was not at all disturbed by the starts and groans and frequent yelps of Cuffy, whose sufferings could scarcely have been more severe if he had supped on turtle-soup and venison, washed down with port and claret.

Thus did those castaways spend the first night on their island.

It must not be supposed, however, that we are going to trace thus minutely every step and sensation in the career of our unfortunate friends. We have too much to tell that is important to devote our "valuable space" to everyday incidents. Nevertheless, as it is important that our readers should understand our hero thoroughly, and the circumstances in which we find him, it is necessary that we should draw attention to some incidents -- trifling in themselves, but important in their effects -- which occurred to John Jarwin soon after his landing on the island.

The first of these incidents was, that John one day slipped his foot on a tangle-covered rock, and fell into the sea. A small matter this, you will say, to a man who could swim, and in a climate so warm that a dip, with or without clothes, was a positive luxury. Most true; and had the wetting been all, Jarwin would have had nothing to annoy him; for at the time the accident occurred he had been a week on the island, had managed to pull and crack many cocoa-nuts, and had found various excellent wild-fruits, so that his strength, as well as Cuffy's, had been much restored. In fact, when Jarwin's head emerged from the brine, after his tumble, he gave vent to a shout of laughter, and continued to indulge in hilarious demonstrations all the time he was wringing the water out of his garments, while the terrier barked wildly round him.

But suddenly, in the very midst of a laugh, he became grave and pale, --  so pale, that a more obtuse creature than Cuffy might have deemed him ill. While his mouth and eyes slowly opened wider and wider, his hands slapped his pockets, first his trousers, then his vest, then his coat, after which they fell like pistol-shots on his thighs, and he exclaimed, in a voice of horror -- "Gone!"

Ay, there could be no doubt about it; every particle of his tobacco was gone! It had never been much, only three or four plugs; but it was strong, and he had calculated that, what with careful husbanding, and mixing it with other herbs, it would last him for a considerable length of time.

In a state bordering on frenzy, the sailor rushed back to the rock from which he had fallen. The "baccy" was not there. He glanced right and left -- no sign of it floating on the sea. In he went, head foremost, like a determined suicide; down, down to the bottom, for he was an expert diver, and rioted among the coral groves, and horrified the fish, until he well-nigh burst, and rose to the surface with a groan and splutter that might have roused envy in a porpoise. Then down he went again, while Cuffy stood on the shore regarding him with mute amazement.

Never did pearl-diver grope for the treasures of the deep with more eager intensity than did John Jarwin search for that lost tobacco. He remained under water until he became purple in the face, and, coming to the surface after each dive, stayed only long enough to recharge his lungs with air. How deeply he regretted at that time the fact that man's life depended on so frequent and regular a supply of atmospheric air! How enviously he glanced at the fish which, with open eyes and mouths, appeared to regard him with inexpressible astonishment -- as well they might! At last Jarwin's powers of endurance began to give way, and he was compelled to return to the shore, to the great relief of Cuffy, which miserable dog, if it had possessed the smallest amount of reasoning power, must have deemed its master hopelessly insane.

"But why so much ado about a piece of tobacco?" we hear some lady-reader or non-smoker exclaim.

Just because our hero was, and had been since his childhood, an inveterate smoker. Of course we cannot prove our opinion to be correct, but we are inclined to believe that if all the smoke that had issued from Jarwin's lips, from the period of his commencing down to that terrible day when he lost his last plug, could have been collected in one vast cloud, it would have been sufficient to have kept a factory chimney going for a month or six weeks. The poor man knew his weakness. He had several times tried to get rid of the habit which had enslaved him, and, by failing, had come to know the tyrannical power of his master. He had once been compelled by circumstances to forego his favourite indulgence for three entire days, and retained so vivid a recollection of his sufferings that he made up his mind never more to strive for freedom, but to enjoy his pipe as long as he lived -- to swim with the current, in fact, and take it easy. It was of no use that several men, who objected to smoking from principle, and had themselves gone through the struggle and come off victorious, pointed out that if he went on at his present rate, it would cut short his life. Jarwin didn't believe that. He felt well and hearty, and said that he "was too tough, by a long way, to be floored by baccy; besides, if his life was to be short, he saw no reason why it should not be a pleasant one." It was vain for these disagreeable men of principle to urge that when his health began to give way he would not find life very pleasant, and then "baccy" would fail to relieve him. Stuff and nonsense? Did not Jarwin know that hundreds of thousands of old men enjoyed their pipes to the very last. He also knew that a great many men had filled early graves owing to the use of tobacco, but he chose to shut his eyes to this fact -- moreover, although a great truth, it was a difficult truth to prove.

It was of still less use that those tiresome men of principle demonstrated that the money spent in tobacco would, if accumulated, form a snug little fortune to retire upon in his old age. John only laughed at this. "Wot did he want with a fortin in his old age," he would say; "he would rather work to the last for his three B's -- his bread and beer and baccy -- an' die in harness. A man couldn't get on like a man without them three B's, and he wosn't goin' for to deprive hisself of none of 'em, not he; besides, his opponents were bad argifiers," he was wont to say, with a chuckle, "for if, as they said, baccy would be the means of cuttin' his life short, why then, he wouldn't never come to old age to use his fortin, even if he should manage to save it off his baccy."

This last argument always brought Jarwin off with flying colours -- no wonder, for it was unanswerable; and thus he came to love his beer and baccy so much that he became thoroughly enslaved to both.

His brief residence on the south-sea island had taught him, by painful experience, that he was capable of existing without at least two of his three B's -- bread and beer. He had suffered somewhat from the change of diet; and now that his third B was thus suddenly, unexpectedly, and hopelessly wrenched from him, he sat himself down on the beach beside Cuffy, and gazed out to sea in absolute despair.

We must guard the reader at this point from supposing that John Jarwin had ever been what is called an intemperate man. He was one of those honest, straightforward tars who do their duty like men, and who, although extremely fond of their pipe and their glass of grog, never lower themselves below the level of the brutes by getting drunk. At the same time, we feel constrained to add that Jarwin acted entirely from impulse and kindly feeling. He had little to do with principle, and did not draw towards those who professed to be thus guided. He was wont to say that they "was troublesome fellers, always shovin' in their oars when they weren't wanted to, an' settin' themselves up for better than everybody else." Had one of those troublesome fellows presented John Jarwin with a pound of tobacco in his forlorn circumstances, at that time he would probably have slapped him on the shoulder, and called him one of the best fellows under the sun!

"Cuffy, my friend," exclaimed Jarwin at last, with an explosive sigh, "all the baccy's gone, so we'll have to smoke sea-weed for the futur'." The terrier said "Bow-wow" to this, cocked its ears, and looked earnest, as if waiting for more.

"Come along," exclaimed the man, overturning his dog as he leaped up, "we'll go home and have summat to eat."

Jarwin had erected a rude hut, composed of boughs and turf, near the fountain where he had first landed. It was the home to which he referred. At first he had devoted himself entirely to the erection of this shelter, and to collecting various roots and fruits and shell-fish for food, intending to delay the examination of the island until his strength should be sufficiently restored to enable him to scale the heights without more than ordinary fatigue. He had been so far recruited as to have fixed for his expedition the day following that on which he sustained his irreparable loss.

Entering his hut he proceeded to kindle a fire by means of a small burning-glass, with which, in happier times, he had been wont to light his pipe. Very soon he had several roots, resembling small potatoes, baking in the hot ashes. With these, a handful of plums, a dozen of oyster-like fish, of which there were plenty on the shore, and a draught of clear cold water, he made a hearty repast, Cuffy coming in for a large share of it, as a matter of course. Then he turned all his pockets inside out, and examined them as carefully as if diamonds lurked in the seams. No, not a speck of tobacco was to be found! He smelt them. The odour was undoubtedly strong -- very strong. On the strength of it he shut his eyes, and endeavoured to think that he was smoking; but it was a weak substitute for the pipe, and not at all satisfying. Thereafter he sallied forth and wandered about the sea-shore in a miserable condition, and went to bed that night -- as he remarked to his dog -- in the blues.

Reader, it is not possible to give you an adequate conception of the sensations and sufferings of John Jarwin on that first night of his bereaved condition. He dreamed continuously of tobacco. Now he was pacing the deck of his old ship with a splendid pipe of cut Cavendish between his lips. Anon he was smoking a meerschaum the size of a hogshead, with a stem equal to the length and thickness of the main-topmast of a seventy-four; but somehow the meerschaum wouldn't draw, whereupon John, in a passion, pronounced it worthy of its name, and hove it overboard, when it was instantly transformed into a shark with a cutty pipe in its mouth. To console himself our hero endeavoured to thrust into his mouth a quid of negro-head, which, however, suddenly grew as big as the cabin-skylight, and became as tough as gutta-percha, so that it was utterly impossible to bite off a piece; and, stranger still, when the poor sailor had by struggling got it in, it dwindled down into a point so small that he could not feel it in his mouth at all. On reaching this, the vanishing-point, Jarwin awoke to a consciousness of the dread reality of his destitute condition. Turning on his other side with a deep groan, he fell asleep again, to dream of tobacco in some new and tantalising form until sunrise, when he awoke unrefreshed. Leaping up, he cast off his clothes, rushed down the beach, and plunged into sea, by way of relieving his feelings.

During the day John Jarwin brooded much over his dreams, for his mind was of a reflective turn, and Cuffy looked often inquiringly into his face. That sympathetic doggie would evidently have besought him to pour his sorrows into his cocked ears if he could have spoken; but -- alas! for people who are cast away on desert islands -- the gift of speech has been denied to dogs.

Besides being moody, Jarwin was uncommonly taciturn that day. He did not tell Cuffy the result of his cogitations, so that we cannot say anything further about them. All that we are certainly sure of is, that he was profoundly miserable that day -- that he postponed his intended expedition to the top of the neighbouring hill -- that he walked about the beach slowly, with his chin on his breast and his hands in his pockets --  that he made various unsuccessful attempts to smoke dried leaves, and bark, and wild-flowers, mixing with those substances shreds of his trousers' pockets, in order that they might have at least the flavour of tobacco -- that he became more and more restive as the day wore on, became more submissive in the evening, paid a few apologetic attentions to Cuffy at supper-time, and, finally, went to bed in a better frame of mind, though still craving painfully for the weed which had enslaved him. That night his dreams were still of tobacco! No lover was ever assailed more violently with dreams of his absent mistress than was John Jarwin with longings for his adorable pipe. But there was no hope for him -- the beloved one was effectually and permanently gone; so, like a sensible man, he awoke next morning with a stern resolve to submit to his fate with a good grace.

In pursuance of this resolution he began the day with a cold bath, in which Cuffy joined him. Then he breakfasted on chestnuts, plums, citrons, oysters, and shrimps, the former of which abounded in the woods, the latter on the shore. Jarwin caught the shrimps in a net, extemporised out of his pocket-handkerchief. While engaged with his morning meal, he was earnestly watched by several green paroquets with blue heads and crimson breasts; and during pauses in the meal he observed flocks of brightly-coloured doves and wood-pigeons, besides many other kinds of birds, the names of which he did not know, as well as water-hens, plover, and wild ducks.

"Lost your appetite this morning, Cuff?" said Jarwin, offering his companion a citron, which he decidedly refused. "Ah!" he continued, patting the dog's sides, "I see how it is; you've had breakfast already this morning; bin at it when I was a-sleepin'. For shame, Cuffy! -- you should have waited for me; an' you've bin an' over-ate yourself again, you greedy dog!"

This was evidently the case. The guilty creature, forgetful of its past experiences, had again gorged itself with dead fish, which it had found on the beach, and looked miserable.

"Well, never mind, doggie," said Jarwin, finishing his meal, and rising. "I'll give you a little exercise to-day for the good of your health. We shan't go sulking as we did yesterday; so, come along."

The sailor left his bower as he spoke, and set off at a round pace with his hands in his pockets, and a thick stick under his arm, whistling as he went, while Cuffy followed lovingly at his heels.



Chapter Three.

Communings Of Man And Beast.

It would appear to be almost an essential element in life that man should indulge in speech. Of course we cannot prove this, seeing that we have never been cast alone on a desert island (although we have been next thing to it), and cannot positively conclude what would have been the consequences to our castaway if he had rigidly refrained from speech. All that we can ground an opinion on is the fact that John Jarwin talked as much and as earnestly to his dog as if he knew that that sagacious creature understood every word he uttered. Indeed, he got into such a habit of doing this, that it is very probable he might have come to believe that Cuffy really did understand, though he was not gifted with the power to reply. If it be true that Jarwin came to this state of credulity, certain it is that Cuffy was deeply to blame in the matter, because the way in which that ridiculous hypocrite sat before his master, and looked up in his face with his lustrous, intelligent eyes, and cocked his ears, and wagged his tail, and smiled, might have deceived a much less superstitious man than a British tar.

We have said that Cuffy smiled, advisedly. Some people might object to the word, and say that he only "snickered," or made faces. That, we hold, is a controvertible question. Cuffy's facial contortions looked like smiling. They came very often inappropriately, and during parts of Jarwin's discourse when no smile should have been called forth; but if that be sufficient to prove that Cuffy was not smiling, then, on the same ground, we hold that a large proportion of those ebullitions which convulse the human countenance are not smiles but unmeaning grins. Be this as it may, Cuffy smiled, snickered, or grinned amazingly, during the long discourses that were delivered to him by his master, and indeed looked so wonderfully human in his knowingness, that it only required a speaking tongue and a shaved face to constitute him an unanswerable proof of the truth of the Darwinian theory of the origin of the human species.

"Cuffy," said Jarwin, panting, as he reached the summit of his island, and sat down on its pinnacle rock, "that's a splendid view, ain't it?"

To any one save a cynic or a misanthrope, Cuffy replied with eye and tail, "It is magnificent."

"But you're not looking at it," objected Jarwin, "you're looking straight up in my face; so how can you tell what it's like, doggie?"

"I see it all," replied Cuffy with a grin; "all reflected in the depths of your two loving eyes."

Of course Jarwin lost this pretty speech in consequence of its being a mute reply, but he appeared to have some intuitive perception of it, for he stooped down and patted the dog's head affectionately.

After this there was a prolonged silence, during which the sailor gazed wistfully round the horizon. The scene was indeed one of surpassing beauty and grandeur. The island on which he had been cast was one of those small coral gems which deck the breast of the Pacific. It could not have been more than nine or ten miles in circumference, yet within this area there lay a miniature world. The mountain-top on which the seaman sat was probably eight or nine hundred feet above the level of the sea, and commanded a view of the whole island. On one side lay three lesser hills, covered to their summits with indescribably rich verdure, amongst which rose conspicuous the tall stems and graceful foliage of many cocoanut-palms. Fruit-trees of various kinds glistened in the sunshine, and flowering shrubs in abundance lent additional splendour to the scene. On the other side of the mountain a small lake glittered like a jewel among the trees; and there numerous flocks of wild-fowl disported themselves in peaceful security. From the farther extremity of the lake flowed a rivulet, which, from the mountain-top, resembled a silver thread winding its way through miniature valleys, until lost in the light yellow sand of the sea-shore. On this beach there was not even a ripple, because of the deep calm which prevailed but on the ring or coral-reef, which completely encircled the island, those great "rollers" -- which appear never to go down even in calm -- fell from time to time with a long, solemn roar, and left an outer ring of milk-white foam. The blue lagoon between the reef and the island varied from a few yards to a quarter of a mile in breadth, and its quiet waters were like a sheet of glass, save where they were ruffled now and then by the diving of a sea-gull or the fin of a shark. Birds of many kinds filled the grove with sweet sounds, and tended largely to dispel that feeling of intense loneliness which had been creeping that day over our seaman's spirit.

"Come, my doggie," said Jarwin, patting his dumb companion's head, "if you and I are to dwell here for long, we've got a most splendid estate to look after. I only hope we won't find South Sea niggers in possession before us, for they're not hospitable, Cuffy, they ain't hospitable, bein' given, so I'm told, to prefer human flesh to most other kinds o' wittles."

He looked anxiously round in all directions at this point, as if the ideas suggested by his words were not particularly agreeable.

"No," he resumed, after a short survey, "it don't seem as if there was any of 'em here. Anyhow I can't see none, and most parts of the island are visible from this here mast-head."

Again the seaman became silent as he repeated his survey of the island; his hands, meanwhile, searching slowly, as if by instinct, round his pockets, and into their most minute recesses, if haply they might find an atom of tobacco. Both hands and eyes, however, failed in their search; so, turning once more towards his dog, Jarwin sat down and addressed it thus: -- 

"Cuff, my doggie, don't wink in that idiotical way, you hanimated bundle of oakum! and don't wag yer tail so hard, else you'll shake it off some fine day! Well, Cuff, here you an' I are fixed -- 'it may be for years, an' it may be for ever' -- as the old song says; so it behoves you and me to hold a consultation as to wot's the best to be done for to make the most of our sukumstances. Ah, doggie!" he continued in a low tone, looking pensively towards the horizon, "it's little that my dear wife (your missus and mine, Cuff) knows that her John has fallen heir to sitch an estate; become, so to speak, 'monarch of all he surveys.' O Molly, Molly, if you was only here, wot a paradise it would be! Eden over again; Adam an' Eve, without a'most no difference, barrin' the clo'se, by the way, for if I ain't mistaken, Adam didn't wear a straw hat and a blue jacket, with pumps and canvas ducks. Leastwise, I've never heard that he did; an' I'm quite sure that Eve didn't go to church on Sundays in a gown wi' sleeves like two legs o' mutton, an' a bonnet like a coal-scuttle. By the way, I don't think they owned a doggie neither."

 --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  -- 

At this point the terrier, who had gradually quieted down during the above soliloquy, gave a responsive wag of its tail, and looked up with a smile -- a plain, obvious, unquestionable smile, which its master believed in most thoroughly.

"Ah, you needn't grin like that, Cuff," replied Jarwin, "it's quite certain that Adam and Eve had no doggie. No doubt they had plenty of wild 'uns -- them as they giv'd names to -- but they hadn't a good little tame 'un like you, Cuff; no, nor nobody else, for you're the best dog in the world -- if you'd only keep yer spanker-boom quiet; but you'll shake it off, you will, if you go on like that. There, lie down, an' let's get on with our consultation. Well, as I was sayin' when you interrupted me, wot a happy life we could live here if we'd only got the old girl with us! I'd be king, you know, Cuff, and she'd be queen, and we'd make you prime minister -- you're prime favourite already, you know. There now, if you don't clap a stopper on that ere spanker-boom, I'll have to lash it down. Well, to proceed: we'd build a hut -- or a palace --  of turf an' sticks, with a bunk alongside for you; an w'en our clo'se began for to wear out, we'd make pants and jackets and petticoats of cocoanut-fibre; for you must know I've often see'd mats made o' that stuff, an' splendid wear there's in it too, though it would be rather rough for the skin at first; but we'd get used to that in coorse o' time. Only fancy Mrs Jarwin in a cocoanut-fibre petticoat with a palm-leaf hat, or somethink o' that sort! An', after all, it wouldn't be half so rediklous as some o' the canvas she's used to spread on Sundays."

Jarwin evidently thought his ideas somewhat ridiculous, for he paused at this point and chuckled, while Cuffy sprang up and barked responsively.

While they were thus engaged, a gleam of white appeared on the horizon.

"Sail ho!" shouted the sailor in the loud, full tones with which he was wont to announce such an appearance from the mast-head in days gone by.

Oh, how earnestly he strained his eyes in the direction of that little speck! It might have been a sail; just as likely it was the wing of a sea-gull or an albatross. Whatever it was, it grew gradually less until it sank out of view on the distant horizon. With it sank poor Jarwin's newly-raised hopes. Still he continued to gaze intently, in the hope that it might reappear; but it did not. With a heavy sigh the sailor rose at length, wakened Cuffy, who had gone to sleep, and descended the mountain.

This look-out on the summit of the island now became the regular place of resort for Jarwin and his dumb, but invaluable companion. And so absorbed did the castaway become, in his contemplation of the horizon, and in his expectation of the heaving in sight of another sail, that he soon came to spend most of his time there. He barely gave himself time to cook and eat his breakfast before setting out for the spot, and frequently he remained there the livelong day, having carried up enough of provision to satisfy his hunger.

At first, while there, he employed himself in the erection of a rude flag-staff, and thus kept himself busy and reasonably cheerful. He cut the pole with some difficulty, his clasp-knife being but a poor substitute for an axe; then he bored a hole at the top to reave the halliards through. These latter he easily made by plaiting together threads of cocoanut-fibre, which were both tough and long. When ready, he set up and fixed the staff, and hoisted thereon several huge leaves of the palm-tree, which, in their natural size and shape, formed excellent flags.

When, however, all this was done, he was reduced to a state of idleness, and his mind began to dwell morbidly on the idea of being left to spend the rest of his days on the island. His converse with Cuffy became so sad that the spirits of that sagacious and sympathetic dog were visibly affected. He did, indeed, continue to lick his master's hand lovingly, and to creep close to his side on all occasions; but he ceased to wag his expressive tail with the violence that used to characterise that appendage in other days, and became less demonstrative in his conduct. All this, coupled with constant exposure in all sorts of weather --  although Jarwin was not easily affected by a breeze or a wet jacket --  began at last to undermine the health of the stout seaman. He became somewhat gaunt and hollow-cheeked, and his beard and moustache, which of course he could not shave, and which, for a long time, presented the appearance of stubble, added to the lugubriosity of his aspect.

As a climax to his distress, he one day lost his dog! When it went off, or where it went to, he could not tell, but, on rousing up one morning and putting out his hand almost mechanically to give it the accustomed pat of salutation, he found that it was gone.

A thrill of alarm passed through his frame on making this discovery, and, leaping up, he began to shout its name. But no answering bark was heard. Again and again he shouted, but in vain. Without taking time to put on his coat, he ran to the top of the nearest eminence, and again shouted loud and long. Still no answer.

A feeling of desperate anxiety now took possession of the man. The bare idea of being left in utter loneliness drove him almost distracted. For some time he ran hither and thither, calling passionately to his dog, until he became quite exhausted; then he sat down on a rock, and endeavoured to calm his spirit and consider what he should do. Indulging in his tendency to think aloud, he said -- 

"Come now, John, don't go for to make a downright fool of yerself. Cuffy has only taken a longer walk than usual. He'll be home to breakfast; but you may as well look a bit longer, there's no sayin' wot may have happened. He may have felled over a precepiece or sprain'd his leg. Don't you give way to despair anyhow, John Jarwin, but nail yer colours to the mast, and never say die."

Somewhat calmed by these encouraging exhortations, the sailor rose up and resumed his search in a more methodical way. Going down to the sea, he walked thence up to the edge of the bush, gazing with the utmost intensity at the ground all the way, in the hope of discovering Cuffy's fresh footsteps; but none were to be seen.

"Come," said he, "it's clear that you haven't gone to the s'uth'ard o' yer home; now, we'll have a look to the nor'ard."

Here he was more successful. The prints of Cuffy's small paws were discovered on the wet sand bearing northward along shore. Jarwin followed them up eagerly, but, coming to a place where the sand was hard and dry, and covered with thin grass, he lost them. Turning back to where they were distinct, he recommenced the search. No red Indian, in pursuit of friend or foe, ever followed up a trail with more intense eagerness than poor Jarwin followed the track of his lost companion. He even began to develop, in quite a surprising way, some of the deep sagacity of the savage; for he came, before that day was over, not only to distinguish the prints of Cuffy's paws on pretty hard sand, where the impressions were very faint, but even on rough ground, where there were no distinct marks at all -- only such indications as were afforded by the pressure of a dead leaf into soft ground, or the breaking of a fallen twig!

Nevertheless, despite his care, anxiety, and diligence, Jarwin failed to find his dog. He roamed all that day until his limbs were weary, and shouted till his voice was hoarse, but only echoes answered him. At last he sat down, overcome with fatigue and grief.

It had rained heavily during the latter part of the day and soaked him to the skin, but he heeded it not. Towards evening the weather cleared up little, but the sun descended to the horizon in a mass of black clouds, which were gilded with [a] strange lurid light that presaged a storm; while sea-birds flew overhead and shrieked in wild excitement, as if they were alarmed at the prospect before them. But Jarwin observed and cared for none of these things. He buried his face in his hands, and sat for some time perfectly motionless.

While seated thus, a cold shiver passed through his frame once or twice, and he felt unusually faint.

"Humph!" said he, the second time this occurred, "strange sort o' feelin'. Never felt it before. No doubt it's in consikince o' goin' without wittles all day. Well, well," he added, with a deep long-drawn sigh, "who'd have thought I'd lose 'ee, Cuff, in this fashion. It's foolish, no doubt, to take on like this, but I can't help it somehow. I don't believe I could feel much worse if I had lost my old 'ooman. It's kurious, but I feels awful lonesome without 'ee, my doggie."

He was interrupted by the shivering again, and was about to rise, when a long low wail struck on his ear. He listened intently. No statue ever sat more motionless on its pedestal than did Jarwin during the next three minutes.

Again the wail rose, faint and low at first, then swelling out into a prolonged loud cry, which, strange to say, seemed to be both distant and near.

John Jarwin was not altogether free from superstition. His heart beat hard under the influence of a mingled feeling of hope and fear; but when he heard the cry the third time, he dismissed his fears, and, leaping up, hurried forward in the direction whence the sound appeared to come. The bushes were thick and difficult to penetrate, but he persevered on hearing a repetition of the wail, and was thus led into a part of the island which he had not formerly visited.

Presently he came to something that appeared not unlike an old track; but, although the sun had not quite set, the place was so shut in by tangled bushes and trees that he could see nothing distinctly. Suddenly he put his right foot on a mass of twigs, which gave way under his weight, and he made a frantic effort to recover himself. Next moment, he fell headlong into a deep hole or pit at the bottom of which he lay stunned for some time. Recovering, he found that no bones were broken, and after considerable difficulty, succeeded in scrambling out of the hole. Just as he did so, the wail was again raised; but it sounded so strange, and so unlike any sound that Cuffy could produce, that he was tempted to give up the search -- all the more that his recent fall had so shaken his exhausted frame that he could scarcely walk.

While he stood irresolute, the wail was repeated, and, this time, there was a melancholy sort of "bow-wow" mingled with it, that sent the blood careering through his veins like wildfire. Fatigue and hunger were forgotten. Shouting the name of his dog, he bounded forward, and would infallibly have plunged head-foremost into another pit, at the bottom of which Cuffy lay, had not that wise creature uttered a sudden bark of joy, which checked his master on the very brink.

"Hallo! Cuff, is that you, my doggie?"

"Bow, wow, wow!" exclaimed Cuffy in tones which there could be no mistaking, although the broken twigs and herbage which covered the mouth of the pit muffled them a good deal, and accounted for the strangeness of the creature's howls when heard at a distance.

"Why, where ever have 'ee got yourself into?" said Jarwin, going down on his knees and groping carefully about the opening of the pit. "I do believe you've bin an' got into a trap o' some sort. The savages must have been here before us, doggie, and made more than one of 'em, for I've just comed out o' one myself. Hallo! there, I'm into another!" he exclaimed as the treacherous bank gave way, and he slipped in headlong, with a dire crash, almost smothering Cuffy in his fall.

Fortunately, no damage, beyond a few scratches, resulted either to dog or man, and in a few minutes more both stood upon firm ground.

It would be vain, reader to attempt to give you in detail all that John Jarwin said and did on that great occasion, as he sat there on the ground caressing his dog as if it had been his own child. We leave it to your imagination!

When he had expended the first burst of feeling, he got up, and was about to retrace his steps, when he observed some bones lying near him. On examination, these proved to be the skeleton of a man. At first Jarwin thought it must be that of a native; but he was startled to find among the dust on which the skeleton lay several brass buttons with anchors on them. That he stood beside the remains of a brother seaman, who had probably been cast on that island, as he himself had been, seemed very evident, and the thought filled him with strange depressing emotions. As it was by that time too dark to make further investigations, he left the place, intending to return next day; and, going as cautiously as possible out of the wood, returned to his abode, where he kindled a fire, gave Cuffy some food, and prepared some for himself; but before he had tasted that food another of the shivering fits seized him. A strange feeling of being very ill, and a peculiar wandering of his mind, induced him to throw himself on his couch. The prolonged strain to which body and mind had been subjected had proved too much for him, and before morning he was stricken with a raging fever.



Chapter Four.

Hopes And Fears And Stern Resolves Lead To Vigorous Action.

For several days the sailor lay tossing in helpless misery in his bower, without food or fire. Indeed he could not have eaten even if food had been offered him, and as to fire, there was heat enough in his veins, poor fellow! to more than counterbalance the want of that.

During part of the time he became delirious, and raved about home and sea-life and old companions in a way that evidently quite alarmed Cuffy, for that sagacious terrier approached his master with caution, with his tail between his legs, and a pitiful, earnest gaze, that was quite touching. This was partly owing to the fact that Jarwin had several times patted him with such painful violence as to astonish and render him doubtful of the affection displayed by such caresses. Jarwin also recurred at these times to his tobacco and beer, and apparently suffered a good deal from dreams about those luxuries. In his ravings he often told Cuffy to fill a pipe for him, and advised him to look sharp about it, and he frequently reproached some of his old comrades for not passing the beer. Fortunately the fountain was close at hand, and he often slaked his burning thirst at it. He also thought frequently of the skeleton in the thicket, and sometimes raved with an expression of horror about being left to die alone on a desert island.

By degrees the fever reached its climax, and then left him almost dead. For a whole day and night he lay so absolutely helpless that it cost him an effort to open his eyes, and he looked so ill that the poor dog began to whine piteously over him, but the day after that a sensation of hunger induced him to make an effort to rouse up. He tried to raise his head -- it felt as if made of lead.

"Hallo! Cuffy, somethin' wrong I suspect!"

It was the first time for many days that Jarwin had spoken in his natural tones. The effect on the dog was instantaneous and powerful. It sprang up, and wagged its expressive tail with something of the energy of former times; licked the sick man's face and hands; whined and barked intelligently; ran away in little bursts, as if it had resolved to undertake a journey off-hand, but came back in a few seconds, and in many other ways indicated its intense delight at finding that Jarwin was "himself again."

But alas! Jarwin was not quite himself yet, and Cuffy, after his first ebullition, sat looking in surprise at the invalid, as he strove to turn on his side, and reach out his heavy hand and skinny arm towards a few scraps of the last meal he had cooked before being struck down. Cuffy, after eating the portion of that meal that suited his taste, had left the remnants there as being unworthy of notice, and catered for himself among the dead fish cast up on the beach. Although lying within a yard of his couch, Jarwin had the greatest difficulty in reaching the food; and when he did at length succeed in grasping it, he fell back on his couch, and lay for a long time as if dead. Soon, however, he recovered, and, with a feeling of gratitude such as he had never before experienced, began to gnaw the hard morsels.

"I'm in a bad way, Cuff," he said, after satisfying the first cravings of hunger.

Cuffy gave a responsive wag with his tail, and cocked his ears for more.

"Hows'ever, seems to me that I've got the turn; let's be thankful for that, my doggie. Wonder how long I've bin ill. Months mayhap. Don't think I could have come to be sitch a skeleton in a short time. Ha! that minds me o' the skeleton in the wood. Have 'ee seed it, Cuff, since I found 'ee there? Well, I must eat and drink too, if I would keep the skin on my skeleton. Wish you had hands, doggie, for I'm greatly in need o' help just now. But you're a comfort, anyhow, even though you hain't got no hands. I should have died without you, my doggie -- you cheer me up, d'ee see, and when it's nigh low water with a man, it don't take much to make him slip his cable. The want of a kind look at this here time, Cuffy, would have sent me adrift, I do believe."

It must not be supposed that all this was spoken fluently. It came slowly, by fits and starts, with a long pause at the end of each sentence, and with many a sigh between, expressive of extreme weakness.

"I wish I had a drink, Cuffy," said the invalid after a long pause, turning a longing look towards the spring, which welled up pleasantly close to the opening of the hut. "Ay, that's all very well in its way, but bow-wowin' an' waggin' yer tail won't fetch me a can o' water. Hows'ever, it's o' no manner o' use wishin'. 'Never say die.' Here goes."

So saying, he began slowly and painfully, but with unyielding perseverance, to push, and draw, and hitch himself, while lying at full length, towards the spring, which he reached at last so exhausted, that he had barely put his lips to it and swallowed a mouthful, when his head dropped, and he almost fainted. He was within an ace of being drowned, but with a violent effort he drew his face out of the spring, and lay there in a half unconscious condition for some time, with the clear cool water playing about his temples. Reviving in a little time, he took another sip, and then crawled back to his couch. Immediately he fell into a profound slumber, from which Cuffy strove in vain to awaken him; therefore, like a sagacious dog, he lay down at his master's side and joined him in repose.

From that hour Jarwin began to mend rapidly. In a few days he was able to walk about with the aid of a stick. In a few weeks he felt somewhat like his former self, and soon after that, he was able to ascend to the top of the island, and resume his watch for a passing sail. But the first few hours of his watch beside the old flagstaff convinced him that his hopes would, in all probability, be doomed to disappointment, and that he would soon fall back into a state of apathy, from which he might perhaps be unable to rouse himself, in which case his fate would certainly be that of the poor sailor whose remains he had that day buried in the pit near to which they had been discovered. He resolved, therefore, to give up watching altogether, and to devote all his energies in future to devising some plan of escape from the island, but when he bent his mind to this task he felt a deep sinking of the heart, for he had no implements wherewith to construct a boat or canoe.

Suddenly it occurred to him, for the first time in his life, that he ought, in this extremity, to pray to God for help. He was, as we have said, a straightforward man, prompt to act as well as ready to conceive. He fell on his knees at once, humbly confessed his sin in depending so entirely on himself in time past, and earnestly asked help and guidance for the future. His prayer was not long -- neither was the publican's --  but it was effectual. He arose with feelings of strong resolution and confidence, which appeared to himself quite unaccountable, for he had not, as yet, conceived any new idea or method as to escaping from the island. Instead of setting his mind to work, as he had intended, he could not help dwelling on the fact that he had never before deliberately asked help from his Maker, and this raised a train of self-condemnatory thoughts which occupied him the remainder of that day. At night he prayed again before laying down to rest.

Next morning he rose like a giant refreshed, and, after a plunge in the sea and a hearty breakfast, set out with Cuffy for a meditative walk.

Great were the thoughts that swelled the seaman's broad chest during that walk, and numerous, as well as wild and quaint, were the plans of escape which he conceived and found it necessary to abandon.

"It's harder work to think it out than I had expected, Cuffy," he said, sitting down on a cliff that overlooked the sea, and thinking aloud. "If you and I could only swim twenty miles or so at a stretch, I'd risk it; but, as nothin' short o' that would be likely to be of sarvice, we must give it up. Then, if I could only cut down trees with my shoe, and saw planks with my jacket, we might make a boat; but I can't do that, and we haven't no nails -- except our toe-nails, which ain't the right shape or strong enough; so we must give that up too. It's true that we might burn a canoe out of a solid tree, but who's to cut down the solid tree for us, doggie? I'm sure if the waggin' of a tail could do it you wouldn't be long about it! Why on earth can't 'ee keep it still for a bit? Well, then, as we can't swim or fly, and haven't a boat or canoe, or the means o' makin' em, what's the next thing to be done?"

Apparently neither man nor dog could return an answer to that question, for they both sat for a very long time in profound silence, staring at the sea.

After some time Jarwin suddenly exclaimed, "I'll do it!"

Cuffy, startled by the energy with which it was said, jumped up and said, "That's right!" -- or something very like it -- with his eyes.

"Yes, Cuffy, I'll make a raft, and you and I shall get on it, some day, with a fair wind, and make for the island that we think we've seen so often on the horizon."

He alluded here to a faint blue line which, on unusually fine and clear days, he had distinguished on the horizon to the southward, and which, from its always appearing on the same spot, he believed to be land of some sort, although it looked nothing more than a low-lying cloud.

"So that's settled," continued Jarwin, getting up and walking smartly back to his hut with the air of a man who has a purpose in view. "We shall make use of the old raft, as far as it'll go. Luckily the sail is left, as you and I know, Cuff, for it has been our blanket for many a day, and when all's ready we shall go huntin', you and I, till we've got together a stock of provisions, and then -- up anchor and away! We can only be drownded once, you know, and it's better that than stopping here to die o' the blues. What think 'ee o' that, my doggie?"

Whatever the doggie thought of the idea, there can be no question what he thought of the cheery vigorous tones of his master's voice, for he gambolled wildly round, barked with vociferous delight, and wagged his "spanker boom" to such an extent that Jarwin warned him to have a care lest it should be carried away, an' go slap overboard.

In pursuance of the designs thus expressed, the sailor began the construction of a raft without delay, and worked at it diligently the remainder of that day. He found, on examination, that a considerable portion of the old raft yet remained stranded on the beach, though all the smaller spars of which it had been composed had been used for firewood. With great difficulty he rolled these logs one by one into the sea, and, getting astride of each, pushed them by means of a pole towards a point of rocks, or natural jetty, alongside of which the water was deep. Here he fastened them together by means of a piece of rope --  one of the old fastenings which remained to him, the others having been used in the construction of the hut. The raft thus formed was, however, much too small to weather a gale or float in a rough sea. In whatever way he placed the spars the structure was too narrow for safety. Seeing, therefore, that it was absolutely necessary to obtain more logs, he set brain and hands to work without delay.

Many years before, he had seen an ancient stone hatchet in a museum, the head of which was fastened to the haft by means of a powerful thong of untanned hide. He resolved to make a hatchet of this sort. Long did he search the beach for a suitable stone, but in vain. At last he found one pretty nearly the proper shape, which he chipped and ground into the rude form of an axe. It had no eye for the handle. To have made a hole in it would have weakened the stone too much. He therefore cut a groove in the side of the handle, placed the head of the stone into it, and completed the fastening by tying it firmly with the tough fibrous roots of a tree. It was strongly and neatly made, though clumsy in appearance, but, do what he would, he could not put a sufficiently fine edge on it, and although it chipped pretty well when applied to the outside of a tree, it made very slow progress indeed as the cut deepened, and the work became so toilsome at last that he almost gave it up in despair. Suddenly it occurred to him that fire might be made use of to facilitate the work. Selecting a tall cocoanut-tree, he piled dry wood all round the foot of it. Before setting it on fire he dipped a quantity of cocoanut fibre in the sea and tied a thick belt of this round the tree just above the pile, so as to protect the upper parts of the spar from the flames as much and as long as possible. This done, he kindled the pile. A steady breeze fanned the flame into an intense fire, which ere long dried up the belt of fibre and finally consumed it. The fire was pretty well burnt out by that time, however, so that the upper part of the stem had been effectually preserved. Removing the ashes, he was rejoiced to find that the foot of the tree had been so deeply burned that several inches of it were reduced to charcoal, which his stone hatchet readily cut away, and the operation was so successful that it only required a second fire to enable him to fell the tree.

This done, he measured it off in lengths. Under each point of measurement he piled up dry wood -- which consisted merely of broken branches -- with belts of wet fibre on each side of these piles. Then, applying a light to the fires he reduced the parts to charcoal as before, and completed the work with the hatchet. Thus, in the course of a single day, he felled a tall tree and cut it up into six lengths, which he rolled down to the sea and floated off to the end of the jetty.

Next day Jarwin rose with the sun, and began to make twine of twisted cocoanut fibre -- of which there was great abundance to be had everywhere. When a sufficient quantity had been made he plaited the twine into cords, and the cords into stout ropes, which, although not so neat as regular ropes, were, nevertheless, sufficiently pliable and very strong. Several days were spent over this somewhat tedious process; and we may mention here, that in all these operations the busy seaman was greatly assisted by his dog, who stuck close to him all the time, encouraging him with looks and wags of approbation.

After the ropes were made, the raft was put together and firmly lashed. There was a mast and yard in the centre of it, and also a hollow, formed by the omission of a log, which was just large enough to permit of the man and his dog lying down. This hollow, slight though it was, afterwards proved of the utmost service.

It is needless to recount all the details of the building and provisioning of this raft. Suffice it to say that, about three weeks after the idea of it had been conceived, it was completed and ready for sea.

During his residence on the island, although it had only extended over a few months, Jarwin had become very expert in the use of a sharp-pointed pole, or javelin, with which he had become quite an adept in spearing fish. He had also become such a dead-shot with a stone that when he managed to get within thirty yards of a bird, he was almost certain to hit it. Thus he was enabled to procure fish and fowl as much as he required and as the woods abounded with cocoa-nuts, plums, and other wild fruits, besides many edible roots, he had no lack of good fare. Now that he was about to "go to sea," he bethought him of drying some of the fruits as well as curing some fish and birds. This he did by degrees, while engaged on the raft, so that when all was ready he had a store of provisions sufficient to last him several weeks. In order to stow all this he removed another log from the middle of the raft, and, having deposited the food in the hollow -- carefully wrapped in cocoanut leaves and made into compact bundles -- he covered it over by laying a layer of large leaves above it and lashing a small spar on the top of them to keep them down. The cask with which he had landed from the original raft, and which he had preserved with great care, not knowing how soon he might be in circumstances to require it, served to hold fresh water.

On a fine morning about sunrise, Jarwin embarked with his little dog and bade farewell to the coral island, and although he had not dwelt very long there, he felt, to his own surprise, much regret at quitting it.

A fresh breeze was blowing in the direction of the island -- or the supposed island -- he wished to reach. This was important, because, in such a craft, it was impossible to sail in any way except before the wind. Still, by means of a rude oar or paddle, he could modify its direction so as to steer clear of the passage through the reef and get out to sea.

Once outside, he squared the sail and ran right before the breeze. Of course such a weighty craft went very slowly through the water, but the wind was pretty strong, and to Jarwin, who had been for a comparatively long time unaccustomed to moving on the water, the speed seemed fast enough. As the island went astern, and the raft lifted and fell gently on the long swell of the ocean, the seaman's heart beat with a peculiar joy to which it had long been a stranger, and he thanked God fervently for having so soon answered his prayer.

For a long time he sat reclining in the hollow of the raft, resting his hand lightly on the steering oar and gazing in silence at the gradually fading woods of his late home. The dog, as if it were aware that a great change was being effected in their destiny, lay also perfectly still -- and apparently contemplative -- at his master's feet; resting his chin on a log and gazing at the receding land. It was evident, however, that his thoughts were not absent or wandering, for, on the slightest motion made by his master, his dark eyes turned towards him, his ears slightly rose, and his tail gave the faintest possible indication of an intention to wag.

"Well, Cuffy," said Jarwin at last, rousing himself with a sigh, "wot are 'ee thinking of?"

The dog instantly rose, made affectionate demonstrations, and whined.

"Ah, you may well say that, Cuff," replied the man; "I know you ain't easy in yer mind, and there's some reason in that, too, for we're off on a raither uncertain viage, in a somewhat unseaworthy craft. Howsever, cheer up, doggie. Whoever turns up, you and I shall sink or swim together."

Just then the sail flapped.

"Hallo! Cuff," exclaimed Jarwin, with a look of anxiety, "the wind's going to shift."

This was true. The wind did shift, and in a few minutes had veered so much round that the raft was carried away from the blue line on the horizon, which Jarwin had so fondly hoped would turn out to be an inhabited island. It blew lightly, however, and when the sun went down, had completely died away. In these circumstances Jarwin and his dog supped together, and then lay down to rest, full of sanguine hope.

They were awakened during the night by a violent squall, which, however, did no further damage than wash a little spray over them, for Jarwin had taken the precaution to lower and make fast the sail. He now turned his attention to preparing the raft for rough weather. This consisted in simply drawing over the hollow -- in which he, his dog, and his provisions lay -- a piece of canvas that he had cut off the sail, which was unnecessarily large. It served as a tarpaulin, and effectually shielded them from ordinary sprays, but when the breeze freshened to a gale, and green seas swept over the raft, it leaked so badly, that Jarwin's cabin became a salt-water bath, and his provisions by degrees were soaked.

At first he did not mind this much, for the air and water were sufficiently warm, but after being wet for several hours he began feel chilled. As for poor Cuffy, his trembling body bore testimony to the state of his feelings; nevertheless he did not complain, being a dog of high spirit and endurance. In these circumstances the seaman hailed the rising sun with great joy, even although it rose in the midst of lurid murky clouds, and very soon hid its face altogether behind them, as if it had made up its mind that the state of things below was so bad as to be not worth shining upon.

All that day and night the gale continued, and they were driven before it. The waves rushed so continuously and furiously over the raft, that it was with the utmost difficulty Jarwin could retain his position on it. Indeed it would have been impossible for him to have done so, if he had not taken the precaution of making the hollow in the centre, into which he could crouch, and thus avoid the full force of the seas. Next day the wind abated a little, but the sea still rolled "mountains high." In order to break their force a little, he ventured to show a little corner of the sail. Small though it was, it almost carried away the slender mast, and drove the raft along at a wonderfully rapid rate.

At last the gale went down, and, finally, it became a dead calm, leaving the raft like a cork heaving on the mighty swell of the Pacific Ocean. Weary and worn -- almost dead with watching and exposure -- John Jarwin lay down and slept, but his slumber was uneasy and unrefreshing. Sunrise awoke him, and he sat up with a feeling of deep thankfulness, as he basked once more in its warm rays and observed that the sky above him was bright blue. But other feelings mingled with these when he gazed round on the wide waste of water, which still heaved its swelling though now unruffled breast, as if panting after its recent burst of fury.

"Ho! Cuffy -- what's that? Not a sail, eh?" exclaimed Jarwin, suddenly starting up, while his languid eyes kindled with excitement.

He was right. After a long, earnest, anxious gaze, he came to the conclusion that it was a sail which shone, white and conspicuous, like a speck or a snow-flake on the horizon.



Chapter Five.

Jarwin And Cuffy Fall Into Bad Company.

Immediately on discovering the sail, Jarwin hoisted a small canvas flag, which he had prepared for the purpose, to the mast-head, and then sat down to watch with indescribable earnestness the motions of the vessel. There was great cause for anxiety he well knew, because his raft was a mere speck on the great waste of waters which might easily be overlooked even by a vessel passing at a comparatively short distance, and if the vessel's course should happen to lie across that of the raft, there was every probability she would only be visible for a short time and then pass away like a ray of hope dying out.

After gazing in perfect silence for half-an-hour, Jarwin heaved a deep sigh and said -- 

"She steers this way, Cuffy."

Cuffy acknowledged the remark with a little whine and a very slight wag of his tail. It was evident that his spirits had sunk to a low ebb, and that he was not prepared to derive comfort from every trifling circumstance.

"Come, we'll have a bit of summat to eat, my doggie," said the sailor, reaching forward his hand to the provision bundle.

Thoroughly understanding and appreciating this remark, Cuffy roused himself and looked on with profound interest, while his master cut up a dried fish. Having received a large share of it, he forgot everything else, and devoted all his powers, physical and mental, to the business in hand. Although Jarwin also applied himself to the food with the devotion of a man whose appetite is sharp, and whose strength needs recruiting, he was very far indeed from forgetting other things. He kept his eyes the whole time on the approaching sail, and once or twice became so absorbed and so anxious lest the vessel should change her course, that he remained with his mouth half open, and with the unconsumed morsel reposing therein for a minute or more at a time.

But the vessel did not change her course. On she came; a fine large schooner with raking masts, and so trim and neat in her rig that she resembled a pleasure-yacht. As she drew near, Jarwin rose, and holding on to the mast, waved a piece of canvas, while Cuffy, who felt that there was now really good ground for rejoicing, wagged his tail and barked in an imbecile fashion, as if he didn't exactly know whether to laugh or cry.

"We're all safe now, doggie," exclaimed Jarwin, as the schooner came cutting through the water before a light breeze, leaving a slight track of foam in her wake.

When within about two or three hundred yards of the raft, the castaway could see that a figure leant on the vessel's side and brought a telescope to bear on him. With a feeling of irrepressible gladness he laughed and waved his hand.

"Ay, ay, take a good squint," he shouted, "an' then lower a boat -- eh! -- "

He stopped abruptly, for at that moment the figure turned towards the steersman; the schooner's head fell away, presenting her stern to the raft, and began to leave her behind.

The truth flashed upon Jarwin like a thunderbolt. It was clear that the commander of the strange vessel had no intention of relieving him. In the first burst of mingled despair and indignation, the seaman uttered a bass roar of defiance that might have done credit to the lungs of a small carronade, and at the same time shook his fist at the retiring schooner.

The effect of this was as sudden as it was unexpected. To his surprise he observed that the schooner's head was immediately thrown up into the wind, and all her sails shook for a few moments, then, filling out again, the vessel bent gracefully over on the other tack. With returning joy the castaway saw her run straight towards him. In a few minutes she was alongside, and her topsails were backed.

"Look out! catch hold!" cried a gruff voice, as a sailor sent a coil of rope whirling over the raft. Jarwin caught it, took a turn round the mast, and held on.

In a minute the raft was alongside. Weak though he was, Jarwin retained enough of his sailor-like activity to enable him to seize a rope and swing himself on board with Cuffy in his arms.

He found himself on the pure white deck of a craft which was so well appointed and so well kept, that his first impressions were revived --  namely, that she was a pleasure-yacht. He knew that she was not a vessel of war, because, besides the absence of many little things that mark such a vessel, the few men on deck were not clothed like man-of-war's-men, and there was no sign of guns, with the exception of one little brass carronade, which was probably used as a signal-gun.

A tall stout man, in plain costume, which was neither quite that of a seaman nor a landsman, stood with his arms crossed on his broad chest near the man at the wheel. To him, judging him to be the captain or owner of the vessel, Jarwin went up, and, pulling his forelock by way of salutation, said -- 

"Why, sir, I thought 'ee was a-goin' to leave me!"

"So I was," answered the captain, drily. "Hold on to the raft," he added, turning to the man who had thrown the rope to Jarwin.

"Well, sir," said the latter in some surprise, "in course I don't know why you wos a-goin' to leave a feller-creetur to his fate, but I'm glad you didn't go for to do it, 'cos it wouldn't have bin Christian-like. But I'm bound for to thank 'ee, sir, all the same for havin' saved me --  and Cuffy."

"Don't be too free with your thanks, my good man," returned the captain, "for you're not saved, as you call it, yet."

"Not saved yet?" repeated Jarwin.

"No. Whether I save you or not depends on your keeping a civil tongue in your head, and on your answers to my questions."

The captain interlarded his speech with many oaths, which, of course, we omit. This, coupled with his rude manners, induced Jarwin to suspect that the vessel was not a pleasure-yacht after all, so he wisely held his peace.

"Where do you belong to?" demanded the captain.

"To Yarmouth, sir."

"What ship did you sail in, what has come of her, and how came you to be cast adrift?"

"I sailed in the Nancy, sir, from Plymouth, with a miscellaneous cargo for China. She sprung a leak in a gale, and we was 'bliged to make a raft, the boats bein' all stove in or washed away. It was barely ready when the ship went down starn foremost. Durin' the gale all my mates were washed off the raft or died of exposure; only me and my dog left."

"How long ago was that?" asked the captain.

"Couldn't rightly say, sir, I've lost count o' time, but it's more than a year gone by anyhow."

"That's a lie," said the captain, with an oath.

"No, 'taint, sir," replied Jarwin, reddening, "it's a truth. I was nigh starved on that raft, but was cast on an island where I've bin till a few days ago ever since, when I put to sea on the raft that now lays a-starn there."

For a few seconds the captain made no rejoinder, but a glance at the raft seemed to satisfy him of the truth of what was said. At length he said abruptly -- 

"What's your name?"

"John Jarwin, sir."

"Well, John Jarwin, I'll save you on one condition, which is, that you become one of my crew, and agree to do my bidding and ask no questions. What say you?"

Jarwin hesitated.

"Haul up the raft and let this man get aboard of it," said the captain, coolly but sternly, to the seaman who held the rope.

"You've no occasion to be so sharp, sir," said John, remonstratively. "If you wos to tell me to cut my own throat, you know, I could scarce be expected for to do it without puttin' a few questions as to the reason why. You're a trader, I suppose?"

"Yes, I'm a trader," replied the captain, "but I don't choose to be questioned by you. All you've got to do is to agree to my proposal or to walk over the side. To tell you the truth, when I saw you first through the glass, you looked such a starved wretch that I thought you'd be of no use to me, and if it hadn't been for the yell you gave, that showed there was something in you still, I'd have left you to sink or swim. So you see what sort of man you've got to deal with. I'm short-handed, but not so short as to engage an unwilling man, or a man who wouldn't be ready for any sort of dirty work. You may take your choice."

"Well, sir," replied Jarwin, "I've no objection to take service with 'ee. As the sayin' goes, 'beggars mustn't be choosers.' I ain't above doin' dirty work, if required."

John Jarwin, in the simplicity of his heart, imagined that the captain was in need of a man who could and would turn his hand to any sort of work, whether nautical or otherwise, on board ship or ashore, which was his idea of "dirty work;" but the captain appeared to understand him in a different sense, for he smiled in a grim fashion, nodded his head, and, turning to the seaman before mentioned, bade him cut the raft adrift. The man obeyed, and in a few minutes it was out of sight astern.

"Now, Jarwin, go below," said the captain; "Isaacs will introduce you to your messmates."

Isaacs, who had just cut away the raft, was a short, thick-set man, with a dark, expressionless face. He went forward without saying a word, and introduced Jarwin to the men as a "new 'and."

"And a green un, I s'pose; give us your flipper, lad," said one of the crew, holding out his hand.

Jarwin shook it, took off his cap and sat down, while his new friends began, as they expressed it, to pump him. Having no objection to be pumped, he had soon related the whole of his recent history. In the course of the narrative he discovered that his new associates were an unusually rough set. Their language was interspersed with frightful oaths, and their references to the captain showed that his power over them was certainly not founded on goodwill or affection. Jarwin also discovered that the freeness of his communication was not reciprocated by his new mates, for when he made inquiries as to the nature of the trade in which they were engaged, some of the men merely replied with uproarious laughter, chaff, or curses, while others made jocular allusions to sandal-wood trading, slaving, etcetera.

"I shouldn't wonder now," said one, "if you was to think we was pirates."

Jarwin smiled as he replied, "Well, I don't exactly think that, but I'm bound for to say the schooner has got such a rakish look that it wouldn't seem unnatural like if you were to hoist a black flag at the peak. An' you'll excuse me, shipmets, if I say that yer lingo ain't just so polished as it might be."

"And pray who are you, that comes here to lecture us about our lingo?" cried one of the men fiercely, starting up and confronting Jarwin with clenched fists.

"Why, mate," replied Jarwin, quietly folding back the cuffs of his coat, and putting himself in an attitude of defence, "I ain't nobody in partikler, not the Lord Chancellor o' England, anyhow still less the Archbishop of Canterbury. I'm only plain Jack Jarwin, seaman, but if you or any other man thinks -- "

"Come, come," cried one of the men in a tone of authority, starting forward and thrusting Jarwin's assailant violently aside, "none o' that sort o' thing here. Keep your fists for the niggers, Bill, we're all brothers here, you know; an affectionate family, so to speak!"

There was a general laugh at this. Bill retired sulkily, and Jarwin sat down to a plate of hot "lob-scouse," which proved to be very good, and of which he stood much in need.

For several days our hero was left very much to himself. The schooner sped on her voyage with a fair wind, and the men were employed in light work, or idled about the deck. No one interfered with Jarwin, but at the same time no one became communicative. The captain was a very silent man, and it was evident that the crew stood much in awe of him. Of course Jarwin's suspicions as to the nature of the craft were increased by all this, and from some remarks which he overheard two or three days after his coming on board, he felt convinced that he had fallen into bad company. Before a week had passed, this became so evident that he made up his mind to leave the vessel at the very first opportunity.

One day he went boldly to the captain and demanded to know the nature of the trade in which the schooner was employed and their present destination. He was told that that was no business of his, that he had better go forward and mind his duty without more ado, else he should be pitched overboard. The captain used such forcible language when he said this, and seemed so thoroughly in earnest, that Jarwin felt no longer any doubt as to his true character.

"I'll tell you what it is, my lad," said the captain, "my schooner is a trader or a man-of-war according to circumstances, and I'm a free man, going where I choose and doing what I please. I treat my men well when they do their duty; when they don't I make 'em walk the plank. No doubt you know what that means. If you don't we shall soon teach you. Take to-night to think over it. To-morrow morning I'll have a question or two to ask you. There -- go!"

Jarwin bowed submissively and retired.

That night the moon shone full and clear on the wide ocean's breast, and Jarwin stood at the bow of the schooner, looking sadly over the side, and patting his little dog gently on the head.

"Cuffy, you and me's in a fix, I suspect," he murmured in a low tone; "but cheer up, doggie, a way to escape will turn up no doubt."

He had scarcely uttered the words when his eye fell on the distant outline of land on the lee bow. He started, and gazed with fixed intensity for some minutes, under the impression that it might perhaps be a fog-bank lighted by the moon, but in a short time it became so distinct that there could be no doubt it was land. He pointed it out to the watch on deck, one of whom said carelessly that he had seen it for some time, and that there were plenty more islands of the same sort in these seas.

Jarwin walked aft and stood near the lee gangway contemplating the island in silence for some time. A small oar lay at his feet. Suddenly he conceived the daring idea of seizing this, plunging overboard and attempting to swim to land. He was a splendid swimmer, and although the island appeared to be more than two miles distant, he did not fear failure. A moment's reflection, however, convinced him that the men on deck would certainly hear the plunge, heave the ship to, and lower a boat, in which case he should be immediately overtaken. Still, being resolved to escape at all hazards, he determined to make the venture. Fastening a rope to a belaying pin, he tied the oar to it and lowered it over the side until it trailed in the water, he then lifted Cuffy, who was almost always near him, on to the side of the vessel, with a whisper to keep still. The watch paced the weather side of the deck conversing in low tones. The steersman could, from his position, see both gangways, and although the light was not strong enough to reveal what Jarwin was about, it was too strong to admit of his going bodily over the side without being observed. He, therefore, walked slowly to the head of the vessel, where he threw over the end of a small rope. By means of this, when the watch were well aft, he slid noiselessly into the sea, hanging on by one hand and supporting Cuffy with the other. Once fairly in the water he let go, the side of the vessel rubbed swiftly past him, and he all but missed grasping the oar which trailed at the gangway. By this he held on for a few seconds to untie the rope. He had just succeeded and was about to let go, when, unfortunately, the handle of the oar chanced to hit the end of Cuffy's nose a severe blow. The poor dog, therefore, gave vent to a loud yell of pain. Instantly Jarwin allowed himself to sink and held his breath as long as he possibly could, while Cuffy whined and swam on the surface.

Meanwhile the men on deck ran to the side. "Hallo!" cried one, "it's Jarwin's little dog gone overboard."

"Let it go," cried another with a laugh; "it's a useless brute and eats a power o' grub."

"I say, wot a splashin' it do kick up," he added as the little dog was left astern making vain efforts to clamber on the oar. "Why, lads, there's somethin' else floatin' beside it, uncommon like a seal. Are 'ee sure, Bill, that Jarwin hasn't gone overboard along with his dog?"

"Why no," replied Bill; "I seed him go forward a little ago; besides it ain't likely he'd go over without givin' a shout."

"I dun know that," said the other; "he might have hit his head again' somethin' in tumblin' over."

By this time the objects in question were almost out of sight astern. In a few minutes more a dark cloud covered the moon and effectually shut them out from view.

Just then the Captain came on deck, and asked what was wrong.

"Fools!" he exclaimed, in a voice of thunder, on being told, "lower the gig. Look sharp! Don't you see the land, you idiots? The man's away as well as the dog."

In a few seconds the topsails were backed and the boat lowered, manned, and pushed off.

But Jarwin heard and saw nothing of all this. He was now far astern, for the vessel had been going rapidly through the water.

On coming to the surface after his dive he caught hold of Cuffy, and, with a cheering word or two, placed him on his back, telling him to hold on by his paws the best way he could. Then grasping the end of the oar, and pointing the blade land-wards, he struck out vigorously with his legs.

It was a long and weary swim, but as his life depended on it, the seaman persevered. When he felt his strength giving way, he raised not only his heart but his voice in prayer to God, and felt restored each time that he did so. Just as he neared the shore, the sound of oars broke on his ears, and presently he heard the well-known voice of the Captain ordering the men to pull hard. Fortunately it was by this time very dark. He landed without being discerned. The surf was heavy, but he was expert in rough water, went in on the top of a billow, and was safely launched on a soft sandy beach, almost at the same moment with the boat. The latter was, however, at a considerable distance from him. He crept cautiously up the shore until he gained a thicket, and then, rising, he plunged into the woods and ran straight before him until he was exhausted, carrying the little dog in his arms. Many a fall and bruise did the poor fellow receive in his progress, but the fear of being retaken by the pirates -- for such he felt convinced they were -- lent him wings. The Captain and his men made a long search, but finally gave it up, and, returning to the boat, pushed off. Jarwin never saw them again.

He and Cuffy lay where they had fallen, and slept, wet though they were, till the sun was high. They were still sleeping when a native chief of the island, happening to pass along the beach, discerned Jarwin's footsteps and traced him out. This chief was an immensely large powerful man, armed with a heavy club. He awoke the sailor with a kick, and spoke in a language which he did not understand. His gestures, however, said plainly enough, "Get up and come along with me," so Jarwin thought it best to obey. Of course whatever Jarwin thought, Cuffy was of precisely the same opinion. They therefore quietly got up and followed the big chief to his village, where they were received by a large concourse of savages with much excitement and curiosity.



Chapter Six.

Our Hero Becomes A Favourite, And Entertains Hopes Of Escape.

The sufferings which Jarwin with his little dog had hitherto undergone were as nothing compared to those which he endured for some months after being taken prisoner by the savages. At first he gave himself up for lost, feeling assured that ere long he would be sacrificed in the temple of one of their idols, and then baked in an oven and consumed as food, according to the horrible practice of the South-Sea Islanders. Indeed he began to be much astonished that, as day after day passed, there was no sign of any intention to treat him in this way, although several times the natives took him out of the hut in which he was imprisoned, and, placing him in the centre of a circle, held excited and sometimes angry discussions over him.

It was not till months afterwards, when he had acquired a slight knowledge of their language, that he came to understand why he was spared at this time. It appeared that four shipwrecked sailors, who had been cast on a neighbouring island, had been killed, baked, and eaten, according to usage, by the chief and his friends. Immediately afterwards, those who had partaken of this dreadful food had been seized with severe illness, and one or two had died. This fact had been known for some time to Jarwin's captors, and the discussions above referred to had been engaged in with reference to the question whether it was likely that the flesh of the white man who had been thrown on their island would be likely to disagree with their stomachs! It was agreed that this was highly probable, and thus the seaman's life was spared; but he was sometimes tempted to wish that it had not been spared, for his master, the Big Chief, was a very hard man; he put him to the most toilsome labour, and treated him with every sort of indignity. Moreover, he was compelled to be a witness of practices so revolting and cruel, that he often put the question to himself whether it was possible for devils to display greater wickedness and depravity than these people.

Jarwin was frequently tempted to resent the treatment he received, but, fortunately, he was prudent enough to bear it submissively, for it is certain that if he had rebelled he would have been slain on the spot. Moreover, he set himself to carry out his favourite maxim -- namely, that it was wise in all circumstances to make the best of everything. He laboured, therefore, with such goodwill, that he softened the breast of the Big Chief, who gradually became more amiable, and even indulgent to him. Thus he came to know experimentally the wisdom of that Scripture, "Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with good."

John Jarwin possessed a remarkably fine sonorous bass voice, which, in former days, had been a source of great delight to his messmates. Although strong and deep, it was very sweet and tender in its tones, and eminently suited for pathetic and sentimental songs. Indeed Jarwin's nature was so earnest, that although he had a great deal of quiet humour about him, and could enjoy comic songs very much, he never himself sang anything humorous. Now, it chanced that the Big Chief had a good ear for music, and soon became so fond of the songs which his slave was wont to hum when at work, that he used to make him sit down beside him frequently and sing for hours at a time! Fortunately, Jarwin's lungs were powerful, and his voice being full-toned and loud, he was able to sing as much as his master desired without much exertion. He gave him his whole budget which was pretty extensive -- including melodies of the "Black-eyed Susan" and "Ben Bolt" stamp. When these had been sung over and over again, he took to the Psalms and Paraphrases -- many of which he knew by heart, and, finally, he had recourse to extempore composition, which he found much easier than he had expected -- the tones flowing naturally and the words being gibberish! Thus he became a sort of David to this remarkable Saul. By degrees, as he learnt the native tongue, he held long conversations with the Big Chief, and told him about his own land and countrymen and religion. In regard to the last the Chief was very inquisitive, and informed his slave that white men had been for some time in that region, trying to teach their religion to the men of an island which, though invisible from his island, was not very far distant. Jarwin said little about this, but from that time he began to hope that, through the missionaries, he might be able to make his escape ere long.

During all this time poor Cuffy experienced a variety of vicissitudes, and made several narrow escapes. At first he had been caught and was on the point of being killed and roasted, when he wriggled out of his captor's grasp and made off to the mountains, terrorstruck! Here he dwelt for some weeks in profound melancholy. Being unable to stand separation from his master any longer, he ventured to return to the village, but was immediately hunted out of it, and once again fled in horror to the hills. Jarwin was not allowed to quit the village alone, he therefore never saw his little dog, and at length came to the conclusion that it had been killed. When, however, he had ingratiated himself with his master, he was allowed more freedom, and one day, having wandered a considerable distance into the mountains, he came suddenly and unexpectedly upon Cuffy. Having experienced nothing from man of late but the most violent and cruel treatment, Cuffy no sooner beheld, as he supposed, one of his enemies, than, without giving him a second glance, he sprang up, put his ears back, his tail between his legs, and, uttering a terrible yell, fled "on the wings of terror!" But Jarwin put two fingers in his mouth and gave a peculiarly shrill whistle, which brought the dog to a sudden stop. He looked back with ears cocked. Again Jarwin whistled. Instantly Cuffy turned and ran at him with a series of mingled yells, whines, and barks, that gave but a faint idea of his tumultuous feelings. It would scarcely be too much to say that he almost ate his master up. He became like an india-rubber ball gone mad! He bounded round him to such an extent that Jarwin found it very difficult to get hold of or pat him. It is impossible to do justice to such a meeting. We draw a veil over it, only remarking that the sailor took his old favourite back to the village, and, after much entreaty and a good deal of persuasive song, was permitted to keep him.

About ten months after this event, war broke out between the Big Chief and a neighbouring tribe of natives, who were a very quarrelsome and vindictive set. The tribe with whom Jarwin dwelt would gladly have lived at peace, but the other tribe was stronger in numbers and thirsted for conquest -- a consequence of strength which is by no means confined to savages!

When war was formally declared, the Big Chief told Jarwin to prepare himself for battle. At first our hero had some qualms of conscience about it, but on reflecting that on the part of the tribe to which he belonged it was a war of self-defence, his conscience was pacified.

The Big Chief ordered him to throw away his now ragged garments, smear his whole body over with oil and red earth, paint black spots on his cheeks, and a white streak down his nose, and put on warrior's costume. In vain Jarwin begged and protested and sang. The Big Chief's blood was up, and his commands must be obeyed, therefore Jarwin did as he was bid; went out to battle in this remarkable costume -- if we may so style it --  and proved himself such a prodigy of valour that his prowess went far to turn the tide of victory wherever he appeared during the fight. But we pass over all this. Suffice it to say, that the pugnacious tribe was severely chastised and reduced to a state of quiet -- for the time at least.

One day, not long after the cessation of the war, a canoe arrived with several natives, all of whom wore clothing of a much more civilised description than is usually seen among South-Sea savages. They had a long, earnest talk with the natives, but Jarwin was not allowed to hear it, or to show himself. Next day they went away. For some time after that Big Chief was very thoughtful, but silent, and Jarwin could not induce him to become confidential until he had sung all his melodies and all his psalms several times over, and had indulged in extempore melody and gibberish until his brain and throat were alike exhausted. The Big Chief gave way at last, however, and told him that his late visitors were Christians, who, with two native teachers, had been sent from a distant island by a white chief named Williams, to try and persuade him and his people to burn their idols.

"And are 'ee goin' to do it?" asked Jarwin.

"No," replied the Chief, "but I am going to Raratonga to see Cookee Williams."

Of course they conversed in the native tongue, but as this would be unintelligible to the reader, we translate. It may also be remarked here that "Cookee" signified a white man, and is a word derived from the visit of that great navigator Captain Cook to these islands, by the natives of which he was ultimately murdered.

Jarwin had heard, while in England, of the missionary Williams. On learning that he was among the islands, his heart beat high, and he begged earnestly that he might be allowed to go with the chief and his party to Raratonga, but his wily master would not consent "You will run away!" he said.

"No, I won't," said Jarwin, earnestly. Big Chief shook his head. "They will take you from me," he said, "when they find out who you are."

"I'll not let 'em," replied Jarwin, with pathetic sincerity, and then began to sing in such a touching strain, that his master lay back on his couch and rolled his large eyes in rapture.

"You shall go, Jowin," (that was the best he could make of the name), "if you will make me a promise."

"Name it, old boy," said Jarwin.

"That you will go dressed like one of my young men, and never open your lips to speak a word, no more than if you were dumb, whether the Cookees speak to you or not."

Jarwin hesitated, but reflecting that there was no chance of his seeing the missionary at all if he did not give this promise, he consented.

A week after that all the preparations were made, and four large canoes, full of well-armed men, set out for Raratonga.

At the time we write of, the island of Raratonga had been recently discovered by the missionary Williams. The success of the labours of that devoted man and his native teachers, is one of the most marvellous chapters in the history of the isles of the Pacific. At Raratonga, God seemed to have prepared the way for the introduction of the Gospel in a wonderful manner, for although the native teachers who first went ashore there were roughly handled, they were enabled, nevertheless, to persevere, and in not much more than a single year, the Gospel wrought a change in the feelings and habits of the people, which was little short of miraculous. Within that brief period they had given up and burnt all their idols, had ceased to practise their bloody and horrible rites, and had embraced Christianity -- giving full proof of their sincerity by submitting to a code of laws founded on Scripture, by agreeing to abandon polygamy, by building a large place of worship, and by leading comparatively virtuous and peaceful lives. And all this was begun and carried on for a considerable time, not by the European missionaries but by two of the devoted native teachers, who had previously embraced Christianity.

The extent of the change thus wrought in the Raratongans in so short a time by the Gospel, may be estimated by a glance at the difficulties with which the missionaries had to contend. In writing of the ancient usages of the people, Mr Williams, [See Williams' most interesting work, entitled "A Narrative of Missionary Enterprises in the South-Sea Islands"], tells us that one of their customs was an unnatural practice called Kukumi anga. As soon as a son reached manhood, he would fight and wrestle with his father for the mastery, and if he obtained it, would take forcible possession of the farm belonging to his parent, whom he drove in a state of destitution from his home. Another custom was equally unnatural and inhuman. When a woman lost her husband, the relatives of the latter, instead of paying visits of kindness to the fatherless and widow in their affliction, would seize every article of value belonging to the deceased, turn the disconsolate mother and her children away, and possess themselves of the house, food, and land. But they had another custom which caused still greater difficulties to the missionaries. It was called "land-eating" -- in other words, the getting possession of each other's lands unjustly, and these, once obtained, were held with the greatest possible tenacity, for land was exceedingly valuable at Raratonga, and on no subject were the contentions of the people more frequent or fierce.

From this it will be seen that the Raratongans were apparently a most unpromising soil in which to plant the "good seed," for there is scarcely another race of people on earth so depraved and unnatural as they seem to have been. Nevertheless, God's blessed Word overcame these deep-rooted prejudices, and put an end to these and many other horrible practices in little more than a year.

After this glorious work had been accomplished, the energetic missionary -- who ultimately laid down his life in one of these islands [The Island of Erramanga] for the sake of Jesus Christ -- resolved to go himself in search of other islands in which to plant the Gospel, and to send out native teachers with the same end in view. The record of their labours reads more like a romance than a reality, but we cannot afford to diverge longer from the course of our narrative. It was one of these searching parties of native teachers that had visited the Big Chief's island as already described, and it was their glowing words and representations that had induced him to undertake this voyage to Raratonga.

Big Chief of course occupied the largest of the four canoes, and our friend Jarwin sat on a seat in front of him -- painted and decorated like a native warrior, and wielding a paddle like the rest. Of course Cuffy had been left behind.

Poor Jarwin had, during his captivity, undergone the process of being tatooed from head to foot. It had taken several months to accomplish and had cost him inexpressible torture, owing to the innumerable punctures made by the comb-like instrument with which it was done on the inflamed muscles of his body. By dint of earnest entreaty and much song, he had prevailed on Big Chief to leave his face and hands untouched. It is doubtful if he would have succeeded in this, despite the witching power of his melodious voice, had he not at the same time offered to paint his own face in imitation of tatooing, and accomplished the feat to such perfection that his delighted master insisted on having his own painted forthwith in the same style.

During a pause in their progress, while the paddlers were resting, Big Chief made his captive sit near him.

"You tell me that Cookee-men" (by which he meant white men) "never lie, never deceive."

"I shud lie an' deceive myself, if I said so," replied Jarwin, bluntly.

"What did you tell me, then?" asked the Chief, with a frown.

"I told you that Christian men don't lie or deceive -- leastwise they don't do it with a will."

"Are you a Christian man, Jowin?"

"I am," replied the sailor promptly. Then with a somewhat perplexed air, "Anyhow I hope I am, an' I try to act as sitch."

"Good, I will soon prove it. You will be near the Cookee-men of Raratonga to-morrow. You will have chance to go with them and leave me; but if you do, or if you speak one word of Cookee-tongue -- you are not Christian. Moreover, I will batter your skull with my club, till it is like the soft pulp of the bread-fruit."

"You're a cute fellar, as the Yankees say," remarked Jarwin, with a slight smile. This being said in English, the Chief took no notice of it, but glanced at his slave suspiciously.

"Big Chief," said Jarwin, after a short silence, "even before I was a Christian, I had been taught by my mother to be ashamed of telling a lie, so you've no occasion for to doubt me. But it's a hard thing to stand by a countryman, specially in my pecooliar circumstances, an' not let him know that you can speak to him. May I not be allowed to palaver a bit with 'em? I wont ask 'em to take me from you."

"No," said the Chief sternly. "You came with me promising that you would not even speak to the Cookee-men."

"Well, Big Chief," replied Jarwin, energetically, "you shall see that a British seaman can stick to his promise. I'll be true to you. Honour bright. I'll not give 'em a word of the English lingo if they was to try to tear it out o' me wi' red hot pincers. I'll content myself wi' lookin' at 'em and listenin' to 'em. It'll be a comfort to hear my mother-tongue, anyhow."

"Good," replied the Chief, "I trust you."

The interval of rest coming to an end at this point, the conversation ceased and the paddles were resumed.

It was a magnificent day. The great Pacific was in that condition of perfect repose which its name suggests. Not a breath of air ruffled the wide sheet of water, which lay spread out like a vast circular looking-glass to reflect the sky, and it did reflect the sky with such perfect fidelity, that the clouds and cloudlets in the deep were exact counterparts of those that floated in the air, while the four canoes, resting on their own reflections, seemed to be suspended in the centre of a crystal world, which was dazzlingly lit up by two resplendent suns.

This condition of calm lasted the whole of that day and night, and the heat was very great; nevertheless the warriors -- of whom there were from forty to fifty in each canoe -- did not cease to paddle for an instant, save when the short spells of rest came round, and when, twice during the day, they stopped to eat a hasty meal.

When the sun set they still continued to paddle onwards, the only difference being that instead of passing over a sea of crystal, they appeared to traverse an ocean of amber and burnished gold. All night they continued their labours. About daybreak the Chief permitted them to enjoy a somewhat longer period of rest, during which most of them, without lying down, indulged in a short but refreshing nap. Resuming the paddles, they proceeded until sunrise, when their hearts were gladdened by the sight of the blue hills of Raratonga on the bright horizon.

"Now we shall soon be at the end of our voyage," said the Chief, as he pointed to the distant hills, and glanced at Jarwin as he might at a prize which he was much afraid of losing. "Remember the promise, you Christian. Don't be a deceiver, you 'Breetish tar!'" (He quoted Jarwin here.)

"Honour bright!" replied our hero.

The savage gazed earnestly into the sailor's bright eyes, and appeared to think that if his honour was as bright as they were, there was not much cause to fear. At all events he looked pleased, nodded his head, and said "Good," with considerable emphasis.

By this time the hills of Raratonga were beginning to look less like blue clouds and more like real mountains; gradually as the canoes drew nearer, the markings on them became more and more defined, until at last everything was distinctly visible -- rocky eminences and luxuriant valleys, through which flowed streams and rivulets that glittered brightly in the light of the ascending sun, and almost constrained Jarwin to shout with delight, for he gazed upon a scene more lovely by far than anything that he had yet beheld in the Southern Seas.



Chapter Seven.

Our Hero Is Exposed To Stirring Influences And Trying Circumstances.

When the four canoes drew near to the island, immense numbers of natives were seen to assemble on the beach, so that Big Chief deemed it advisable to advance with caution. Presently a solitary figure, either dressed or painted black, advanced in front of the others and waved a white flag. This seemed to increase the Chief's anxiety, for he ordered the men to cease paddling.

Jarwin, whose heart had leaped with delight when he saw the dark figure and the white flag, immediately turned round and said -- 

"You needn't be afraid, old boy; that's the missionary, I'll be bound, in his black toggery, an' a white flag means 'peace' among Cookee men."

On hearing this, the Chief gave the order to advance, and Jarwin, seizing a piece of native cloth that lay near him, waved it round his head.

"Stop that, you Breetish tar!" growled Big Chief, seizing a huge club, which bristled with shark's teeth, and shaking it at the seaman, while his own teeth were displayed in a threatening grin.

"All right, old codger," replied the British tar, with a submissive look; "honour bright, honour bright," he added several times, in a low tone, as if to keep himself in mind of his promise.

We have already said that our hero and his master talked in the native tongue, which the former had acquired with wonderful facility, but such familiar expressions as "old boy," "old codger," etcetera, were necessarily uttered in English. Fortunately for Jarwin, who was by nature free-and-easy, the savage chief imagined these to be terms of respect, and was, consequently, rather pleased to hear them. Similarly, Big Chief said "Breetish tar" and "Christian" in English, as he had learned them from his captive. When master and slave began to grow fond of each other -- as we have seen that they soon did, their manly natures being congenial -- they used these expressions more frequently: Jarwin meaning to express facetious goodwill, but his master desiring to express kindly regard, except when he was roused to anger, in which case he did not, however, use them contemptuously, but as expressive of earnest solemnity.

On landing, Big Chief and his warriors were received by the Reverend Mr Williams and his native teachers -- of whom there were two men and two women -- with every demonstration of kindness, and were informed that the island of Raratonga had cast away and burned its idols, and now worshipped the true God, who had sent His Son Jesus Christ to save the world from sin.

"I know that," replied Big Chief to the teacher who interpreted; "converts, like yourself, came to my island not long ago, and told me all about it. Now I have come to see and hear. A wise man will know and understand before he acts."

Big Chief was then conducted to the presence of the king of that part of the island, who stood, surrounded by his chief men, under a grove of Temanu trees. The king, whose name was Makea, was a handsome man, in the prime of life, about six feet high, and very massive and muscular. He had a noble appearance and commanding aspect, and, though not so tall as Big Chief, was, obviously, a man of superior power in every way. His complexion was light, and his body most beautifully tatooed and slightly coloured with a preparation of tumeric and ginger, which gave it a light orange tinge, and, in the estimation of the Raratongans, added much to the beauty of his appearance.

The two chiefs advanced frankly to each other, and amiably rubbed noses together -- the South Sea method of salutation! Then a long palaver ensued, in which Big Chief explained the object of his visit, namely, to hear about the new religion, and to witness its effects with his own eyes. The missionary gladly gave him a full account of all he desired to know, and earnestly urged him to accept the Gospel of Jesus Christ, and to throw away his idols.

Big Chief and his men listened with earnest attention and intense gravity, and, after the palaver was over, retired to consult together in private.

During all this time poor Jarwin's heart had been greatly stirred. Being tatooed, and nearly naked, as well as painted like the rest of his comrades, of course no one took particular notice of him, which depressed him greatly, for he felt an intense desire to seize the missionary by the hand, and claim him as a countryman. Indeed this feeling was so strong upon him on first hearing Mr Williams's English tone of voice -- although the missionary spoke only in the native tongue --  that he could scarcely restrain himself, and had to mutter "honour bright" several times, in order, as it were, to hold himself in check. "Honour bright" became his moral rein, or curb, on that trying occasion. But when, in the course of the palaver, Mrs Williams, who had accompanied her husband on this dangerous expedition, came forward and addressed a few words to the missionary in English, he involuntarily sprang forward with an exclamation of delight at hearing once more the old familiar tongue. He glanced, however, at Big Chief, and checked himself. There was a stern expression on the brow of the savage, but his eyes remained fixed on the ground, and his form and face were immovable, as though he heard and saw nothing.

"Honour bright," whispered Jarwin, as he turned about and retired among his comrades.

Fortunately his sudden action had only attracted the attention of a few of those who were nearest to him, and no notice was taken of it.

When Big Chief retired with his men for consultation, he called Jarwin aside.

"Jarwin," he said, with unusual gravity, "you must not hear our palaver."

"Why not, old feller?"

"It is your business to obey, not to question," replied Big Chief, sternly. "Go -- when I want you I will find you. You may go and look at the Cookee missionary, but, remember, I have your promise."

"Honour bright," replied Jarwin with a sigh.

"The promise of a Breetish tar?"

"Surely," replied Jarwin.

"Of a Christian?" said Big Chief, with emphasis.

"Aye, that's the idee; but it's a hard case, old boy, to advise a poor feller to go into the very jaws o' temptation. I would rather 'ee had ordered me to keep away from 'em. Howsever, here goes!"

Muttering these words to himself, he left his savage friends to hold their palaver, and went straight into the "jaws of temptation," by walking towards the cottage of the missionary. It was a neat wooden erection, built and plastered by the natives. Jarwin hung about the door; sometimes he even ventured to peep in at the windows, in his intense desire to see and hear the long-lost forms and tones of his native land; and, as the natives generally were much addicted to such indications of curiosity, his doing so attracted no unusual attention.

While he was standing near the door, Mrs Williams unexpectedly came out. Jarwin, feeling ashamed to appear in so very light a costume before a lady, turned smartly round and walked away. Then, reflecting that he was quite as decently clothed as the other natives about, he turned again and slowly retraced his steps, pretending to be interested in picking stones and plants from the ground.

The missionary's wife looked at him for a moment with no greater interest than she would have bestowed on any other native, and then gazed towards the sea-shore, as if she expected some one. Presently Mr Williams approached.

"Well, have you been successful?" she asked.

"Yes, it has been all arranged satisfactorily, so I shall begin at once," replied Mr Williams. "The only thing that gives me anxiety is the bellows."

Poor Jarwin drew nearer and nearer. His heart was again stirred in a way that it had not been for many a day, and he had to pull the rein pretty tightly; in fact, it required all his Christianity and British-tar-hood to prevent him from revealing himself, and claiming protection at that moment.

As he raised himself, and gazed with intense interest at the speakers, the missionary's attention became fixed on him, and he beckoned him to approach.

"I think you are one of the strangers who have just arrived, are you not?"

This was spoken in the language of Raratonga, which was so similar to that which he had already acquired, that he opened his mouth to reply, "Yes, your honour," or "Your reverence," in English. But it suddenly occurred to him that he must translate this into the native tongue if his secret was to be preserved. While he was turning over in his mind the best words to use for this purpose he reflected that the imperfection of his knowledge, even the mere tone of his voice, would probably betray him; he therefore remained dumb, with his mouth open.

The missionary smiled slightly, and repeated his question.

Jarwin, in great perplexity, still remained dumb. Suddenly an idea flashed across his mind. He pointed to his mouth, wagged his tongue, and shook his head.

"Ah! you are dumb, my poor man," said the missionary, with a look of pity.

"Or tabooed," suggested the lady; "his tongue may have been tabooed."

There was some reason and probability in this, for the extraordinary custom of tabooing, by which various things are supposed to be rendered sacred, and therefore not to be used or touched, is extended by the South Sea Islanders to various parts of their bodies, as for instance, the hands; in which case the person so tabooed must, for a time, be fed by others, as he dare not use his hands.

Jarwin, being aware of the custom, was so tickled by the idea of his tongue being tabooed, that he burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter, to the intense amazement of his questioners. While in the midst of this laugh, he became horrified by the thought that that of itself would be sufficient to betray him, so he cleverly remedied the evil, and gave vent to his feelings by tapering the laugh off into a hideous yell, and rushed frantically from the spot.

"Strange," observed the missionary, gazing after the fugitive mariner, "how like that was to an English laugh!"

"More like the cry of a South Sea maniac, I think," said Mrs Williams, re-entering the house, followed by her husband.

The matter which the missionary said had been arranged so satisfactorily, and was to be begun at once, was neither more nor less than the building of a ship, in which to traverse the great island-studded breast of the Pacific.

In case some one, accustomed to think of the ponderous vessels which are built constantly in this land with such speed and facility, should be inclined to regard the building of a ship a small matter, we shall point out a few of the difficulties with which the missionary had to contend in this projected work.

In the first place, he was on what is sometimes styled a "savage island" -- an island that lay far out of the usual track of ships, that had only been discovered a little more than a year at that time, and was inhabited by a blood-thirsty, savage, cruel, and ignorant race of human beings, who had renounced idolatry and embraced Christianity only a few months before. They knew no more of ship-building than the celebrated man in the moon, and their methods of building canoes were quite inapplicable to vessels of large capacity. Besides this, Mr Williams was the only white man on the island, and he had no suitable implements for shipbuilding, except axes and augurs, and a few of the smaller of the carpenter's tools. In the building of a vessel, timbers and planks are indispensable, but he had no pit-saw wherewith to cut these. It is necessary to fasten planks and timbers together, but he had no nails to do this. Heavy iron forgings were required for some parts of the structure, but, although he possessed iron, he had no smith's anvil, or hammer, or tongs, or bellows, wherewith to forge it. In these circumstances he commenced one of the greatest pieces of work ever undertaken by man -- greatest, not only because of the mechanical difficulties overcome, but because of the influence for good that the ship, when completed, had upon the natives of the Southern Seas, as well as its reflex influence in exciting admiration, emulation, and enthusiasm in other lands.

The first difficulty was the bellows. Nothing could be done without these and the forge. There were four goats on the island. Three of these were sacrificed; their skins were cut up, and, along with two boards, converted into a pair of smith's bellows in four days.

No one can imagine the intense interest with which John Jarwin looked on while the persevering but inexperienced missionary laboured at this work, and tremendous was the struggle which he had to keep his hands idle and his tongue quiet; for he was a mechanical genius, and could have given the missionary many a useful hint, but did not dare to do so lest his knowledge, or voice, or aptitude for such work, or all these put together, should betray him. He was, therefore, fain to content himself with looking on, or performing a few trifling acts in the way of lifting, carrying, and hewing with the axe.

His friends frequently came to look on, as the work progressed, and he could not help fancying that they regarded him with looks of peculiar interest. This perplexed him, but, supposing that it must result from suspicion of his integrity, he took no notice of it, save that he became more resolute than ever in reference to "honour bright!" Big Chief also came to look on and wonder, but, although he kept a sharp eye on his slave, he did not seem to desire intercourse with him.

When the bellows were finished, it was found that they did not work properly. The upper box did not fill well, and, when tried, they were not satisfied with blowing wind out, but insisted on drawing fire in! They were, in short, a failure! Deep were the ponderings of the missionary as to how this was to be remedied, and small was the light thrown on the subject by the various encyclopaedias and other books which he possessed; but the question was somewhat abruptly settled for him by the rats. These creatures devoured all the leather of the bellows in a single night, and left nothing but the bare boards!

Rats were an absolute plague at that time at Raratonga. Mr Williams tells us, in his interesting "Narrative," that he and his family never sat down to a meal without having two or more persons stationed to keep them off the table. When kneeling at family prayer, they would run over them in all directions, and it was found difficult to keep them out of the beds. On one occasion, when the servant was making one of the beds, she uttered a scream, and, on rushing into the room, Mr Williams found that four rats had crept under the pillow and made themselves snug there. They paid for their impudence, however, with their lives. On another occasion, a pair of English shoes, which had not been put in the usual place of safety, were totally devoured in a night, and the same fate befell the covering of a hair-trunk. No wonder, then, that they did not spare the bellows!

Poor Jarwin sorrowed over this loss fully as much as did the missionary, but he was forced to conceal his grief.

Still bent on discovering some method of "raising the wind," Mr Williams appealed to his inventive powers. He considered that if a pump threw water, there was no reason why it should not throw wind. Impressed with this belief, he set to work and made a box about eighteen or twenty inches square and four feet high, with a valve in the bottom to let air in, a hole in the front to let it out, and a sort of piston to force it through the hole. By means of a long lever the piston could be raised, and by heavy weights it was pushed down. Of course considerable power was required to raise the piston and its weights, but there was a superabundance of power, for thousands of wondering natives were ready and eager to do whatever they were bid. They could have pumped the bellows had they been the size of a house! They worked admirably in some respects, but had the same fault as the first pair, namely, a tendency to suck in the fire! This, however, was corrected by means of a valve at the back of the pipe which communicated with the fire. Another fault lay in the length of interval between the blasts. This was remedied by making another box of the same kind, and working the two alternately, so that when one was blowing the fire, the other was, as it were, taking breath. Thus a continuous blast was obtained, while eight or ten grinning and delighted natives worked the levers.

The great difficulty being thus overcome, the work progressed rapidly. A large hard stone served for an anvil, and a small stone, perforated, with a handle affixed to it, did duty for a hammer. A pair of carpenter's pincers served for tongs, and charcoal, made from the cocoanut and other trees, did duty for coals. In order to obtain planks, the missionary split trees in half with wedges and then the natives thinned them down with adzes extemporised by fitting crooked handles to ordinary hatchets. When a bent or twisted plank was required, having no apparatus for steaming it, he bent a piece of bamboo to the required shape, and sent natives to scour the woods in search of a suitable crooked tree. Thus planks suited to his purpose were obtained. Instead of fastening the planks to the timbers of the ship with iron nails, large wooden pins, or "trenails," were used, and driven into augur holes, and thus the fabric was held together. Instead of oakum, cocoanut husk was used, and native cloth and dried banana stumps to caulk the seams, and make them watertight. The bark of a certain tree was spun into twine and rope by a rope-machine made for the purpose, and a still more complex machine, namely, a turning-lathe, was constructed for the purpose of turning the block sheaves; while sails were made out of native mats, quilted to give them sufficient strength to resist the wind.

By these means was completed, in about three months, a decked vessel of from seventy to eighty tons burden -- about sixty feet long by eighteen broad. She was finally launched and named The Messenger of Peace. And, truly, a messenger of peace and glad tidings did she afterwards prove to be on many occasions among the islands of the Southern Seas.

But our hero, John Jarwin, was not allowed to remain to see this happy consummation. He only looked on and assisted at the commencement of the work.

Many and many a time did he, during that trying period, argue with himself as to the propriety of his conduct in thus refusing the means of escape when it was thrown in his way, and there was not wanting, now and then, a suggestion from somewhere -- he knew not where, but certainly it was not from outside of him -- that perhaps the opportunity had been providentially thrown in his way. But Jarwin resisted these suggestions. He looked up, and reflected that he was there under a solemn promise; that, but for his promise, he should not have been there at all, and that, therefore, it was his peculiar duty at that particular time to whisper to himself continually -- "honour bright!"

One morning Big Chief roused Jarwin with his toe, and said -- 

"Get up. We go home now."

"What say 'ee, old man?"

"Get ready. We go to-day. I have seen and heard enough."

Big Chief was very stern, so that Jarwin thought it wise to hold his tongue and obey.

There was a long animated palaver between the chief, the missionary, and the king, but Jarwin had been carefully prevented from hearing it by his master, who ordered him to keep by the canoes, which were launched and ready. Once again he was assailed by an intense desire to escape, and this sudden approach of the time that was perchance to fix his fate for life rendered him almost desperate -- but he still looked up, and "honour bright" carried the day. He remained dumb to the last, and did not even allow himself the small comfort of waving a piece of native cloth to the missionary, as he and his captors paddled from the Raratonga shore.



Chapter Eight.

Despair Is Followed By Surprises And Deliverance.

At first John Jarwin could not quite realise his true position after leaving Raratonga. The excitement consequent on the whole affair remained for some time on his mind, causing him to feel as if it were a dream, and it was not until he had fairly landed again on Big Chief's island, and returned to his own little hut there, and had met with Cuffy -- whose demonstrations of intense delight cannot by any possibility be described -- that he came fully to understand the value of the opportunity which he had let slip through his fingers.

Poor Jarwin! words fail to convey a correct idea of the depth of his despair, for now he saw clearly, as he thought, that perpetual slavery was his doom. Under the influence of the feelings that overwhelmed him he became savage.

"Cuff," said he, on the afternoon of the day of his return, "it's all up with you and me, old chap."

The tone in which this was uttered was so stern that the terrier drooped its ears, lowered its tail, and looked up with an expression that was equivalent to "Don't kick me, please don't!"

Jarwin smiled a grim yet a pitiful smile as he looked at the dog.

"Yes, it's all up with us," he continued; "we shall live and die in slavery; wot a fool I was not to cut and run when I had the chance!"

The remembrance of "honour bright" flashed upon him here, but he was still savage, and therefore doggedly shut his eyes to it.

At this point a message was brought to him from Big Chief requesting his attendance in the royal hut. Jarwin turned angrily on the messenger and bid him begone in a voice of thunder, at the same time intimating, by a motion of his foot, that if he did not obey smartly, he would quicken his motions for him. The messenger vanished, and Jarwin sat down beside Cuffy -- who looked excessively humble -- and vented his feelings thus -- 

"I can't stand it no longer Cuff. I won't stand it! I'm goin' to bust up, I am; so look out for squalls."

A feeling of uncertainty as to the best method of "busting up" induced him to clutch his hair with both hands, and snort. It must not be supposed that our hero gave way to such rebellious feelings with impunity. On the contrary, his conscience pricked him to such an extent that it felt like an internal pin-cushion or hedgehog. While he was still holding fast to his locks in meditative uncertainty, three natives appeared at the entrance of his hut, and announced that they had been sent by Big Chief to take him to the royal hut by force, in case he should refuse to go peaceably.

Uttering a shout of defiance, the exasperated man sprang up and rushed at the natives, who, much too wise to await the onset, fled in three different directions. Instead of pursuing any of them, Jarwin went straight to his master's hut, where he found him seated on a couch of native cloth. Striding up to him he clenched his fist, and holding it up in a threatening manner, exclaimed -- 

"Now look 'ee here, Big Chief -- which it would be big thief if 'ee had yer right name -- I ain't goin' to stand this sort o' thing no longer. I kep' my word to you all the time we wos at Raratonga, but now I'll keep it no longer. I'll do my best to cut the cable and make sail the wery first chance I gits -- so I give 'ee fair warnin'."

Big Chief made no reply for some moments, but opened his eyes with such an intense expression of unaffected amazement, that Jarwin's wrath abated, in spite of his careful nursing of it to keep it warm.

"Jowin," he exclaimed at length, "you Christian Breetish tar, have your dibbil got into you?"

This question effectually routed Jarwin's anger. He knew that the savage, to whom he had spoken at various times on the subject of satanic influence, was perfectly sincere in his inquiry, as well as in his astonishment. Moreover, he himself felt surprised that Big Chief, who was noted for his readiness to resent insult, should have submitted to his angry tones and looks and threatening manner without the slightest evidence of indignation. The two men therefore stood looking at each other in silent surprise for a few moments.

"Big Chief," said Jarwin at last, bringing his right fist down heavily into his left palm, by way of emphasis, "there's no dibbil, as you call him, got possession o' me. My own spirit is dibbil enough, I find, to account for all that I've said and done -- an' a great deal more. But it has bin hard on me to see the door open, as it were, an' not take adwantage of it. Howsever, it's all over now, an' I ax yer parding. I'll not mutiny again. You've been a kind feller to me, old chap --  though you are a savage -- an' I ain't on-grateful; as long as I'm your slave I'll do my duty -- 'honour bright;' at the same time I think it fair an' above board to let you know that I'll make my escape from you when I git the chance. I'm bound for to sarve you while I eat your wittles, but I am free to go if I can manage it. There -- you may roast me alive an' eat me, if you like, but you can't say, after this, that I'm sailin' under false colours."

During this speech a variety of expressions affected the countenance of Big Chief, but that of melancholy predominated.

"Jowin," he said, slowly, "I like you."

"You're a good-hearted old buffer," said Jarwin, grasping the Chief's hand, and squeezing it; "to say the truth, I'm wery fond o' yourself, but it's nat'ral that I should like my freedom better."

Big Chief pondered this for some time, and shook his head slowly, as if the result of his meditation was not satisfactory.

"Jowin," he resumed, after a pause, "sing me a song."

"Well, you are a queer codger," said Jarwin, laughing in spite of himself; "if ever there was a man as didn't feel up to singin', that's me at this moment. Howsomedever, I 'spose it must be done. Wot'll you 'ave? 'Ben Bolt,' 'Black-eyed Susan,' 'The Jolly Young Waterman,' 'Jim Crow,' 'There is a Happy Land,' or the 'Old Hundred,' eh? Only say the word, an' I'll turn on the steam."

Big Chief made no reply. As he appeared to be lost in meditation, Jarwin sat down, and in a species of desperation, began to bellow with all the strength of his lungs one of those nautical ditties with which seamen are wont to enliven the movements of the windlass or the capstan. He changed the tune several times, and at length slid gradually into a more gentle and melodious vein of song, while Big Chief listened with evident pleasure. Still there was perceptible to Jarwin a dash of sadness in his master's countenance which he had never seen before. Wondering at this, and changing his tunes to suit his own varying moods, he gradually came to plaintive songs, and then to psalms and hymns.

At last Big Chief seemed satisfied, and bade his slave good-night.

"He's a wonderful c'racter," remarked Jarwin to Cuffy, as he lay down to rest that night, "a most onaccountable sort o' man. There's sumthin' workin' in 'is 'ead; tho' wot it may be is more nor I can tell. P'raps he's agoin' to spiflicate me, in consikence o' my impidence. If so, Cuff, whatever will became o' you, my poor little doggie!"

Cuffy nestled very close to his master's side at this point, and whined in a pitiful tone, as if he really understood the purport of his remarks. In five minutes more he was giving vent to occasional mild little whines and half barks, indicating that he was in the land of dreams, and Jarwin's nose was creating sounds which told that its owner had reached that blessed asylum of the weary -- oblivion.

Next day our sailor awakened to the consciousness of the fact that the sun was shining brightly, that paroquets were chattering gaily, that Cuffy was still sleeping soundly, and that the subjects of Big Chief were making an unusual uproar outside.

Starting up, and pulling on a pair of remarkably ancient canvas trousers, which his master had graciously permitted him to retain and wear, Jarwin looked out at the door of his hut and became aware of the fact that the whole tribe was assembled in the spot where national "palavers" were wont to be held. The "House" appeared to be engaged at the time in the discussion of some exceedingly knotty question -- a sort of national education bill, or church endowment scheme -- for there was great excitement, much gesticulation, and very loud talk, accompanied with not a little angry demonstration on the part of the disputants.

"Hallo! wot's up?" inquired Jarwin of a stout savage who stood at his door armed with a club, on the head of which human teeth formed a conspicuous ornament.

"Palaver," replied the savage.

"It's easy to hear and see that," replied Jarwin, "but wot is it all about?"

The savage vouchsafed no farther reply, but continued to march up and down in front of the hut.

Jarwin, therefore, essayed to quit his abode, but was stopped by the taciturn savage, who said that he must consider himself a prisoner until the palaver had come to an end. He was therefore fain to content himself with standing at his door and watching the gesticulations of the members of council.

Big Chief was there of course, and appeared to take a prominent part in the proceedings. But there were other chiefs of the tribe whose opinions had much weight, though they were inferior to him in position. At last they appeared to agree, and finally, with a loud shout, the whole band rushed off in the direction of the temple where their idols were kept.

Jarwin's guard had manifested intense excitement during the closing scene, and when this last act took place he threw down his club, forsook his post, and followed his comrades. Of course Jarwin availed himself of the opportunity, and went to see what was being done.

To his great surprise he found that the temple was being dismantled, while the idols were carried down to the palaver-ground, if we may so call it, and thrown into a heap there with marks of indignity and contempt.

Knowing, as he did, the superstitious reverence with which the natives regarded their idols, Jarwin beheld this state of things with intense amazement, and he looked on with increasing interest, hoping, ere long, to discover some clue to the mystery, but his hopes were disappointed, for Big Chief caught sight of him and sternly ordered him back to his hut, where another guard was placed over him. This guard was more strict than the previous one had been. He would not allow his prisoner even to look on at what was taking place.

Under the circumstances, there was therefore nothing for it but to fall back on philosophic meditation and converse with Cuffy. These were rather poor resources, however, to a man who was surrounded by a tribe of excited savages. Despite his natural courage and coolness, Jarwin felt, as he said himself, "raither oncomfortable."

Towards the afternoon things became a little more quiet, still no notice was taken of our hero save that his meals were sent to him from the Chief's hut. He wondered at this greatly, for nothing of the kind had ever happened before, and he began to entertain vague suspicions that such treatment might possibly be the prelude to evil of some kind befalling him. He questioned his guard several times, but that functionary told him that Big Chief had bidden him refuse to hold converse with him on any subject whatever.

Being, as the reader knows, a practical, matter-of-fact sort of man, our hero at last resigned himself to his fate, whatever that might be, and beguiled the time by making many shrewd remarks and observations to Cuffy. When the afternoon meal was brought to him, he heaved a deep sigh, and apparently, with that effort flung off all his anxieties.

"Come along, Cuff," he said in a hearty voice, sitting down to dinner, "let's grub together an' be thankful for small mercies, anyhow. Wotever turns up, you and I shall go halves and stick by one another to the last. Not that I have any doubts of Big Chief, Cuffy; you mustn't suppose that; but then, you see, he ain't the only chief in the island, and if all the rest was to go agin him, he couldn't do much to save us."

The dog of course replied in its usual facetious manner with eyes and tail, and sat down with its ears cocked and its head turned expectantly on one side, while the sailor removed the palm-leaf covering of the basket which contained the provisions sent to him.

"Wot have we here, Cuffy?" he said soliloquising and looking earnestly in; "let me see; bit of baked pig -- good, Cuff, good; that's the stuff to make us fat. Wot next? Roast fish -- that's not bad, Cuff -- not bad, though hardly equal to the pig. Here we have a leaf full of plantains and another of yams, -- excellent grub that, my doggie, nothing could be better. What's this? Cocoanut full of its own milk -- the best o' drink; 'it cheers' -- as the old song, or the old poet says -- 'but it don't inebriate;' that wos said in regard to tea, you know, but it holds good in respect of cocoanut milk, and it's far better than grog, Cuffy; far better, though you can't know nothin' about that, but you may take my word for it; happy is the man as drinks nothin' stronger than cocoanut milk or tea. Hallo! wot's this -- plums? Why, doggie, they're oncommon good to us to-day. I wonder wot's up. I say -- " Jarwin paused as he drew the last dish out of the prolific basket, and looked earnestly at his dog while he laid it down, "I say, what if they should have taken it into their heads to fatten us up before killin' us? That's not a wery agreeable notion, is it, eh?"

Apparently Cuffy was of the same opinion, for he did not wag even the point of his tail, and there was something dubious in the glance of his eye as he waited for more.

"Well, well, it ain't no use surmisin'," observed the seaman, with another sigh, "wot we've got for to do just now is to eat our wittles an' hope for the best. Here you are, Cuff -- catch!"

Throwing a lump of baked pig to his dog, the worthy man fell to with a keen appetite, and gave himself no further anxiety as to the probable or possible events of the future.

Dinner concluded, he would fain have gone out for a ramble on the shore -- as he had been wont to do in time past -- but his gaoler forbade him to quit the hut. He was therefore about to console himself with a siesta, when an unexpected order came from Big Chief, requiring his immediate attendance in the royal hut. Jarwin at once obeyed the mandate, and in a few minutes stood before his master, who was seated on a raised couch, enjoying a cup of cocoanut milk.

"I have send for you," began Big Chief with solemnity, "to have a palaver. Sit down, you Breetish tar."

"All right, old chap," replied Jarwin, seating himself on a stool opposite to his master. "Wot is it to be about?"

"Jowin," rejoined Big Chief, with deepening gravity, "you's bin well treated here."

Big Chief spoke in broken English now, having picked it up with amazing facility from his white slave.

"Well, y-e-es, I'm free to confess that I has bin well treated --  barrin' the fact that my liberty's bin took away; besides which, some of your black rascals ain't quite so civil as they might be, but on the whole, I've been well treated; anyhow I never received nothin' but kindness from you, old codger."

He extended his hand frankly, and Big Chief, who had been taught the meaning of our English method of salutation, grasped it warmly and shook it with such vigour that he would certainly have discomposed Jarwin had that "Breetish tar" been a less powerful man. He performed this ceremony with the utmost sadness, however, and continued to shake his head in such a melancholy way that his white slave began to feel quite anxious about him.

"Hallo! old feller, you ain't bin took bad, have 'ee?"

Big Chief made no reply, but continued to shake his head slowly; then, as if a sudden idea had occurred to him, he rose, and, grasping Jarwin by his whiskers with both hands, rubbed noses with him, after which he resumed his seat on the couch.

"Just so," observed our hero with a smile, "you shake hands with me English fashion -- I rub noses with you South-Sea fashion. Give an' take; all right, old codger -- 'may our friendship last for ever,' as the old song puts it. But wot about this here palaver you spoke of? It warn't merely to rub our beaks together that you sent for me, I fancy. Is it a song you wants, or a hymn? Only say the word, and I'm your man."

"I s'pose," said Big Chief, using, of course, Jarwin's sea phraseology, only still farther broken, "you'd up ankar an' make sail most quick if you could, eh?"

"Well, although I has a likin' for you, old man," replied the sailor, "I can't but feel a sort o' preference, d'ee see, for my own wife an' child'n. Therefore I would cut my cable, if I had the chance."

"Kite right, kite right," replied Big Chief, with a deep sigh, "you say it am nat'ral. Good, good, so 'tis. Now, Jowin," continued the savage chief, with intense earnestness, "you's free to go when you pleases."

"Oh, gammon!" replied Jarwin, with an unbelieving grin.

"Wot is gammon?" demanded Big Chief, with a somewhat disappointed look.

"Well, it don't matter what it means -- it's nothin' or nonsense, if you like -- but wot do you mean, old man, 'that's the rub,' as Hamblet, or some such c'racter, said to his father-in-law; you ain't in airnest, are you?"

"Jowin," answered the Chief, with immovable gravity, "I not onderstan' you. Wot you mean by airnest?" He did not wait for a reply, however, but seizing Jarwin by the wrist, and looking into his eyes with an expression of child-like earnestness that effectually solemnised his white slave, continued, "Lissen, onderstan' me. I is a Christian. My broder chiefs an' I have watch you many days. You have always do wot is right, no matter wot trouble follers to you. You do this for love of your God, your Saviour, so you tells me. Good, I do not need much palaver. Wen de sun shines it am hot; wen not shine am cold. Wot more? Cookee missionary have say the truth. My slave have prove the truth. I love you, Jowin. I love your God. I keep you if possible, but Christian must not have slave. Go -- you is free."

"You don't mean that, old man?" cried Jarwin, starting up with flashing eyes and seizing his master's hand.

"You is free!" repeated Big Chief.

We need not relate all that honest John Jarwin said and did after that. Let it suffice to record his closing remarks that night to Cuffy.

"Cuff," said he, patting the shaggy head of his humble friend, "many a strange thing crops up in this here koorious world, but it never did occur to my mind before, that while a larned man like a missionary might state the truth, the likes o' me should have the chance an' the power to prove it. That's a wery koorious fact, so you an' I shall go to sleep on it, my doggie -- good-night."



Chapter Nine.

The Last.

That Jarwin's deliverance from slavery was not a dream, but a blessed reality, was proved to him next day beyond all doubt by the singular proceedings of Big Chief and his tribe. Such of the native idols as had not been burned on the previous day were brought out, collected into a heap, and publicly burned, after which the whole tribe assembled on the palavering ground, and Big Chief made a long, earnest, and animated speech, in which he related all that he had seen of his white slave's conduct at the island of Raratonga, and stated how that conduct had proved to him, more conclusively than anything else he had heard or seen, that the religion of the white missionaries was true.

While this was being spoken, many sage reflections were passing through Jarwin's mind, and a feeling of solemn thankfulness filled him when he remembered how narrowly he had escaped doing inconceivable damage by giving way to temptation and breaking his word. He could not avoid perceiving that, if he had not been preserved in a course of rectitude all through his terrible trial, at a time when he thought that no one was thinking about him, not only would Big Chief and his nation have probably remained in heathen superstition, and continued to practise all the horrid and bloody rites which that superstition involved, but his own condition of slavery would, in all probability, have been continued and rendered permanent; for Big Chief and his men were numerous and powerful enough to have held their own against the Raratongans, while, at the same time, it was probable that he would have lost his master's regard, as he would certainly have lost his respect.

He could not help reflecting, also, how much the cause of Christianity must often suffer in consequence of the conduct of many seamen, calling themselves Christians, who visit the South-Sea Islands, and lead dissolute, abandoned lives while there. Some of these, he knew, brought this discredit on the name of Jesus thoughtlessly, and would, perhaps, be solemnised and sorry if they knew the terrible results of their conduct; while others, he also knew, cared nothing for Christianity, or for anything in the world except the gratification of their own selfish desires.

While he was yet pondering these things, Big Chief advanced towards him, and, taking him by the hand, led him into the centre of the concourse. To his great surprise and confusion the tall chief said -- 

"Now, Jowin will palaver to you. He is one Breetish tar -- one Christian. He can tell us what we shall do."

Saying this, Big Chief sat down, and left Jarwin standing in the midst scratching his head, and looking with extreme perplexity at the vast sea of black faces and glittering eyes which were directed towards him.

"W'y, you know, old man, it ain't fair of you, this ain't," he said, addressing himself to Big Chief; "you've took me all aback, like a white squall. How d'ee s'pose that I can tell 'ee wot to do? I ain't a parson -- no, not even a clerk, or a parish beadle!"

To this Big Chief vouchsafed no further reply than -- "Palaver, you Breetish tar!"

"Wery good," exclaimed Jarwin, turning round, and looking full at his audience, while a bright smile lit up his sunburnt countenance, as if a sudden idea had occurred to him, "I'll do my best to palaver. Here goes, then, for a yarn."

Jarwin spoke, of course, in the native tongue, which we translate into his own language.

"Big Chief, small chiefs, and niggers in general," he began, with a wave of his right hand, "you've called on me for a speech. Good. I'm your man, I'm a 'Breetish tar,' as your great chief says truly -- that's a fact; an' I'm a Christian -- I hope. God knows, I've sometimes my own doubts as to that same; but the doubts ain't with reference to the Almighty; they're chiefly as regards myself. Howsever, to come to the point, you've gone and burnt your idols -- "

"Ho!" exclaimed the whole assembly, with a degree of energy that made a deep impression on the sailor -- just as one might be impressed when he has been permitted to become the happy medium of achieving some great end which he had never dreamed of being privileged to accomplish.

"Well, then," continued Jarwin, "that is a good thing, anyhow; for it's a disgrace to human natur', not to speak o' common-sense an' other things, to worship stocks an' stones, w'en the Bible distinctly tolls 'ee not to do it. You've done right in that matter; an' glad am I to hear from Big Chief that you intend, after this, to foller the truth. Old man, an' niggers," cried Jarwin, warming up, "to my mind, the highest thing that a man can dewot his-self to is, the follerin' out an' fallin' in with the truth. Just s'pose that chemists, an' ingineers, an' doctors was to foller lies! W'y, wot would come of it? Confoosion wus confounded. In coorse, therefore, they carefully tries to foller wots true -- though I'm bound for to say they do git off the track now an' then. Well, if it's so with such like, it's much more so with religion. Wot then? W'y, stand by your colours, through thick an' thin. Hold on to the Bible! That's the watchword. That's your sheet-anchor -- though you haven't seed one yet. It's good holdin' ground is the Bible -- it's the only holdin' ground. 'How does I know that?' says you. Well, it ain't easy for me to give you an off-hand answer to that, any more than it is to give you an off-hand answer to a complicated question in the rule o' three. A parson could do it, no doubt, but the likes o' me can only show a sort o' reflected light like the moon; nevertheless, we may show a true light -- though reflected. Chiefs an' niggers, there's asses in every generation (young asses chiefly) as thinks they've found out somethin' noo in regard to the Bible, an' then runs it down. An' them fellers grow old, an' sticks to their opinions; an' they think themselves wise, an' other people thinks 'em wise 'cause they're old, as if oldness made 'em wise! W'y are they asses? W'y, because they formed their opinions early in life, in opposition to men wot has studied these matters all through their lives. Havin' hoisted their colours, they nails 'em to the mast; an' there they are! They never goes at the investigation o' the subject as a man investigates mathematics, or navigation, or logarithms; so they're like a ship at sea without a chart. Niggers, no man can claim to be wise unless he can 'render a reason.' He may be, p'raps, but he can't claim to be. I believe the Bible's true because o' two facts. Fust of all, men of the highest intellec' have found it true, an tried it, an' practised its teachin's, an' rested their souls on it. In the second place, as the parsons say, I have tried it, an' found it true as fur as I've gone. I've sailed accordin to the chart, an' have struck on no rocks or shoals as yet. I've bin wery near it; but, thank God, I wasn't allowed to take the wrong course altogether, though I've got to confess that I wanted to, many a time. Now, wot does all this here come to?" demanded Jarwin, gazing round on his audience, who were intensely interested, though they did not understand much of what he said, "wot does it come to? W'y that, havin' wisely given up yer idols, an' taken to the true God, the next best thing you can do is to go off at once to Raratonga, an' git the best adwice you can from those wot are trained for to give it. I can't say no fairer than that, for, as to askin' adwice on religious matters from the likes o' me, w'y the thing's parfitly ridiklous!"

Jarwin sat down amid a murmur of applause. In a few minutes an old chief rose to reply. His words were to the effect that, although there was much in their white brother's speech beyond their understanding --  which was not to be wondered at, considering that he was so learned, and they so ignorant -- there was one part of it which he thoroughly agreed with, namely, that a party should be sent to Raratonga to inform the Cookee missionaries as to what had taken place, to ask advice, and to beg one of the Cookees to come and live permanently on their island, and teach them the Christian religion. Another chief followed with words and sentiments to much the same effect. Then Big Chief gave orders that the canoes for the deputation should be got ready without delay, and the meeting broke up with loud shouts and other pleasant demonstrations.

Matters having been thus satisfactorily arranged, Jarwin returned to his hut with a grateful heart, to meditate on the happy turn that had taken place in his prospects. Finding the hut not quite congenial to his frame of mind, and observing that the day was unusually fine, he resolved to ramble in the cool shades of a neighbouring wood.

"Come, Cuff, my doggie, you an' I shall go for a walk this fine day; we've much to think about an' talk over, d'ee see, which is best done in solitary places."

Need we say that Cuffy responded with intense enthusiasm to this invitation, and that his "spanker boom" became violently demonstrative as he followed his master into the wood.

Jarwin still wore, as we have said, his old canvas trousers, which had been patched and re-patched to such an extent with native cloth, that very little of the original fabric was visible. The same may be said of his old flannel shirt, to which he clung with affectionate regard long after it had ceased to be capable of clinging to him without patchwork strengthening. The remnants of his straw hat, also, had been carefully kept together, so that, with the exception of the paint on his face, which Big Chief insisted on his wearing, and the huge South-Sea club which he carried habitually for protection, he was still a fair specimen of a British tar.

Paroquets were chattering happily; rills were trickling down the hillsides; fruit and flower trees perfumed the air, and everything looked bright and beautiful -- in pleasant accordance with the state of Jarwin's feelings -- while the two friends wandered away through the woods in dreamy enjoyment of the past and present, and with hopeful anticipations in regard to the future. Jarwin said something to this effect to Cuffy, and put it to him seriously to admit the truth of what he said, which that wise dog did at once -- if there be any truth in the old saying that "silence is consent."

After wandering for several hours, they came out of the wood at a part of the coast which lay several miles distant from Big Chief's village. Here, to his surprise and alarm, he discovered two war-canoes in the act of running on the beach. He drew back at once, and endeavoured to conceal himself, for he knew too well that this was a party from a distant island, the principal chief of which had threatened more than once to make an attack on Big Chief and his tribe. But Jarwin had been observed, and was immediately pursued and his retreat cut off by hundreds of yelling savages. Seeing this, he ran down to the beach, and, taking up a position on a narrow spit of sand, flourished his ponderous club and stood at bay. Cuffy placed himself close behind his master, and, glaring between his legs at the approaching savages, displayed all his teeth and snarled fiercely. One, who appeared to be a chief, ran straight at our hero, brandishing a club similar to his own. Jarwin had become by that time well practised in the use of his weapon; he evaded the blow dealt at him, and fetched the savage such a whack on the small of his back as he passed him, that he fell flat on the sand and lay there. Cuffy rushed at him and seized him by the throat, an act which induced another savage to launch a javelin at the dog. It grazed his back, cut it partly open, and sent him yelling into the woods. Meanwhile, Jarwin was surrounded, and, although he felled three or four of his assailants, was quickly overpowered by numbers, gagged, lashed tight to a pole, so that he could not move, and laid in the bottom of one of the war-canoes.

Even when in this sad plight the sturdy seaman did not lose heart, for he knew well that Cuffy being wounded and driven from his master's side, would run straight home to his master's hut, and that Big Chief would at once suspect, from the nature of the wound and the circumstance of the dog being alone, that it was necessary for him and his men-of-war to take the field; Jarwin, therefore, felt very hopeful that he should be speedily rescued. But such hopes were quickly dispelled when, after a noisy dispute on the beach, the savages, who owned the canoe in which he lay, suddenly re-embarked and pushed off to sea, leaving the other canoe and its crew on the beach.

Hour after hour passed, but the canoe-men did did not relax their efforts. Straight out to sea they went, and when the sun set, Big Chief's island had already sunk beneath the horizon.

Now, indeed, a species of wild despair filled the breast of the poor captive. To be thus seized, and doomed in all probability to perpetual bondage, when the cup of regained liberty had only just touched his lips, was very hard to bear. When he first fully realised his situation, he struggled fiercely to burst his bonds, but the men who had tied him knew how to do their work. He struggled vainly until he was exhausted. Then, looking up into the starry sky, his mind became gradually composed, and he had recourse to prayer. Slumber ere long sealed his eyes, setting him free in imagination, and he did not again waken until daylight was beginning to appear.

All that day he lay in the same position, without water or food, cramped by the cords that bound him, and almost driven mad by the heat of an unclouded sun. Still, onward went the canoe -- propelled by men who appeared to require no rest. Night came again, and Jarwin -- by that time nearly exhausted -- fell into a troubled slumber. From this he was suddenly aroused by loud wild cries and shouts, as of men engaged in deadly conflict, and he became aware of the fact that the canoe in which he lay was attacked, for the warriors had thrown down their paddles and seized their clubs, and their feet trod now on his chest, now on his face, as they staggered to and fro. In a few minutes several dead and wounded men fell on him; then he became unconscious.

When John Jarwin's powers of observation returned, he found himself lying on his back in a neat little bed, with white cotton curtains, in a small, comfortably-furnished room, that reminded him powerfully of home! Cuffy lay on the counterpane, sound asleep, with his chin on his master's breast. At the bedside, with her back to him, sat a female, dressed in European clothes, and busy sewing.

"Surely it ain't bin all a long dream!" whispered Jarwin to himself.

Cuffy cocked his ears and head, and turned a furtive glance on his master's face, while his "spanker boom" rose with the evident intention to wag, if circumstances rendered it advisable; but circumstances had of late been rather perplexing to Cuffy. At the same time the female turned quickly round and revealed a brown, though pleasant, face. Simultaneously, a gigantic figure arose at his side and bent over him.

"You's bedder?" said the gigantic figure.

"Hallo! Big Chief! Wot's up, old feller?" exclaimed Jarwin.

"Hold you's tongue!" said Big Chief, sternly. "Go way," he added, to the female, who, with an acquiescent smile, left the room.

"Well, this is queer; an' I feels queer. Queery -- wots the meanin' of it?" asked Jarwin.

"You's bin bad, Jowin," answered Big Chief, gravely, "wery bad. Dead a-most. Now, you's goin' to be bedder. Doctor say that -- "

"Doctor!" exclaimed Jarwin in surprise, "what doctor?"

"Doctor of ship. Hims come ebbery day for to see you."

"Ship!" cried Jarwin, springing up in his bed and glaring at Big Chief in wonder.

"Lie down, you Christian Breetish tar," said the Chief, sternly, at the same time laying his large hand on the sailor's chest with a degree of force that rendered resistance useless. "Hold you's tongue an' listen. Doctor say you not for speak. Me tell you all about it.

"Fust place," continued Big Chief, "you's bin bad, konsikince of de blackguard's havin' jump on you's face an' stummick. But we give 'em awful lickin', Jowin -- oh! smash um down right and left; got you out de canoe -- dead, I think, but no, not jus' so. Bring you here -- Raratonga. De Cookee missionary an' his wife not here; away in ship you sees im make. Native teecher here. Dat teecher's wife bin nurse you an' go away jus' now. Ship comes here for trade, bound for England. Ams got doctor. Doctor come see you, shake ums head; looks long time; say he put you 'all right.' Four week since dat. Now, you's hall right?"

The last words he uttered with much anxiety depicted on his countenance, for he had been so often deceived of late by Jarwin having occasional lucid intervals in the midst of his delirium, that his faith in him had been shaken.

"All right!" exclaimed Jarwin, "aye, right as a trivet. Bound for England, did 'ee say -- the ship?"

Big Chief nodded and looked very sad. "You go home?" he asked, softly.

Jarwin was deeply touched, he seized the big man's hand, and, not being strong, failed to restrain a tear or two. Big Chief, being very strong -- in feelings as well as in frame -- burst into tears. Cuffy, being utterly incapable of making head or tail of it, gave vent to a prolonged, dismal howl, which changed to a bark and whine of satisfaction when his master laughed, patted him, and advised him not to be so free in the use of his "spanker boom!"

 --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  -- 

Four weeks later, and Jarwin, with Cuffy by his side, stood, "himself again," on the quarterdeck of the Nancy of Hull, while the "Yo, heave ho!" of the sailors rang an accompaniment to the clatter of the windlass as they weighed anchor, Big Chief held his hand and wept, and rubbed noses with him -- to such an extent that the cabin boy said it was a perfect miracle that they had a scrap of nose left on their faces -- and would not be consoled by the assurance that he, Jarwin, would certainly make another voyage to the South Seas, if he should be spared to do so, and occasion offered, for the express purpose of paying him a visit. At last he tore himself away, got into his canoe, and remained gazing in speechless sorrow after the homeward-bound vessel as she shook out her topsails to the breeze.

Despite his efforts, poor Jarwin was so visibly affected at parting from his kind old master, that the steward of the ship, a sympathetic man, was induced to offer him a glass of grog and a pipe. He accepted both, mechanically, still gazing with earnest looks at the fast-receding canoe.

Presently he raised the glass to his lips, and his nose became aware of the long-forgotten odour! The current of his thoughts was violently changed. He looked intently at the glass and then at the pipe.

"Drink," said the sympathetic steward, "and take a whiff. It'll do you good."

"Drink! whiff!" exclaimed Jarwin, while a dark frown gathered on his brow. "There, old Father Neptune," he cried, tossing the glass and pipe overboard, "you drink and whiff, if you choose; John Jarwin has done wi' drinkin' an' whiffin' for ever! Thanks to you, all the same, an' no offence meant," he added in a gentler tone, turning to the astonished steward, and patting him on the shoulder, "but if you had suffered all that I have suffered through bein' a slave to the glass and the pipe --  when I thought I was no slave, mark you, an' would have larfed any one to scorn who'd said I wos -- if you'd see'd me groanin', an yearnin', an' dreamin' of baccy an' grog, as I have done w'en I couldn't get neither of 'em for love or money -- you wouldn't wonder that I ain't goin' to be such a born fool as to go an' sell myself over again!"

Turning quickly towards the shore, as if regretting that he should, for a moment, have appeared to forget his old friend, he pulled out his handkerchief and waved it over the side. Big Chief replied energetically with a scrap of native cloth -- not having got the length of handkerchiefs at that time.

"Look at 'im, Cuff" exclaimed Jarwin, placing his dog on the bulwarks of the ship, "look at him, Cuff, and wag your 'spanker boom' to him, too --  ay, that's right -- for he's as kind-hearted a nigger as ever owned a Breetish tar for a slave."

He said no more, but continued to wave his handkerchief at intervals until the canoe seemed a mere speck on the horizon, and, after it was gone, he and his little dog continued to gaze sadly at the island, as it grew fainter and fainter, until it sank at last into the great bosom of the Pacific Ocean.

The next land seen by Jarwin and Cuffy was -- the white cliffs of Old England!

<eob>

The Red Cross Girls With The Russian Army

By

Margaret Vandercook



Chapter I

A Peasant's Hut in Russia


In the last volume of the Red Cross series the four American girls spent six months in tragic little Belgium. There, in an American hospital in Brussels, devoted to the care, not of wounded soldiers, but of ill Belgians, three of the girls lived and worked.

But Eugenia went alone to dwell in a house in the woods because the cry of the children in Belgium made the strongest appeal to her. The house was a lonely one, supposed to be haunted, yet in spite of this Eugenia moved in. There the money of the girl whom her friend had once believed "poor as a church mouse" fed and cared for her quickly acquired family.

In Eugenia's haunted house were other sojourners furnishing the mystery of this story and endangering her liberty, almost her life. They were a Belgian officer and his family whom the Red Cross girl kept in hiding. Somehow the officer had managed to return to his own country from the fighting line in Belgium. After securing the papers he desired from the enemy, by Eugenia's aid, he was enabled to return once more to King Albert and the Allied armies. Thus Eugenia was left alone to bear the brunt of the German displeasure after the discovery of her misdeeds. She was imprisoned in Brussels, and became dangerously ill. Finally, because she was an American, Eugenia was made to leave the country, rather than to suffer the punishment which would have been hers had she belonged to another nationality.

But the four American Red Cross girls also had the companionship of Dick Thornton during their stay in the once lovely capital of Belgium.

Dick had not recovered the use of his arm, but in spite of this had come to Brussels to help with the work of the American Relief society.

Here his once friendly relation with Barbara Meade no longer existed. Because of her change of attitude he apparently grew more attached to Nona Davis.

However, at the close of the story, when Barbara is taking Eugenia back to southern France, she and Dick unexpectedly meet aboard a fog-bound ship. And in the darkness the light finally shines when Dick and Barbara discover at last that their feeling for each other is stronger than friendship.

Later, near "the pool of truth" not far from the "Farmhouse with the Blue Front Door," Eugenia Peabody again meets Captain Henri Castaigne, the young French officer whom she had once nursed back to health. A short time afterwards he and Eugenia are married.

Later the three other American Red Cross girls decide to continue their nursing of the wounded soldiers of the Allied armies in far-off Russia.

One cold October afternoon three American girls were standing in the stone courtyard of a great Russian fortress near the border line of Poland.

Situated upon a cone-shaped hill, the fort itself had been built like the three sides of a square, with the yard as the center. Along the fourth side ran a cement wall with a single iron gate.

Evidently the three girls were engaged in Red Cross work, for they wore the familiar service uniforms. One of them had on a heavy coat and cap, but the other two must have just come out of doors for a few moments.

Indeed, their first words revealed this fact.

"I really don't feel that you should be starting upon this expedition alone, Nona," Mildred Thornton argued. She was a tall girl, with heavy, flaxen hair and quiet, steel-gray eyes. She was gazing anxiously about her, for Russia was a new and strange world to the three American Red Cross nurses, who had arrived at their present headquarters only a few weeks before.

Nearly a year had passed since the four friends separated in Belgium. Then Mildred and Nona Davis had remained at their posts to care for the homeless Belgian children, while Barbara Meade and Eugenia Peabody returned to southern France.

Now at the close of Mildred Thornton's speech to Nona, Barbara Meade frowned. She was poised on one foot as if expecting to flee at any moment.

"I quite agree with you, Mildred," she protested. "Nona's message was far too mysterious and vague to consider answering. We must not forget that we are now in a country and among a people whom we don't understand in the least. Besides, I promised both Dick and Eugenia that we would be more careful. How I wish one or the other of them were here to advise us!"

Shivering, Barbara, who was the youngest and smallest of the girls, slipped her arm through Mildred's.

A few yards before them sentries were marching slowly up and down, with their rifles resting on their shoulders, while a double row guarded a single wide gate. Every now and then a common soldier passed on his way to the performance of some special duty. Gray and colorless, the afternoon had a peculiar dampness as if the wind had blown across acres of melting snow.

Nevertheless in reply to her friends' objections Nona Davis shook her head.

"Yes, I realize you may both be right, and yet so urgent was my message that I feel compelled to do what was asked of me. But don't worry about me, I have the letter with the directions safe in my pocket. Good-by."

Then before either of the other girls could find time to argue the point a second time, the young southern girl had kissed each of them and turned away. Later they saw her give the password at the gate and the sentry allow her to pass out.

Before her lay a stretch of sparsely settled country divided by a wide and much traveled road. Several miles further along a wide river crossed the land, but near at hand there were only small farms and meagre clumps of pine woods.

After a few more words of disapproval, Barbara Meade shrugged her shoulders, and then she and Mildred re-entered the small curved doorway of the Russian fort. The left wing was being used as a hospital for the wounded, while the rest of the great fortification was crowded with officers and soldiers.

These men were being held in reserve to await the threatened invasion of the oncoming German hosts. Warsaw had fallen and one by one the ancient Russian fortifications once deemed invincible had given way before the German guns. But here at Grovno, under the command of the great General Alexis, the Russians were to make a final stand.

However, without thinking of anything save personal matters, Nona Davis first set out along the main traveled road. Now and then she was compelled to step aside to let a great ox cart go past; these carts were filled with provisions being brought into the fort. Occasionally a covered car rattled past loaded with munitions of war, or a heavy piece of artillery drawn on low trucks. But one would like to have seen a far greater quantity of supplies of all kinds being brought to the old fortress. It was an open secret that the supply of munitions was not what it should be, and yet Grovno was expected to withstand all attacks.

But the young American girl was not reflecting upon the uncertainties of war during her walk. Neither did she feel any nervousness because of the newness of her surroundings, for the country in the rear of the fortifications was chiefly inhabited by Russian women and children and a few old men.

Nona walked on quickly and with a speed and careless grace that covered the ground without apparent effort.

She was looking extremely well, but above all other things Nona Davis appeared supremely interested. For some reason, still unknown to her, she had been more stirred and excited by the coming into Russia than any country she had yet seen. She both admired and feared the Russian people, with their curious combination of poetry and stupidity, of dullness and passion. Before returning to her own land she meant to try and understand them better. For somewhere she had read that the future art of the world was to come forth from Russia. It is the Slavic temperament and not the Anglo-Saxon that best expresses itself in music and literature.

Nona's errand this afternoon was a curious and puzzling one, fraught with unnecessary mystery.

Four days before, a Russian boy about twelve years old had appeared at the gate of the fortress at Grovno, bearing a note addressed to Miss Nona Davis. Oddly enough, although the note was written in perfect English, it was not signed. In spite of this it requested that the American girl come to a small house about a mile and a half away to see a former friend.

But who the friend could be, not one of the three girls could imagine. Yet they scarcely talked of anything else. Nona had no acquaintances in Russia save the people she had met in connection with her work, and there was no one in her past whom she could possibly conceive of having come into Russia as a tourist at such a time.

Therefore it was Mildred Thornton's and Barbara Meade's opinion that Nona should pay not the slightest heed to such a communication. Anonymous letters lead to nothing but evil. But in spite of their objections, here at the first possible opportunity Nona was obeying the behest. Probably she could not have explained why, for she was too sensible not to appreciate that possible discomfort and even danger might lie ahead of her. Perhaps as much as anything she was actuated by a spirit of sheer adventure.

So it is little wonder that during her walk Nona's thoughts were now and then engaged with her own affairs. Yet after a little her attention wandered from the immediate future and she fell to recalling the history of the past years' experiences, her own and her three friends.

No wonder Barbara was often lonely and homesick for Dick Thornton.

She had become engaged to him on the fog-bound trip she had made with him in getting Eugenia safely out of Belgium. Remembering Eugenia's escape, Nona said a short prayer of thankfulness. After her hiding of the Belgian officer and his family from the German authorities, she would never have been allowed to leave Belgium unpunished had she not been an American woman. Remembering the fate of the English girl who had committed the same crime, Nona appreciated how much they had to be thankful for.

And now Eugenia was married to Captain Castaigne, the young French officer. Curious that among the four of them who had come from the United States to do Red Cross work among the Allies, Eugenia should be the first to marry! She, a New England old maid, disapproving of matrimony and, above all, of international marriages!

Yet the wedding had taken place in the previous spring at the little French "Farmhouse with the Blue Front Door," where the four girls had spent the most cheerful months since their arrival in Europe for the war nursing.

Only once had Nona and Mildred deserted their posts in Belgium, where they had continued Eugenia's work of caring for the homeless Belgian children. Then they had gone to attend her wedding, but had returned to Belgium as soon as possible.

But Eugenia and Captain Castaigne had taken scarcely more time for their own honeymoon.

Soon after the ceremony Captain Castaigne had gone to rejoin his regiment and three days after Eugenia had become a member of the staff of a French hospital near her husband's line of trenches.

So it turned out that Barbara Meade was left at the Chateau d'Amélie, as Madame Castaigne's friend and companion. Dick Thornton boarded in the village near by, so that he and Barbara had a number of happy months together.

But Dick had finally decided that he must return to America and had urged Barbara and his sister Mildred to return with him. Of course, Nona had been invited to accompany them, but no special pressure had been brought upon her.

However, Mildred did not feel that her Red Cross work in Europe was finished, while Barbara refused to desert her friends.

But Barbara had another reason for her decision: she desired Dick to be alone when he confessed their engagement to his mother and father. Barbara had little fear of Judge Thornton's disapproval, but felt reasonably convinced that Mrs. Thornton would be both disappointed and aggrieved. Certainly she had never hesitated to announce that she expected her son Dick to make a brilliant match. How could she then be satisfied with a western girl of no wealth or distinction?

It happened that Dick Thornton also had a private reason for finally agreeing to Barbara's wish. His experiences in the past two years had given him a new point of view toward life. No longer was he willing to be known only as his father's son and to continue being supported by him. Before Dick married he intended making a position for himself, so as to be able to take care of his own wife.

Nona also recalled that she was really responsible for their coming into Russia. It had seemed to her that they must make their Red Cross work complete by nursing in the largest of the Allied countries.

However, Nona had now to cease her reflections, for she had come to a place in the road where she had been told to turn aside.

To make sure the girl opened her note and re-read it for probably the tenth time. Yes, here were the three pine trees, green shadows against the autumn sky, and here also was the narrow path that began alongside of them.

After another fifteen minutes' walk Nona discovered that she was approaching a hut of the poorest character. It was built of logs, with mud roughly filling up a number of cracks.

Already Nona was learning to understand that the Russian poor are perhaps the poorest people in the world. This hut was not so poverty-stricken as many others she had seen; at least, there were two windows and a front door.

Outside a hungry dog prowled about, showing not the slightest interest in the newcomer. Yet Nona was vaguely frightened. She stopped for a moment to reflect. Should she go in or not? The place looked ugly and depressing and she could see no signs of human beings.

Yet perhaps there was illness inside the house and she had been sent for to give aid. If that were true she must not hesitate.

As Nona lifted her hand to knock at the door, suddenly it occurred to her as curious that the note she had received had been written upon extremely fine paper and in a handwriting which revealed breeding and education. Yet this peasant's hut suggested neither the one nor the other.

But Nona was more mystified than fearful since her Red Cross uniform was her protection, and these were not days when one dared think of oneself.

She knocked quietly but firmly on the wooden door.

The next moment the heavy bar was slipped aside. Then Nona saw a woman of about thirty-five, dressed in the costume of a Russian peasant, standing with both hands outstretched toward her.

"My dear," she began in perfect English, "this is better fortune than I dreamed, to find you once again, and in Russia, of all countries!"



Chapter II

A Former Acquaintance


"But," Nona began, and then hesitated, feeling extraordinarily puzzled. The face of the woman before her was oddly familiar, although she could not at the instant recall where or when she had known her.

Yet she remembered the deep blue-gray eyes with their perfectly penciled dark brows and lashes, even the rather sad expression of them. However, she must be mistaken, since she could have no acquaintance in Russia!

However, she allowed herself to be quietly led inside the hut, where the door was immediately closed behind her. Then the girl followed the woman inside a bare chamber, furnished with only a few chairs and a rough table. In an upper corner hung an ikon, the Russian image of the Christ. The face of the Christ was painted in brilliant colors set inside a brass square and this square enclosed in a dark wooden frame.

The ikon is to the Russian who is a Greek Catholic what the crucifix is to the Roman Catholic. No orthodox Russian home is ever without one.

But after the first glance, Nona Davis gave no further consideration to her surroundings. Before her companion could speak the second time she had suddenly recognized her.

"Why, Lady Dorian, what has brought you to Russia? You are the last person I expected to see! Since our meeting on board the 'Philadelphia' and your stay at the Sacred Heart Hospital I have so often wondered what had become of you, and if you were well and happy. You promised to write me."

"Then you have not forgotten me?" Before saying anything more the older woman found a chair for her guest and another for herself.

"No, I have not written you, but I have thought of you many times and have followed your history more closely than you dream," she returned quietly, yet with evident earnestness. "I have been well and I suppose as happy as most people. How can any human being be anything but wretched during this tragic war? If only we might have peace!"

Lady Dorian's face became white and drawn and Nona felt that she had aged a great deal since their first meeting, and indeed since the months they had spent as fellow workers for the British soldiers at the Sacred Heart Hospital. Nevertheless she still felt strangely attracted toward her companion, although mingled with the attraction was a new and uncomfortable feeling of distrust.

Lady Dorian had come to the hospital cleared of the charge made against her on board the "Philadelphia" of being a spy. Yet she had never given any explanation of her history. Then had followed her surprising meeting with the British officer, Colonel Dalton, and their betrayal of a former acquaintanceship. Although the older woman had promised to explain their connection later, she had only said that they had once known each other rather intimately in London. But as they were friends no longer, she preferred not speaking of him again.

All this passed swiftly through Nona's mind while the older woman was speaking. But the girl devoutly hoped that her face did not betray her thoughts. For here was the most surprising situation of all! Lady Dorian had seemed to be a woman of wealth at the beginning of their acquaintance and certainly had given a large sum of money to the Sacred Heart Hospital. Now to find her dressed as a peasant and living in a peasant's hut in Russia!

Her skirt was of some cheap black material and her bodice of velveteen, laced with black cords over a white cotton waist. She also wore a Russian peasant's apron of brighter colors.

Yet Nona recognized the older woman's beauty and distinction in spite of her costume, even while her present circumstances and her eccentricities antagonized her visitor.

The woman was sitting with her level brows drawn together looking closely at the younger girl.

"I am sorry you don't seem to feel your former faith in me, Nona," she began unexpectedly. "Not that I blame you, for I do not know myself whether it is wise for me to have intruded into your life again. I would not have done so if there had not been a reason more important than you can appreciate."

For a moment the girl's attention had been wandering, engaged by the oddness of her surroundings, but now she tried to conceal her growing discomfort. Lady Dorian was appearing more mysterious than ever! If she desired to renew their acquaintance because they had formerly liked each other, that was a sufficient reason for her summons. It was scarcely worth while to try to produce other motives.

But Lady Dorian had gotten up and now stood facing her.

"What I am going to tell you is extraordinary, Nona, although life is too full of strange happenings to make us wonder at anything. In the first place, will you please cease to call me Lady Dorian, for that is not my name. Nor is it remarkable for you to discover me living in Russia, because I am a Russian by birth. I have not always made my home in my own country, but that makes no difference, since my love and sympathy have always been with my own people. Here I am only known as 'Sonya.' But I do not wish to speak of myself, but of you. I have a strong reason for my interest in you, Nona, for although you may find it hard to believe, I once knew your mother."

"Knew my mother?" The young American girl scarcely understood what was being said. She was so many thousands of miles both in fact and in thought from her own home and her own history. She could not believe that her companion was telling the truth. In any case she was merely mistaking her for some one else.

So Nona shook her head gravely. "I am sorry, but I don't think that possible," she explained. "My mother was a southern woman, who lived very quietly in an old-fashioned city. I can't see how your lives could ever have touched."

Until this instant Nona had remained seated with her former friend standing before her.

She did not realize how much she showed her resentment at this use of her mother's name. Now she made an effort to rise from her chair.

"I am very happy to have seen you again," she protested in the formal manner which Barbara Meade sometimes admired and at other times resented.

But her companion was not influenced and indeed paid no attention to the younger girl's hauteur. She merely put a restraining hand on her shoulder, adding,

"It is not worth while for us to argue that point until you hear what I have to say. The fact is, I know more of your mother, Nona, than you do yourself. For one thing, your mother was also a Russian. She was older than I, but we were together at one time in the United States. She went to visit in New Orleans and there met your father and married. I knew she had a daughter by your name, but curiously when I first met you on board the steamer your name conveyed nothing to me. Perhaps the last thing I expected was to find the daughter of your father, General Robert Davis, serving as a Red Cross nurse. He was a conservative of the old school, and I supposed would never have allowed you to leave home. But after we came together again and I met you for the second time at the Sacred Heart Hospital, I began to think of what association I had with your name. Soon I remembered and then I endeavored to discover your history. There was a chance that the name had no connection with the girl I sought. But it was simple enough to make the discovery."

"Simple enough to make the discovery!" Stupidly Nona Davis repeated the words aloud, because they puzzled her. Then it occurred to her that the woman before her was so associated with mysteries that a family problem must be comparatively simple. Doubtless she had been able to discover more of Nona's mother's history than she herself had ever found out.

But Nona was by no means pleased with the thought of an association between her own people and Lady Dorian, who had just frankly confessed that this name had been an assumed one.

Nor did she wish to go into the subject of her family connection with so uncomfortable a stranger. First she wished to have time to think the situation over and to try to make it clearer to her own mind. Then she wished to discuss it with Mildred and Barbara.

The girl glanced at the old-fashioned watch belonging to her father, which she always wore. In the back it held her mother's picture, but not for worlds would she have revealed this fact at the moment.

Curious that she should feel this extreme distrust of her companion, when she had been her ardent defender in their earlier acquaintance! But then she had never expected to be drawn into any intimacy with her.

Besides, Russia was an incomprehensible country. The class distinctions which had so impressed her in England were as nothing to the differences in rank here.

Russia, in truth, seemed a land of princes and paupers! To a girl of Nona Davis' ideas and training, to find herself associated with the lower orders of Russian society was distinctly disagreeable. She had lived so long on the tradition of family that social position seemed of first importance.

Now her former acquaintance was living in a peasant's house and was dressed like a peasant woman. Some strange change must have taken place in her life to reduce her to such a position, when previously she had given the impression of wealth and distinction.

Nona got up hurriedly, drawing her coat about her. Later perhaps she might be willing to hear what the other woman wished to confide, but not today.

Yet Nona felt that she did not wish to look into her companion's eyes. She must try not to think of her any longer as Lady Dorian, though "Sonya" was an exquisite Russian name, it certainly gave no clue to her identity.

However, she could not fail to see that the other woman's expression revealed surprise and sorrow at her attitude, but was without resentment. It was as if she had grown accustomed to distrust and coldness.

"I am sorry you don't wish me to speak of your mother, Nona. It is true I can give you no explanation of the change in my surroundings, but the present need not affect the past. I know that your father has kept your mother's story a secret from you. Yet there is nothing in it of which you may not be proud, that is, if you have the nature which I have hoped to find in you."

Embarrassed and yet determined not to listen any further, Nona continued obstinately walking toward the door, with Sonya quietly following her.

"Will you wait a moment, please?" the older woman asked. "I have two friends here in the house with me, whom I would like you to meet. When you talk me over with Mildred and Barbara to find out their opinion of me and of what I have tried to tell you, you can explain to them that I am not alone. I realize that I have always been a mystifying acquaintance and I'm sorry, but it is not possible to tell you my history at present. Some day I may be able to explain."

Sonya's tone was half grave and half gay. Moreover, her blue eyes with their curiously dark brows and lashes watched the younger girl with an almost wistful affection.

The situation was more than puzzling. Yet, although she grew more anxious each minute to be away, Nona could only agree to her companion's request.

For a moment she was left alone in the crude, bare room. It was cheerless and cold and she grew even more uncomfortable. Surely, Russia was the strangest land in the world. How could her history as a young American girl have any connection with it? Why had she so insisted upon continuing her Red Cross nursing in Russia, when without her urging the other Red Cross girls would have been content to remain where they were?

The next moment a very old woman and a man came into the room with Sonya. There was no doubting they were both peasants. With them it was not merely a matter of rough clothes. They were both heavily built, with stupid, sad faces and they mumbled something in broken English when they were introduced to Nona, eyeing her with suspicion. It was only when their gaze rested upon Sonya that their faces changed. Then it was as though a light had shone through darkness.

Sonya introduced them by name, some queer Russian name which Nona could not grasp.

However, she was trying her best to find something civil to say in return, which they might be able to understand, when an unexpected noise interrupted them.

Some one had unceremoniously opened the door in the hall and was walking toward them.

For an instant Nona thought she saw a shade of anxiety cross the faces of her three companions, but the next instant it was gone.

Nona could scarcely swallow a gasp of surprised admiration when, soon after, the door opened.

A young Russian soldier entered the room. He wore the uniform of a Cossack: the high boots, the fur cap and tunic.

To Nona Davis' American eyes the young man seemed a typical Russian of the better classes. He was extremely handsome, more than six feet tall, with dark hair and eyes and a colorless skin.

He appeared surprised at Nona's presence, but explained that he was stationed at the Russian fort where a number of wounded were being cared for. He remembered having seen Nona and her two friends. They were the only American nurses in the vicinity, so it was not strange to have noticed them.

Michael Orlaff was the soldier's name. Sonya spoke it with distinctness, but gave him no title. Yet evidently they knew each other very well.

A moment later and Nona finally got away. She was late and nervous about returning to the fortifications alone. Yet as she hurried on she was thinking over the afternoon until her head ached with the mystery of it. Perhaps it might be wise if she could avoid meeting this particular group of people again.



Chapter III

General Alexis


All that day Mildred Thornton had scarcely left the bedside of her patient.

For the Russian boy was dying, and as there was no hope for him, Mildred could only do her best to make him as comfortable as possible.

Now he seemed half asleep, so with her hands folded in her lap the girl sat near him trying to rest, although unable to keep her mind as quiet as her hands.

How strange her surroundings! Since her arrival in Europe as a Red Cross nurse she had lived and worked in two other countries and certainly had passed through remarkable experiences, yet none of them were to be compared with these few weeks of nursing in Russia. One might have been transferred to another planet instead of another land.

As an ordinary American tourist, Mildred had been familiar with Europe for several years, having spent three summers abroad traveling with her parents. But this was her first vision of the East, for Russia is eastern, however she may count herself otherwise.

The American girl now lifted her eyes from the figure of the dying boy and let them wander down the length of the room which sheltered them.

An immense place, it held rows on rows of other cot beds with white-clad nurses passing about among them. When they spoke or when the patients spoke Mildred could rarely guess what was being said, as she knew so few words of Russian. Yet she had little difficulty with her nursing, for the ways of the ill are universal and she had already seen so much suffering.

Now the hospital room was in half shadow, but it was never light nor aired as the American nurse felt it should be.

The hospital quarters were only a portion of the fortress, a great room, like a barracks which had been hastily turned into a refuge for the wounded.

The long stone chamber boasted only four small windows hardly larger than portholes and some distance from the ground. These opened with difficulty and were protected by heavy iron bars. But then in Russia in many private houses no window is ever voluntarily opened from autumn until Easter, as the cold is so intense and the arrangements for heating so crude.

Today Mildred wondered if the heavy, sick-laden air was giving her extraordinary fancies. She kept seeing dream pictures. For as she stared about the cold chamber of sorrow she beheld with greater distinctness the image of her own rooms at home.

This was the hour when the maid came to light her yellow-shaded electric candles; then she would put a fresh log on the fire and stir it to brightness, not because the added warmth was needed in their big steam-heated house, but because of the cheerfulness. Then would follow her mother's invitation to drink a cup of tea with her and Dick in the library, or would she prefer having it served in her own room?

With this thought the girl's eyes clouded for a moment. Doubtless Dick and her mother would be having tea together this afternoon and Dick would in all probability be trying to explain why his sister was not with him. During her work in France and Belgium her mother and father had been more than kind, but with this suggestion of coming into Russia to continue her nursing both her parents had protested.

It is true that they had not actually demanded her presence at home, for she would not have disobeyed a command. But undoubtedly they had urged her homecoming.

Her father longed for her because of the rare affection between them and the fact that he dreaded the conditions and experiences that might await her and her friends in Russia. For these same reasons her mother also desired her return, yet Mildred knew that there was another motive actuating her mother. She might be unconscious of the fact, but if her daughter should reappear in New York society at the present time, because of her war experiences she would become an object of unusual interest and attention.

At this instant the smile that appeared at the corners of the girl's mouth banished the tired expression it had previously worn. One big thing her war experiences had done for Mildred Thornton, it had given her a new sense of values. Now she knew the things that counted. She had learned to smile at her own failure as a society girl, even to understand and forgive her mother's chagrin at the fact.

Yet Mildred was influenced in a measure to continue her work in Europe by these trivial points of view.

Should she return home and re-enter society as her mother wished, sooner or later she must prove a second disappointment. For she had no social gifts; she could never learn to talk as her friends did. If questions were asked of her she could only reply with facts, not because she was lacking in sympathy or imagination, but because she had not the grace of words. So with neither beauty nor charm, how could she ever even hope to gratify her mother by securing the distinguished husband she so desired for her?

But since there was a place in the world for bees as well as butterflies, Mildred never meant to allow herself to grow unhappy again. She had a real talent for nursing; her work had received only praise. So here in Europe, where there seemed to be the greatest need of her services, she meant to remain as long as possible. This, in spite of the alluring picture of home which would thrust itself before her consciousness.

At this instant the boy on the bed moved and sighed and at the same instant the American girl forgot herself. He had opened his eyes and Mildred could see that he had become dimly conscious of his own condition and his surroundings.

But this boy could never have been more than dimly conscious of most things in his short life, he was so stupid and could neither read nor write; indeed, he had a vocabulary of but a few hundred words. Peter had been a laborer on the estates of a Polish nobleman when the call came to arms. And so often in the past week while she had been caring for him Mildred had been reminded of some farm animal by the way the boy endured pain, he had been so dumb and uncomplaining.

Even now he made no attempt to speak, but as she leaned over and took his hand Mildred realized that the boy could live but a few moments longer.

After a little tender smoothing of his cover the girl turned away. The Russian peasant is always a devout Catholic, so Mildred realized that he would wish a priest with him at the end.

She had walked only a few feet from the young soldier's bedside when an unaccustomed atmosphere of excitement in the ward arrested her attention.

It would not be necessary for her to summon a priest; some one must have anticipated her desire. For the priest was even now approaching. However, he was a familiar figure, passing hourly among the wounded and their attendants; his presence would cause no excitement.

The next instant Mildred understood the priest was not alone. He was accompanied by one of the most famous men in all Europe.

Although she had never seen him until this instant, Mildred Thornton had not a moment's doubt of the man's identity. This was the Commander of the fortress at Grovno, General Dmitri Alexis, at the present hour the bulwark of many Russian hopes.

For the past few weeks the Germans had been driving the Russians farther and farther back beyond the boundaries of Poland and near the heart of Russia. Here at Grovno the Russian army was expected to make a victorious stand. The faith of the Russian people was centered in General Dmitri Alexis.

Unlike most Russian officers, he had always been devoted to the interests of the common people, although a son of one of Russia's noble families. But he was known to be a shy, quiet man with little to say for himself, who had risen to his present rank by sheer ability.

To Mildred's eyes he seemed almost an old man; in fact, he must have been about fifty. His hair was iron gray, but unlike most Russians his eyes were a dark blue. As he wore no beard, the lines about his mouth were so stern as to be almost forbidding.

Mildred knew that he was an intimate personal friend of the Czar and realized just to what extent he must feel the weight of his present responsibilities.

Therefore she was the more surprised at his appearance in the hospital ward.

Except for a courtly inclination of his head the great man paid no attention to the greetings that were offered him by the nurses and doctors. Walking down the center of the room he had eyes only for the wounded men who lined the two walls. Then his sternness relaxed and his smile became a curious compound of pity and regret.

Mildred found herself staring without regard to good manners or breeding. Why should this man create such an atmosphere of trust and respect? She had seen other great generals in the armies of the Allies before today, but never one who had made such an impression.

General Alexis and the priest paused by the bedside of the Russian boy who was Mildred's patient.

There the great man's face softened until it became almost womanish in its sympathy. Slowly and reverently the dying boy attempted to raise his general's hand to his lips.

General Alexis said a few words in Russian which the young soldier understood, but Mildred could not. For he attempted to shake his head, to whisper a denial, then smiling dropped his arms down by his sides.

Mildred made no effort to move forward to assist him, for she did not feel that she had a place in the little group at this moment. She merely watched and waited, trying to see clearly through the mist in her eyes.

The boy's broad chest, strong once as a young giant's, but now with a scarcely beating heart beneath it, quivered with what seemed a final emotion. The same instant General Alexis leaned down and pinned against the white cotton of his rough shirt the iron cross of all the Russias. Afterwards he kissed him as simply as a woman might have done.

That was all! So natural and so quiet it was, Mildred Thornton herself was hardly aware of the significance of the little scene she had just witnessed.

Here in a country where the gulf between the rich and the poor, the humble and the great was well nigh impassable, a single act of courage had bridged it.

What act of valor Peter had performed Mildred never knew. She only knew that it had called from his duties one of the greatest men in Europe, that he might by his presence and with his own hands show homage to the humblest of soldiers.

When the simple ceremony was over the boy lay quite still, scarcely noticing that his general knelt down beside his bed. For his eyes were almost closing.

Neither did Mildred dare move or speak.

Against the walls the other nurses and doctors stood quiet as wooden figures, while the wounded were hushed to unaccustomed silences.

Then the Russian priest began to intone in words which the American girl could not understand, but in a voice the most wonderful she had ever heard. His tones were those of an organ deep and beautiful, of great volume but without noise.

Ceasing, he lifted an ikon before the young soldier's dimming eyes, and pronounced what must have been a benediction.

The next moment the great stillness had entered the hospital chamber and the Russian boy with the iron cross above his heart lay in his final sleep.

All at once Mildred Thornton felt extraordinarily weary. Backward and forward she could see the big room rise and recede as though it had been an immense wave. The dim light was turning to darkness, when instinctively reaching out her hand touched the back of a chair. With this she steadied herself for the moment. Until now she had not known how tired she was from her vigil, nor how she had been moved by the scene she had just witnessed. After a little she would go to her own room and perhaps Nona or Barbara would be there. But she must wait until General Alexis and the priest had gone away.

The next moment she realized that the great man had risen and was approaching toward her.

Mildred looked wholly unlike a Russian woman. Her heavy flaxen hair, simply braided and twisted about her head, showed a few strands underneath her nurse's cap. Her face was almost colorless, yet her pallor was unlike the Russian, which is of a strange olive tone. Now and then in her nurse's costume Mildred Thornton became almost beautiful, through her air of strength and refinement and the unusual sweetness of her expression.

The eyes that were turned toward General Alexis were a clear blue-gray, but there were deep circles under them, and the girl swayed a little in spite of her effort to stand perfectly still.

For several seconds the great man regarded her in silence. Then he stretched forth his hand.

"You are an American Red Cross nurse, I believe. May I have the honor of shaking your hand. I have been told that three young American women are here at our fortress at Grovno helping to care for our wounded. You have traveled many miles for a noble cause. In the name of my Emperor and his people may I thank you."

The little speech was made in perfect English and with such simplicity that Mildred did not feel awed or surprised.

However, she was not certain how she replied or if she replied at all. She only felt her cold fingers held in a hand like steel and the next moment the great general had gone out of the room.

Immediately after Mildred found herself surrounded by a group of Russian nurses. The Russians are amazing linguists and several of the nurses could speak English. Evidently they were overwhelmed by the honor the American girl had just had bestowed upon her. It had almost overshadowed for the time the greater glory of the young soldier.

An American Red Cross nurse had been individually thanked by one of the greatest commanders in Europe for her service and the services of her friends to his soldiers and his country.

But there was another personal side to the situation which the Russian hospital staff appeared to find more amazing.

General Dmitri Alexis was supposed never to speak to a woman. He was an old bachelor and was said to greatly despise the frivolities of Russian society women.

Incredible as it may seem, there is gossip even inside a great fortress in time of war.

But Mildred's Russian companions had neither time nor opportunity to reveal much to her at present. As soon as it was possible she begged that she might be allowed to go to her own room. Although she shared it with Nona and Barbara, neither one of them was there at the time.

But instead of lying down at once Mildred wrote a few lines to her mother. She knew that she would be greatly pleased by the attention that had just been paid her. Of course Mildred realized that the General's thanks were not bestowed upon her as an individual, but as a representative of the United States, whose sympathy and friendliness Russia so greatly appreciated.



Chapter IV

An Encounter


Barbara had been writing a letter to Dick Thornton. She was seated on the side of her cot bed in a tiny room high up in a tower, with only one small window overlooking the courtyard below.

Although it was well into the twentieth century, this room was just such an one as might have concealed the hapless Amy Robsart in the days of Lord Leicester and Kenilworth Castle. But although Barbara had not to suffer the thought of a faithless lover, at the present moment she was feeling extremely sorry for herself.

Russia had no charms for her as it appeared to have for Mildred Thornton and Nona Davis. She disliked its bleakness, its barbarity and the strange, moody people it contained. Of course she realized that there was another side to Russian life, before the present war its society was one of the gayest in the world. But these days, when the Germans were driving the Russian army backward and even further backward behind their own frontiers, were days for work and silence, not social amusements. Moreover, Barbara knew that she could never expect to have any part in Russian social life when her mission lay among the wounded. So far she had met only other Red Cross nurses, a few physicians and the soldiers who required her care. But really Barbara was not so foolish as to resent these conditions; she was merely homesick and anxious to see Dick Thornton, and if not Dick, then Eugenia.

France had not seemed so far away from the United States and she had loved France and its brave, gay people. She had understood them and their life. Almost she had envied Eugenia her future possession of the old chateau and the little "Farmhouse with the Blue Front Door." But then Eugenia had seemed to find France as strange and uncongenial as Barbara now considered Russia.

Even after her marriage to Captain Castaigne, Eugenia had confessed to the younger girl how she dreaded her own inability to become a Frenchwoman. She still feared that she would never be equal to the things Captain Castaigne had a right to expect of her, once the war was over. Eugenia had merely cared too much to be willing to give him up, but was too wise to expect that her problems would end with marriage.

So with this thought Barbara Meade finally removed a tear from the end of her nose. It had trickled quite comfortably out of her eyes, but as her nose was somewhat retroussé, it had hesitated there.

After all, an American marriage was best for an American girl! Barbara tried to convince herself that she should be rejoicing instead of lamenting. Certainly Dick was the most agreeable and to be desired person in the entire world. But then there was another side to this! Had he not been, perhaps she would not at this moment be missing him so terribly and at all the moments. Letters were so infrequent! Mrs. Thornton might positively refuse to allow her son to marry so insignificant a person, and Dick forget all about her!

But in the midst of this last and most harrowing thought, fortunately Nona Davis came into the room.

She looked excited, but on catching sight of her friend's face her expression changed.

"Good heavens, Barbara!" she began. Then the next moment she walked over and tilted the other girl's chin with her hand.

"You are just homesick, aren't you, and longing for some one who shall be nameless? You frightened me at first; I feared you had heard dreadful news. Come, get your coat and have a walk with me. We have both nearly two hours of freedom and I've permission to go outside the fortifications."

The other girl shook her head and shivered.

"It is too cold, Nona dear, and besides, I'm afraid. I know the Russians are said to be holding the line of fortifications beyond us, but then the Germans may break through at any time. Goodness knows, I don't see what you and Mildred find so fascinating in Russia! I am afraid I am not brave enough to have come with you."

While Barbara was arguing Nona had taken her coat from its hook on the wall and was putting it about her friend.

"Yes, I know all that, but just the same you are coming for a walk. As long as you are here you must keep strong enough to do your work. But there, I can't scold half so well as Eugenia. I suppose if Dick belonged to me I should be as wretched as you are without him. You are a dear to have stuck by Mildred and me during this Russian work. But do come, I've something really interesting to tell you. Perhaps you may feel a tiny bit less lonely afterwards."

In the meantime Nona had put on her own coat and cap and the two girls started. They had to walk down a narrow stone corridor and then a long flight of winding stone steps to reach the courtyard below.

To the right the soldiers were drilling. One could hear the harsh clatter of their heavy boots and the crash of their rifles when they touched the frozen earth.

It had turned unexpectedly cold, and yet without a spoken word both girls stopped and stared about them as soon as they reached the outdoors.

Certainly the scene formed an extraordinary setting for two young American girls!

The sky was gray, and although it was only early autumn, there were occasional flurries of snow.

Behind them stood a long, low line of stone and iron fortifications with enormous guns mounted at intervals along the walls. At one end was an observation tower, where one could see miles on miles of trenches stretching in a kind of semicircle before the fortifications. Should the enemy destroy the trenches the Russian soldiers could then mass behind the fort and afterwards, if necessary, accomplish their retreat. For a small force could delay the enemy through the strength of their position and the use of their big guns.

Sheltered behind breastworks of earth, barbed wire entanglements and a natural protection of trees, the girls could barely discern the aerodrome. In this place were situated the machine shops for building and repairing aeroplanes, and also from here their flights and returns could be made.

Yet in spite of these signs of active warfare, the place was curiously silent. Barbara felt puzzled. Only the endless tramp, tramp of the soldiers at drill and an occasional guttural command. The noises from the inside of the fort never penetrated to the outside. But then these Russians were a quiet people.

Within a few moments the two girls showed their order to the sentry and were allowed to pass beyond the gate. They then started on their walk along the same road which Nona had traveled alone several days before. But actually this was the first chance the girls had for talking over Nona's experiences together. True, they shared the same bedroom, so that on her return Nona had given a brief report. But really they had been too tired at night to grasp the situation.

Now naturally Barbara thought her companion meant to talk of her recent experience. Neither one of them attempted conversation at the beginning of their walk, for the main road was as filled with supplies of every kind that were being hauled to the great fort, as it had been on the day of Nona's solitary excursion. But indeed this was a daily occurrence.

So, as soon as possible, the girls got away from the road into a lane that was lined with peasants' huts. This lay in an opposite direction from the path Nona had previously taken. She had no desire to meet her former acquaintance again until she had made up her mind as to her own attitude toward her.

Neither Barbara nor Mildred had so far been able to give her any definite advice.

Mildred really refused to consider that the older woman could have known Nona's mother years before in their own country. Her story was too incredible to be believed.

Barbara had not taken this same point of view. At the present moment she was going over the situation in retrospection. In the first place, it was absurd to think that any train of circumstances could be impossible in such a surprising world. The woman, whom they had once known as Lady Dorian and whom they now were to think of by another name, had evidently once been a woman of wealth and culture, no matter what her present condition of poverty. She seemed to have traveled everywhere and she may of course have met Nona Davis' family. There was actually no reason why she should not have known them, Barbara concluded in her sensible western fashion. Doubtless when Nona allowed the older woman to explain the situation it would not be half so mysterious as it now appeared. The really remarkable thing was, not that the other woman should be familiar with Nona's mother's history, but that her own daughter should be so in ignorance.

For her part she intended to advise Nona to listen to whatever their former friend wished to tell her. But just as Barbara opened her lips to offer this advice, her companion spoke.

"Barbara, you have been in such a study you haven't asked for the piece of news I have to give you. Do you remember almost quarreling with me because I did not wish to write a note to the English fellow we once knew when we were in Brussels, after you discovered him in prison there?"

Barbara nodded, her mind immediately distracted from her former train of thought.

"Lieutenant Hume? Why, do you know what has become of him?" she inquired.

In reply Nona took a letter out of her pocket.

"I had a note from him today. You see, after your lecture I continued writing him in prison every now and then during the year we spent in Belgium. Just occasionally he was allowed to send me a few lines in reply. Then a long time passed and I had almost forgotten him. Now he writes to say that by an extraordinary freak of fortune he has been returned home. It seems that he became very ill, so when the Germans decided to agree on an exchange of prisoners, he and our little blind Frenchman, Monsieur Bebé, were both sent back to their own lands. Lieutenant Hume does not say what is the matter with him. His letter isn't about himself. He is really tremendously anxious to hear news of us. He has just learned of Eugenia's marriage to Henri Castaigne, and he thinks we are pretty foolhardy to have offered our services for nursing in Russia."

Instinctively Barbara held her companion's arm in a closer grasp.

"Far be it from me to disagree with him!" she murmured.

For her attention had just been arrested by the noise of a horse's hoofs approaching. Both girls looked up to see a young Cossack soldier riding toward them. He sat his horse as though he were a part of it, his feet swinging in long stirrups and his hands barely touching the reins.

Both girls felt a stirring sense of admiration. But to their surprise, as the horse drew near the young soldier pulled up and slid quietly to the ground.

The next instant he came up toward Nona.

"You will pardon me," he said, speaking English, although with a noticeable accent, "but it will not be wise for you to continue to walk any further along this road. It is growing late and there are stragglers coming in from several villages where a German raid is feared."

He had taken off his pointed Cossack cap of lamb's wool and held it in his hand as though he had been a young American meeting a group of friends upon an ordinary thoroughfare.

Barbara was struck by the incongruity of his appearance and his behavior. He looked like a half-civilized warrior of centuries ago, and yet his manner was the conventional one of today. However, it would not be wise to expect him to remain conventional under unusual conditions. Barbara could see that the young Russian officer was a son of the east, not the west. He had a peculiar Oriental pallor and long, slanting dark eyes, and his small black moustache scarcely concealed the thin red lines of his lips.

Nona was frowning at him in a puzzled fashion.

But the next instant she bowed with an expression of recognition.

"Thank you, we will do as you suggest. It is odd to see you so soon again after our unexpected meeting the other afternoon. Lieutenant Orlaff, this is my friend, Miss Meade."

Barbara inclined her head, too surprised to do more. But as the Russian officer continued to walk beside them with his horse following, she soon understood where he and Nona had met each other.

"Yes, she is an old friend, Sonya Valesky. I knew her years ago and then she went away into other countries."

The young Russian hesitated. Barbara and Nona were both watching his face closely, so that they could see the cloud of doubt, even of struggle, that swept over it.

"You are strangers in my country, but you have come here to help us in our need," he protested, almost as if he were thinking aloud.

"I would not have you doubt my friend. I cannot explain to you, and yet I wish to warn you. Do not be too intimate with Sonya Valesky. Russia is not like other countries in times of war or peace. She has many problems, tragedies of her own to overcome which the foreigner cannot understand. Forgive me if I should not have spoken."

Then before either girl could fully grasp what the young man's confused speech could mean, he had bowed, mounted his horse and ridden off.



Chapter V

Out of the Past


But circumstances afterwards made it impossible for Nona Davis to follow the young Russian officer's advice.

A week went by at the hospital without a decision on the girl's part and without another word from her former friend. Sonya Valesky she must remember was her Russian name. A beautiful name and somehow it seemed to fit the personality of the woman whom Nona at once admired and distrusted. For the name carried with it its own suggestion of beauty and of melancholy. What secret could Sonya Valesky be concealing that forced even her friends to warn others against her?

Of course there could be no answer in her own consciousness to this puzzle, yet Nona kept the problem at the back of her mind during the following week of strenuous work. Nursing inside the bleak fortress at Grovno was of a more difficult character than any work the three American Red Cross girls had yet undertaken. The surroundings were so uncomfortable, the nursing supplies so limited. Worse than anything else, an atmosphere of almost tragic suspense hung like a palpable cloud over every inmate of the fort.

Authentic news was difficult to obtain, yet refugees were constantly pouring in with stories of fresh German conquests in Poland. For it chanced that the months after the arrival of the three American girls in Russia were among the darkest in Russia's history during the great war. Military strategists might be able to understand why the Grand Duke Nicholas and his army were giving way before almost every furious German onslaught. They could explain that he was endeavoring to lead the enemy deeper and deeper into a foreign land, so as to cut them off from their base of supplies. Yet it was hard for the ordinary man and woman or the common soldier to conceive of anything except fresh danger and disaster in each defeat.

So day after day, night after night the business of strengthening the line of fortifications at Grovno went on. The work was done with the silence and the industry of some enormous horde of ants.

Shut off in the left wing of the fort with the ill and wounded soldiers, the Red Cross nurses had only occasional glimpses of the warlike preparations that were being made. Once when there was a review of the troops in the courtyard behind the fortifications Mildred Thornton summoned Nona and Barbara. She had already told them of her experience with the commanding officer of the fort, but she wished the other two girls to have a look at him. It was difficult to get a vivid impression of a personality from a bird's-eye view out of a small upper window. Yet the figure of General Alexis could never be anything but dominating. There was a hush of admiration from every man or woman inside the fortifications whenever their leader's name was mentioned. If he could not hold the German avalanche in check, then the world must weep for Russia. So Mildred became a kind of heroine among the nurses because she had received a few moments of the great man's praise and attention.

Finally, at the end of a week Nona Davis had a second letter from Sonya Valesky. It was sent by a messenger, as the other had been, and Nona was presented with it when she first went on duty on one Saturday morning.

This communication was not merely a note, however, for the envelope was sealed and had a bulky appearance. Yet Nona did not open it all that day or the morning of the next as she had a premonition that the letter was not an ordinary one. Either Madame Valesky was confiding her own history, or she was insisting upon proving to the American girl that she had at one time been a friend of her mother's. Really, it was this information that Nona both expected and feared. So as she had a particularly difficult case on hand she decided to wait for more leisure before trying to solve the mystery.

The opportunity came when she was allowed two hours rest on Sunday afternoon.

Nona was glad that both Mildred and Barbara were busy at the time, because she preferred to be alone. After her letter had been read and considered then she could decide on the degree of her confidences.

But after all, Barbara's prediction came true. The story that Sonya Valesky had to tell of her acquaintance with Nona's mother was not half so strange as the fact that the mother's history had been concealed from her daughter.

The story was unique but comparatively simple. The only curious fact was the accidental meeting between the Russian woman and the American girl. But then just such comings together of persons with a common bond of interest or affection is an hourly occurrence in the world. Behind such apparent accidents is some law of nature, a like calling unto like.

The older woman explained that she had known Nona's mother many years ago when they were both children in Russia, although she was a number of years younger. There was as little as possible of Sonya Valesky's own history in the letter. She stated without proof or comment that her father had once been Russian Ambassador to the United States. Here Anna Orlaff, Nona's mother, had made her a visit and had then gone away south to New Orleans and soon afterwards married. For many years the younger girl had not seen her friend again. She had received letters from her, however, and learned that her marriage was not a success.

Sonya Valesky did her best to explain the situation to Nona. But how was she to know how much or how little an American girl understands of life and conditions in Russia? Was Nona aware that there were many girls and young men, oftentimes members of noble families, who believed in a new and different Russia?

Had Nona ever read of a great writer named Tolstoi, who wrote and preached of the real brotherhood of man? He insisted that the words of Christ should be interpreted literally and desired that Russia, and indeed the world, should have no rich and poor, no Czar and slave, but that all men and all women were to be truly equal. Nona's mother had been a follower of Tolstoi's principles; therefore, her people had sent her away from her own country because they feared if she continued to live in Russia with these ideas she might be condemned to Siberia. So Anna Orlaff had gladly left her own country, believing that in the United States she would find the spirit of true equality.

Naturally her marriage had been a disappointment. At this point in Sonya Valesky's letter, Nona Davis began to have a faint appreciation of the situation. She remembered the narrow, conservative life of the old south and that her father had lived largely upon traditions of wealth and family, teaching her little else. What did it matter to him that there were no titles in America, no more slaves to do his bidding, when he continued to believe in the domination of one class over another.

Dimly at first, more vividly afterwards, Nona Davis could see the picture of the young Russian girl, a socialist and dreamer, married into such an environment. How disappointed and unhappy she must have been in the conservative old city of Charleston, South Carolina! No wonder people had never mentioned her name to her daughter, and that her father had been so silent! A Russian socialist was little less than a criminal.

Nona was seated in a hard wooden chair in a small, cell-like room many thousands of miles away from her own old home. Certainly something stronger than her own wish must have drawn her to Russia, for here she must learn to understand the story of her mother's life and to find her own place in it.

At this point in the narrative Nona let her letter fall idly in her lap. The girl's hands were clasped tightly together, for now her imagination could tell her more than any words of another's.

Her father had been devoted to her, but he had not been fair, neither had his friends nor her own. Why had they always led her to believe by their silences that there was something to be ashamed of in her mother's story? It was odd, of course, to be different from other people, but there was no sin in being a dreamer.

Nona could see the picture of her mother in the white muslin dress and the blue sash there in their old drawing room in Charleston. She had been only a girl of about her age when she remembered her.

But then what had become of her mother? Why had she gone away?

Again the girl picked up her letter, for the last few sheets must explain.

This portion was hardest of the story to understand, but Sonya Valesky had tried to make it clear.

Nona's father had insisted that his young wife give up her views of life. She was to read no books, write no letters, have nothing to do with any human being who thought as she did. Above all, she was to make him a written and sacred promise that she would never reveal her ideas of life to her daughter. This Nona's mother had refused to do and so had gone away, expecting to come back some day when her husband relented.

Within a year she had died. But here Sonya Valesky's letter ended, for she enclosed another written by Nona's mother to her friend.

If Nona had needed proof of the truth of the other woman's statement she could find it here. The letter was yellow with age and very short. It merely asked that if Sonya Valesky should ever find it possible to know her daughter, Nona Davis, would she be her friend?

Then Sonya had also enclosed another proof, if proof were needed. This was a small picture of Nona's mother which was exactly like the one the girl had found concealed in the back of her father's watch. It was the same watch with the same picture that she now wore always inside her dress.

Then for nearly an hour the young American girl sat dreaming almost without a movement of her body.

Little by little she recalled stray memories in her life which made her mother's history appear not so impossible as she had at first conceived. Always she had thought of her as foreign. She had only believed her to be French because she spoke French so perfectly and had married in New Orleans. But then she herself was beginning to learn that educated Russians are among the most accomplished linguists in the world. What else was she to find out about this strange country before her work as a nurse was over? Could she ever feel so entirely an American again?

All at once Nona Davis jumped hastily to her feet. There were hundreds of questions she yearned to ask. Fortunately for her she was near the one person who might be able to answer them. Sonya Valesky had never said why she had not sought to find her friend's daughter until their accidental meeting on shipboard. Even then she had not recognized Nona's connection with the past. Was it because she was too engrossed in her own life and her own mysterious mission?

Although she was at this instant engaged in putting on her coat and cap to go to her, Nona again hesitated. How little the Russian woman had said of herself! What was she doing here near the Russian line of fortifications, living like a peasant with only two old peasants in attendance upon her? And why should the young Russian officer have warned her against his own friend?

"Michael Orlaff." Automatically Nona Davis repeated the name of her new acquaintance. "Orlaff." The name was the same as her mother's. Was there a chance that the young Russian lieutenant might be a possible connection?

However, the girl recognized that she was stupid to continue to ask herself questions. Moreover, she had now made up her mind that she must not distrust Sonya Valesky unless she had a more definite cause. Doubtless Sonya shared the same views of life that her mother had cherished! But in any case it was wonderful to have found a woman who had been her mother's friend and who might still be hers.

Nona had walked across her small room to the door, when she heard some one knocking.

A summons had been sent for her to return to her nursing, as the two hours of her recreation were over. How stupid she had been! Actually Nona had forgotten what had called her to Russia, even the war tragedy that was raging about her. Of course she could not leave the hospital! It might be several days or more before she could hope to receive permission to revisit Sonya.



Chapter VI

The Arrest


Five days later Nona Davis went again to the little wooden house, where, to her surprise, she had previously discovered a former acquaintance.

But on this occasion Sonya Valesky did not open the door.

Instead it was opened by the old peasant man whom Nona had seen before.

Today he looked more wretched than stupid. His little black eyes were red rimmed, his sallow skin more wrinkled than ever.

When Nona inquired for Sonya he shook his head disconsolately and then motioned her toward the same room she had formerly entered.

There was now a cot in the room and on this cot lay the Russian woman.

At once Nona forgot herself and her desire to ask questions. She remembered only her profession, yes, and one other thing. She recalled the words that the old French peasant, François, had once spoken to her and to Barbara.

"Have you pity only for wounded soldiers? Do girls and women never care to help one another? This war has made wounds deeper than any bullets can create."

Immediately Nona had seen that Sonya Valesky was very ill. Now, no matter who she was, or what she had done, she must be restored to health. First and last Nona must put her own emotions aside, for the sake of her mission as a Red Cross nurse.

Yet what was she to do? Her services belonged to the soldiers in the Russian fortress.

As quietly and quickly as possible Nona gave her orders.

She could not be sure, but Sonya's appearance indicated that she was suffering from the terrible scourge of typhus.

This disease had been one of the most terrible results of the war. Because of a greater lack of sanitation and cleanliness the fever had been more widespread in Servia and in Russia than in any other countries.

Personally Nona had never nursed a case before, yet she had heard the disease discussed and believed she recognized the symptoms.

First she made a thorough examination of the little house. It was cleaner than most of the peasants' huts, so far Sonya must have prevailed, but still its conditions left much to be desired.

Without being able to speak more than a few words of their language, Nona yet managed to give her directions.

She was beginning to guess that the old peasant couple, who at first had seemed mysterious companions for the beautiful Russian woman, were probably old servants. If Sonya was a follower of Tolstoi as her mother had been, she must have refused to recognize any difference between them.

But this was not their feeling. The American girl could see that in spirit old Katja and Nika were the devoted slaves of the younger woman.

Sonya was not at first conscious of the seriousness of her illness.

She wore a dressing gown of some rough homespun, a curious shade of Russian blue, the color of her own eyes. Her hair, which had turned far whiter in the past year, was partly concealed under a small lace cap such as the Russian peasant woman often wears. Then, although she did not seem able to talk, she knew Nona and thanked her for coming and for the advice she was giving the two old people.

But when Nona had finished with her orders she came and sat down near Sonya.

"I have read your letter and I have not been able to answer it until now. It seems like a miracle that I should have found out about my own mother here in a strange land. But perhaps I was meant to take care of you. You must promise to do what I tell you. I must go away now, but I'll come back in a little while."

Nona was getting up when Sonya took hold of her skirt.

Her face was flushed and her dark blue eyes shining.

"You must not stay in this house, not for long at a time," she pleaded. "I cannot explain to you why not, but perhaps when I am strong again I can tell you enough to have you guess the rest. Now you must go."

Sonya took Nona's cool hands in her hot ones and held them close for a moment.

The next moment the American girl had gone.

At the hospital inside the fortress she explained the situation, at least so far as it could be explained. A Russian woman, who had once been her friend, lay seriously ill at one of the nearby huts. Would one of the hospital physicians come and see her? Also would it be possible for her to be spared from caring for the soldiers to look after her woman friend?

Certainly a Russian doctor would attend the case; moreover, after certain formalities Nona was allowed a leave of absence from the hospital demands.

Then began an experience for the young American girl that nothing in her past two or more years of nursing had equaled.

She was living and working in a new world, amid surroundings which she could not understand and of which she was afraid.

The little hut was crude and lonely. The two old peasants could speak no English, but went about their tasks day after day mute and dolorous. Sonya was too ill to recognize her nurse, and Nona could not allow Barbara or Mildred to come near her, since her patient's illness was of the most contagious nature.

Naturally Barbara and Mildred wholly disapproved of the risk Nona was running and she had not time nor strength to make them see her side of the situation. She had written them that Sonya Valesky had proved herself to have been an old friend of her mother's. For that reason and for several others she felt it her duty to care for her.

But strangest of all Nona's experiences were the fragments of conversation which she heard from the lips of her ill friend.

Sonya sometimes spoke of her girlhood and then again of her life in the United States and in England. Once or twice she even called the name of Captain Dalton. Nona supposed that she must be recalling her meeting with Captain Dalton at the Sacred Heart Hospital. Then she remembered that Sonya had spoken of knowing the English officer years before.

But although her patient betrayed many facts of her past life to her nurse, never once did Sonya explain why she was living in such an out-of-the-way place. Neither did she give any clue to the kind of work that must have engaged her time and energy. Surely Sonya Valesky must have been upon some secret mission in the days of their first meeting on board the "Philadelphia!" Even then she had papers in her possession which she would allow no one to see.

However, Sonya was too desperately ill to permit her nurse much opportunity for surmising. Nona would never have left her alone for a moment except that she knew it was her duty to keep up her own strength.

Every afternoon she went for a short walk. And because no one but the Russian physician was allowed to enter the house, now and then the young Russian lieutenant would join Nona along the road. This could only occur when he was able to get leave, yet Nona began to hope for his coming. She was so depressed and lonely.

Once she asked him if he had ever heard of a member of his family named "Anna Orlaff." Of course she gave no reason for her question. But it made no difference, because the young soldier could recall no such person.

In the course of one of their talks, however, he confided to Nona that he was a younger brother, but that his family were members of the Russian nobility.

Never once, however, did the young man betray any fact connected with Sonya Valesky's history. He explained that their families had long known each other and that he had always been fond of her, nothing more.

So for this reason as well as others Nona found herself attracted by the young Russian officer. He seemed very simple, much younger than an American of the same age. At this time Michael Orlaff must have been about twenty-three. But Nona was wise enough to discover that he was not so simple and direct as she had first believed him. A Russian does not readily betray either his deeper thoughts or his deeper feelings. The young Russian lieutenant would not even speak of the war nor his own part in it. Yet Nona guessed from her own observation and from certain unconscious information that he was one of the favorite younger officers of the Russian general in command of the Grovno fortifications.

So a number of weeks passed, until now and then Nona Davis almost forgot the war and her original reasons for being in her present strange position. No one brought her papers; Barbara's and Mildred's letters contained little war news. The truth was possibly being concealed from them, or else there was no way of their discovering it.

So Nona was at least spared the anxiety of knowing that the victorious German hosts were drawing nearer and nearer the fortress of Grovno. Like stone houses built by children the other ancient Russian forts had fallen before his "Excellenz von Beseler," the victor of Antwerp, who was known as the German battering ram.

Even when Sonya opened her eyes, after weeks of an almost fatal illness, and asked for news of the war, Nona was unable to tell her.

Then as the days of Sonya's convalescence went by she would not let her talk of it. Always war is a more terrible thing to girls and women than it is to boys and men. But ever since their first acquaintance Nona had realized that the horror of it went deeper into Sonya's consciousness than any person she had yet seen. It must be the war that had aged her so in the past year.

So the Russian woman and the American girl spoke of everything else. Sonya told of her own life and of Nona's mother when they were little girls. They had both been allowed to go away to college. It was in school that they imbibed their revolutionary ideas. No wonder that their families never forgave them!

Sonya was dressed and sitting in her chair the day when the summons finally came for her arrest.

It was Nona Davis in her nurse's Red Cross costume who opened the door for the two men in uniform. They were not dressed like soldiers, and as she could not understand what they said, she did not dream of their errand.

But Sonya's peasant servants must have understood, for at the sight of the strangers they dropped on their knees and held out imploring hands.

Sonya herself finally made things clear. The men were two police officers who had been sent to bring her to Petrograd. She had been in hiding here near Grovno for several months and had hoped to escape their vigilance. Evidently Sonya had been arrested by the Russian authorities.

In spite of Nona's insistence that her patient was not well enough to be moved, Sonya agreed to go with them at once.

And only at the moment of parting did she bestow any confidence upon the younger girl.

Then she looked deep into Nona's golden brown eyes with her own strangely glowing blue ones, and whispered:

"I have done nothing of which I am ashamed, Nona, or I should never have asked for your friendship. It may be that I can make the Russian people understand, but I do not feel sure. This war has made men blinder than ever. I have only tried to be a follower of the 'Prince of Peace.'"

Then after she had walked away a few steps she came back again.

"Go back to your United States as soon as you can, Nona," she urged. "Russia is no place for you or your friends."

Because Nona Davis dared not trust herself to speak, Sonya afterwards went away without a word of faith or farewell from her.



Chapter VII

A Russian Church


One afternoon, after Nona had been nursing her friend, Sonya Valesky, for some time, Mildred Thornton went alone into a little Russian church.

The church was situated behind the line of the fortifications at Grovno. Many years before it had been erected, and now it did not occur to the Russian officers that it stood in especial peril. Yet the church had the golden dome of all Russian churches, glittering like a ball of fire in the sun. Certainly it afforded an easy target for the enemy's guns, and more than this would aid German aeroplanists in making observations of the geography of the surrounding neighborhood. But since Grovno was deemed invincible, apparently no one considered the possibility of the other side to this question.

High cement walls guarded and mounted with cannon encircled the countryside for many miles, while running out from the fortress itself were numerous secret passages and cells, at present stored with ammunition.

On this afternoon of Mildred's visit to the church she stood outside for a few moments looking upward. At first she was merely admiring the beauty of the little church. The gold of the dome seemed to be the one appealing spot of color in all the surrounding landscape. Then she opened the bronze doors and stole quietly inside.

Always the church was left open for prayer, but today on entering Mildred Thornton found it empty.

A Russian church is unlike all others except the Greek, for it is filled with brilliant colors. Instead of images such as the Roman Catholics use, the Russians have paintings dealing with the life of Christ, almost obscuring the ceiling and the walls. There are no pews such as we find in our own churches, for the Russian remains standing during his ceremony and kneels upon the stone floor in time of prayer. So one finds only a few chairs scattered about for old persons and ill ones.

Mildred secured a stool and sat down in the shadow, gazing up toward the high altar.

She was an Episcopalian, therefore the Russian church and its services did not seem so unusual to her as they did to Barbara Meade. Really she had been deeply impressed by the few services she had seen. There was no organ and no music save the intoning of the voices of the priests, and the words of the service she could not understand. Nevertheless the Russians were a deeply religious people and perhaps their reverence had influenced the American girl.

This afternoon, although alone, Mildred felt strangely at peace. Indeed, her eyes were cast down and her hands clasped in prayer, when the noise of some one else entering the church disturbed her reverie.

To the girl's surprise the figure was that of a man whom the next instant she recognized as General Alexis. He had come into the church without a member of his staff, so that evidently he too desired to be alone for prayer.

What should she do? Mildred was too confused to decide immediately. Feeling herself an intruder, yet she did not wish to create a stir and draw attention to herself by hastily leaving.

General Alexis had evidently not seen her, too intent upon his own devotions. For he had at once approached the altar and knelt reverently before it.

Mildred kept silent, hardly conscious of her own absorption and forgetting her meditations in her interest in the kneeling soldier.

In these days of little faith, small wonder that it struck Mildred as inspiring to see this man of many burdens and responsibilities at the foot of the altar.

From a western window the afternoon sun shone down upon him, revealing the weary lines in the great soldier's face. He did not look stern or forbidding to Mildred this afternoon, only deeply careworn and depressed. However much his soldiers and the Russian people might trust in his power to bring them safely through an attack at Grovno, evidently there were hours when the distinguished general suffered like lesser people. Mildred Thornton understood enough of human nature to realize what General Alexis must at this moment be enduring. The fate of a people, of a nation, almost of half the world, in a measure rested in his hands. How inadequate any mortal must feel in the face of such a task!

By and by Mildred's eyes dropped their lids. She felt that she was seeing too deeply into the holy of holies of the man before her. This would not be just to any human being, unaware of her presence. If only she could get away without disturbing him! Doubtless on discovering her General Alexis would be angered, or at any rate annoyed, perhaps he might even consider her behavior as characteristic American intrusion.

Once Mildred started to her feet, but she did not try to move again, for at almost the same instant the Russian general rose from his knees.

His face had become a little less careworn than at the moment of his entrance; his blue eyes, which were remarkable with his other Russian coloring, were less sombre. Since he did not appear to observe her, Mildred was glad for this last glance at her companion.

Since their one meeting for some reason he had haunted her thoughts more than she could explain. This was partly due to the fact that he was so much talked of at the fortress and so idolized by his soldiers. He was said to be without fear, or any human weakness, but after today Mildred Thornton knew better than this.

Unconsciously the girl must have moved or made a sound of some kind at this instant, for General Alexis, who had almost reached the door, turned quickly around. At the same time his right hand grasped his pistol.

Was there a spy or an assassin lurking in his church to destroy him? There were many men of other lands who would gladly give their lives for his.

But General Alexis' hand dropped to his side again, as soon as it had touched the metal of his pistol. To his surprise he had discovered a pair of blue-gray eyes staring at him earnestly, with almost wistful sympathy.

General Alexis came back to where Mildred stood.

"You were here in church with me and I did not see you," he said as simply and naturally as an ordinary person, "I hope I did not disturb you."

"Disturb me!" Mildred stuttered a little in her surprise at his words. "Oh, I beg your pardon, it was I who should not have been here when you came. But I did not know, that is I did not dream you ever left the fort, while I like to steal in here during the hours I have for rest. I will not come again."

General Alexis shook his head. "I should be very sorry. Rather than that this should happen I would stay away during those hours. But is there not room enough here and peace enough for us both?"

Without replying Mildred inclined her head and began walking toward the door, General Alexis keeping beside her.

"If you are returning to the fortress and will permit me, I should like to go back with you?" he asked.

And again Mildred could only stammer a confused acquiescence.

In the little court before the Russian church General Alexis' guard of soldiers was awaiting him. However, at an inclination of his head they fell in at once, marching at a respectful distance behind their general and his companion.

"I remember our having a short conversation a few weeks ago," the Russian officer continued gravely, after they had gone on a few yards. Mildred had been vainly endeavoring to make up her mind whether she should be the one to speak. If so, what on earth should she say?

She was glad to be spared having to make up her mind.

"You were very kind," the girl returned. "I did not imagine you would know me again, but perhaps it is because I am an American."

Just as if he had been a young man and an everyday one, General Alexis smiled, and Mildred was no longer afraid of him.

"Oh, I may remember you, Miss Thornton, for other reasons. But to be truthful it is because you are an American that I am taking this opportunity to talk to you again."

This time the Russian officer hesitated.

"You will not mention what I am going to say to any persons except your two American friends," he added, not as a request, but as a command.

"Miss Thornton, as soon as it is possible for convenient arrangements to be made for you I want you to know that I intend having you sent back to Petrograd. You must of course have a safe escort or I should have seen to the matter sooner."

Ordinarily Mildred Thornton possessed unusual self-control, but the surprise, indeed, the shock of the speech, took her unawares.

She had not dreamed that she and Barbara and Nona had been such complete failures in their Red Cross work. Why, after their several years of war experience they had felt themselves of perhaps unusual value in the Russian nursing. So far as she knew there had been no complaints of their work, only praise. But in any case how could their failures have reached General Dmitri Alexis' ears? It seemed incredible that he should ever be annoyed with such trifling concerns.

"Just as you wish," Mildred answered quietly, yet with greater personal dignity than any one of the other American Red Cross girls could have summoned. "We have done our best to help with the nursing. If we have failed it is, of course, wisest that we should return to Petrograd. Afterwards we can go home to the United States."

"Failed in your nursing? And it is for that reason you believe I wish to have you sent away from my fortress?"

Actually General Alexis stopped in his walk and faced his companion, since Mildred was, of course, obliged to stop also.

"That is folly. I know nothing of your nursing. But from your face, from a something, a serenity and strength that your presence suggests, I feel that you must understand and love your profession."

General Alexis was now studying Mildred Thornton with surprising intentness, as though he were trying in this moment of their acquaintance to pierce beneath the surface of the girl before him. This was characteristic of the man. No human being was ever too small or too unimportant for his consideration. He was a strange combination: a great soldier and yet one of the gentlest of men.

"I want you to go back to Petrograd because I fear for your safety and the safety of your friends should you remain much longer at Grovno," he continued. "It is of this fact you are not to speak. I have reason to know that at almost any hour in the next few days we may expect the German attack. Grovno will resist to the uttermost. But it may be that the old fortifications are not so invincible as we once thought them to be. A new war has brought a new world and the old order changeth."

Once again Mildred saw beneath the outer surface of the man, but almost at once he was again the soldier.

"You understand that I do not expect this. If I decide it may be wiser to retreat, it will only be to form a conjunction with another part of Grand Duke Nicholas' army. But in any case I should prefer to have you three American nurses away from all possible danger. The Russian nurses will share the fate of their own soldiers. Be prepared to leave within a few days. When the necessary arrangements are made you will receive instructions."

Then before Mildred could protest, and she had scarcely the courage for this, they had reached the gate of the fortress.

Here General Alexis bowed and waited for his guard to come up with him. Mildred could feel the surprise even of the sentries at the gate and the few soldiers who chanced to be near at their unexpected appearance. Truly it was amazing that the great commander should be concerned with the fate of three unimportant American girls, and even more amazing that he should actually show his consideration and friendliness to one of them!



Chapter VIII

Another Warning


Two hours after Sonya Valesky had been taken away by the Russian police Nona Davis started back for the Russian fortress.

Only a few moments were required to pack her own belongings, since the little house and everything inside it had been fumigated as soon as Sonya reached a state of convalescence. Nona's time had been spent in trying to comfort Sonya's servants, old Katja and Nika, and also in trying to acquire some information from them.

In neither effort was she successful. Either the old man and woman knew nothing of Sonya's actions, or else they were too grief-stricken to confide their knowledge. There was also the third possibility that Sonya had warned them against betraying her to any human being. Whatever the reason, they were dumb, except for their half-broken Russian prayers and stories of Sonya as a little girl. If she had not long ago been fully aware of the fact, Nona was now assured that the two peasants had been former servants of the Russian woman. It was Sonya who would not recognize the distinctions of maid and mistress, who called herself by no title and would allow her servants to call her by none.

Therefore it was almost night when Nona left the little hut, old Nika carrying her bag and plodding behind her. The girl felt that she must return to her two American friends to receive their aid and sympathy.

Surely something could be done for Sonya, it was horrible to think of her being carried off to a Russian prison, concerning which one had read such dreadful stories. She was too ill and she seemed so utterly without friends or relatives. Yet Nona herself was utterly powerless, knowing no one with any influence in Russia. Nevertheless she felt a strange bond, which had come to her out of the past, between herself and Sonya Valesky.

One person, however, might be willing to give her advice, though she doubted his help. In returning to the fort, Nona meant as soon as possible to request an interview with the young Russian officer, Michael Orlaff.

She was not frightened during her walk through the dismal Russian country. Wearing her Red Cross uniform she felt a sufficient protection, besides old Nika's presence. But the real truth is she was too absorbed in considering Sonya's history and fate to be aware of anything else.

She was therefore more annoyed than frightened when a figure appeared before her at the crossing of the road by the Three Pines. The voice that straightway called out to them held a quality of command that made Nika drop at once on his knees. Nona was not in the least frightened, but then she had seen the outline of the young officer's figure and the glistening of his sword hilt.

"I am Nona Davis, an American Red Cross nurse on my way back to the fortress, Lieutenant Orlaff," the girl explained. "I am glad to have met you, as perhaps you will tell me what I must do when I reach the gate."

The Russian officer saluted as though Nona had been a superior officer.

"I was on my way at the present moment to Sonya Valesky's home to inquire for her. This is the first hour of freedom I have been able to command all day. But tell me what brings you back to the fortress at this time? Has Sonya grown worse or is she better?"

Here was her opportunity. Nona felt that fate must have sent it to her by a special dispensation. Now there need be no delay in her confidence.

Lieutenant Orlaff came of a noble family, he must have powerful connections, if he could only be persuaded to use them in Sonya's behalf. Certainly he had appeared to be her friend, although disapproving of her behavior and views of life.

As sympathetically and as quickly as possible Nona told of the coming of the Russian police. Then she laid great stress on the fact that Sonya was too ill to have been taken away at such a time. Yet she had gone without resistance, making no plea for herself and asking for no aid. What must they do? The situation was unendurable.

Intentionally Nona used the pronoun "they," including Lieutenant Orlaff with herself in their interest in Sonya. Yet except for his first muttered exclamation the Russian officer had made no comment.

In the darkness Nona gazed at him resentfully. The Russians were a cruel people, sometimes all fire and then again all ice. She would like to have told him what an American man would have attempted for a friend, who was a woman and in such a tragic position, no matter what her crime or mistake. But Nona was sure by this time that Sonya Valesky had committed no crime. She had come to know her too well, her exquisite gentleness, so oddly combined with a blind determination that took no thought of self. Besides she recalled her friend's final words, "a follower of the Prince of Peace." Surely there were but few such followers in the European world today!

Awaiting his answer, Nona continued to look at her companion. The young Russian might have stood for the figure of "Mars," the young god of war, as he strode along beside her. He was six feet in height, splendidly made, and tonight in the semi-darkness his face showed hard and unmoved.

"I am grieved but not surprised at what you tell me," he returned the next moment. "Not a hundred, but a thousand times I have warned Sonya that she must give up her mad ideas. There was sufficient danger in them when the world was at peace. Now in time of war to preach that men are brothers, that there should be no such thing as patriotism, that all men are kin, no matter what their country, there never was such folly. It is hard to feel pity or patience."

"Then you will do nothing to help?" Nona inquired, trying to hide the anger she felt. "Of course I understand that from your point of view and from the view of nearly all the world Sonya Valesky is hopelessly wrong. But I can't see why she should be punished because she has a higher ideal than other people?"

If Nona had only thought for a moment she would have realized that the world has always thus rewarded its visionaries.

"But Sonya is not content to think in this way alone. She has spent her life in trying to persuade other persons to her view, and has many followers. Once she was a very rich woman and traveled in many lands preaching her universal brotherhood," the young officer ended his speech with a characteristic shrug of his shoulders, which is the Oriental fashion of announcing that fate is stronger than one's will.

"To have continued advocating such a doctrine in a time of war was worse than madness. I have done what I could, I have even risked my own honor and safety in remaining Sonya's friend. Now retribution has come," he concluded, as though the subject was not to be resumed.

And Nona did not reply at once. So the young Russian officer and the American girl walked on toward the fortress through darkness that was each moment growing more dense. There were no lights save the stars, since the fortress was only dimly lighted in the interior; outside lights would too plainly have exposed their position to the enemy.

"What then do you think will become of Sonya? What punishment will she have to suffer?" Nona inquired when she felt that she had gotten her voice under control.

"Siberia," Lieutenant Orlaff returned briefly. Then feeling that his companion desired him to say more, he went on:

"In many cases a man or woman who has done what Sonya Valesky has would be hung as a traitor. She has been preaching peace, which means she has been urging men not to fight. That is treason to Russia. But I believe that Sonya will be lightly dealt with because she comes of a family that once served the Czar and his father. Besides, Sonya is a woman and a beautiful one and it would not do to make a martyr of her."

"Then you think Siberia a light punishment?" Nona questioned, no longer trying to keep the bitterness out of her tones. "Well, surely you accept a friend's misfortune easily! I have not your philosophy. I do not think I can do much, as I have no friends in Russia and no money, but as soon as I receive permission I shall go to Petrograd to be of whatever service I can."

Lieutenant Orlaff stared at the girl beside him. It was impossible to see anything but the outline of her face, yet he could observe its pallor and the sheen of her hair under the nurse's cap. Besides, he felt the contempt she had not allowed herself to express, for the Russian is singularly proud and sensitive.

"I repeat that I am very sorry," the young officer added. "You are wrong in thinking I take Sonya Valesky's fate lightly. Her family and mine, as I once told you, have been friends for many years. After the death of her parents my father was for a little time her guardian until she came of age. I will do what I can; I will write letters to her relatives and to people who were once her friends. But I warn you to expect nothing. Long ago they became weary of her wild theories and have had nothing to do with her for years."

"Then all the more reason why I should do what I can. Even if I accomplish nothing, at least Sonya will have the comfort of knowing that a friend is near her during her trial," the girl said aloud, although really not addressing her companion.

During the latter part of his speech she had been thinking very rapidly. First of all, she must ask for a leave of absence from her Red Cross nursing and explain that it was necessary for her to return to Petrograd for a time. But where was she to obtain the money for her expenses? She had nothing of her own except the few roubles which she was paid for her work and which she had forfeited when she undertook to care for Sonya Valesky. In all probability when Mildred Thornton knew her mission she could borrow the money from her. But then this would mean a delay so long that she might be of no service to Sonya. For Mildred kept only a small amount of extra money with her and would be compelled to write her father for any large sum. Weeks would pass before Judge Thornton could receive his daughter's request and then there would be more time required for the transmission of the check.

However, besides Mildred there was Eugenia who could be appealed to for aid. There was no doubt of Eugenia's assistance, once she learned Sonya Valesky's story and realized why she had seemed a suspicious character to all of them in the days of their meeting on board the "Philadelphia." But Eugenia was away off somewhere in France nursing in a Red Cross hospital near her husband's line of trenches. It would also take time to reach Eugenia. Nevertheless she was the best person to whom to make a request.

"But what connection have you with Sonya Valesky? Why should you not be willing to leave her to her fate?" Lieutenant Orlaff had to ask the second time before Nona heard him. "You have done what you could in nursing her through a dangerous illness; friendship could expect nothing more. Besides, you are an American girl and can have only a slight acquaintance with Sonya."

Again Nona Davis did not reply immediately. How much or how little should she take the Russian officer into her confidence? However, it did not seem to her of much importance then.

"You are mistaken. I am not simply an American girl," Nona explained quietly. "My father was an American, but my mother was a Russian. She and Sonya Valesky knew each other as girls, although my mother was the older. There is a stronger tie between us than you imagine. And I have reason to believe that my mother once thought as Sonya does about many things."

"Your mother, impossible!" Michael Orlaff exclaimed, with more consternation and regret in his voice than was reasonable. "But you, surely you cherish no such ideas?"

The American girl shook her head, although she seemed to be pondering over her companion's question before replying.

"No," she returned at last. "I have no such ideas and I believe never will have them. Even though my mother was a Russian, I am an American in all my feelings and instincts and training. Russia fascinates me, but it frightens me at the same time. Besides, it is not necessary in our country that we should teach peace and equality, because it is in those two principles that the American people most believe. If Sonya is released I mean to try and take her back to the United States with me to remain until the war is over."

"But Sonya will not be released, I have tried to make you understand," Lieutenant Orlaff added doggedly. "What is one woman more or less in times like these? Go to Petrograd if you will, Miss Davis. I have told you it is not wise for you and your friends to remain at Grovno. But when you reach Petrograd have nothing to do with Sonya Valesky. I have known you only a short time, yet I am your friend and I warn you. Cannot you see that I care very much what becomes of you? You are a guest in my country; you have come to do us a service. It would be a poor return if trouble overtook you."

Nona and Lieutenant Orlaff with old Nika hobbling behind them had by this time about reached the entrance to the fortress. Nona was truly grateful. She was very tired and depressed from the day's experiences. Moreover, she did not understand the manner or the words of the young officer beside her. At one moment he seemed extraordinarily hard and at the next unnecessarily concerned. Nothing could happen to her in Petrograd of a serious character, but in any case her experiences could not interest Lieutenant Orlaff.

As soon as possible Nona said good-by to him. Later, in recalling their conversation, she often thought of a phrase he used: "What is one woman more or less in times like these?"



Chapter IX

The Attack


There was a great deal more for the three American Red Cross girls to confide to one another than they could find time for, soon after Nona Davis' return to the fortress.

But two evenings later it chanced that the three girls were all on day duty and therefore had the same evening and night free.

In the left wing of the fortress, near the hospital quarters, was the single, small bedroom which the three American nurses shared. Once before Nona had discovered Barbara Meade rereading one of Dick Thornton's letters and giving way to the blues in their small, cold chamber. This evening she made the discovery a second time.

It chanced that Barbara had gotten away from her nursing first and hurried off to the only privacy that was possible under the circumstances. Because she was looking forward to a long and serious conversation with her two friends she made ready to meet the situation as comfortably as possible. This means that Barbara slipped out of her nursing uniform and into the pretty kimono that Mildred had presented her with long ago in Paris. Then, while she waited for the others, she read Dick's and Eugenia's latest letters once again.

At last Dick had arrived in New York City and was writing from the lovely home Barbara remembered so well. He had only been there a little while when this letter had been written, but already Dick had confided the news of his engagement to his mother and father.

Barbara could read between the lines in a characteristic feminine fashion. Dick declared that his father was delighted to hear of his happiness and that he had not forgotten that they probably owed their son's life to the girl to whom he was now engaged.

But Judge Thornton agreed with his son -- a man should be able to support his wife before he married. Therefore he meant to do all that he could to get Dick started in the right way, so that he might go ahead as quickly as possible.

Dick did not seem to feel that it would take very long to accomplish this delectable result, but to Barbara, away off in Russia, a land she both disliked and feared, the situation looked pretty indefinite.

Moreover, Dick had said nothing about the way in which his mother had received the news of a prospective daughter-in-law. This was not an oversight on Dick's part; Barbara understood him too well to be deceived into any such impression. He and his mother were too intimate and devoted for him not to care intensely about her attitude toward the girl he wished to marry. Never could he have forgotten to mention his mother's position! No, it was merely what she had always expected. Mrs. Thornton thoroughly disapproved of her son's engagement and Dick would not wound the girl he loved by writing her this fact. Later there was a chance that his mother might be persuaded to change her mind. But in any case it would be easier to explain by word of mouth than coldly to set down the present situation.

Moreover, if Barbara had required further proof, she would have had it in the fact that Mrs. Thornton had not written her a single line to say either that she was glad or sorry that the daughter of her husband's old friend had become engaged to her only son. If she had spoken of the matter to Mildred, Mildred had never referred to it, proving again that any comment from Mrs. Thornton must have been unfavorable.

While she made these reflections following the rereading of her fiancé's letter, Barbara was lying on her cot-bed with an army blanket drawn close up under her chin. Now she buried her curly head deeper in her pillow and turned from Dick's to Eugenia's letter.

It was difficult to think of Eugenia Peabody as Madame Castaigne, indeed as the Countess Castaigne, only neither she nor her husband would ever be induced to use their titles. The old Countess might always remain in safe possession of hers.

Barbara wondered if Eugenia was happier than she was. Then she felt ashamed of herself. Eugenia's husband was every instant in danger of losing his life, while Dick had only returned to the United States, where he was now safe in his own home. Yet Eugenia's letter made no complaints. She mentioned having seen Captain Castaigne once in the past month, when he had received a leave of absence of twenty-four hours and had hurried to her.

No, Eugenia's letter was chiefly devoted, as all her previous letters had been, to her interest and concern in the three American Red Cross girls. She wished them to return immediately to France and to the old chateau, where the Countess Castaigne would be only too happy to shelter them. Later, if they wished, they could find other Red Cross work to do in France. But Russia was not a country where the girls should have gone at this time, and certainly not without her to look after them. Moreover, the news from the Russian lines grew more and more alarming. Everywhere the Germans seemed to be conquering. It was disheartening after the Russian triumphs at the beginning of the war. The letter closed with a final plea: would Barbara do her best to persuade Nona and Mildred that they should as soon as possible come back to France. There would be no cowardice or desertion of duty in leaving Russia at present, only discretion and good sense.

And upon this point of view Barbara was reflecting when Nona found her.

Personally Barbara agreed with Eugenia and wished that Nona and Mildred would join her in withdrawing from Russia whenever they could best be spared. But she could not decide whether she ought to thrust her point of view upon her friends since she was uncertain whether her judgment or her desire most swayed her.

France would be so much nearer New York and therefore Dick's letters could be so much more frequent. Then there was the Countess Castaigne, to whom she could pour out all her heartburnings. Moreover, there was the chance of every now and then seeing her beloved Eugenia.

But Barbara also remembered that she had always been the least brave and determined of the four American nurses ever since their arrival in Europe. Should she reveal herself in the selfsame light again?

At this instant Nona snuggled under the blanket beside the younger girl.

The Russian winter was fast approaching and frequently it was bitterly cold. Besides, there were no chairs in the Red Cross girls' bedroom, only the three beds and some stools, so it was simpler to lie down than be seated.

"I have a long story to tell you, Bab, and I want your advice, only I think we had best wait for Mildred, so you may not have to hear everything twice," Nona began.

"You mean about Sonya Valesky?" Barbara queried. Of course Nona had told her two friends of Sonya's arrest, but had not been able to go into the details of the story, nor had she mentioned her own intentions. Very possibly both the girls would disapprove, as Lieutenant Orlaff had done, of her becoming more closely involved with Sonya Valesky's history.

Fortunately Mildred appeared at the door without further delay.

But when she entered the room, both of her companions could see that she also had something of importance upon her mind which she wished to discuss at once.

Instead of lying down, Mildred immediately seated herself upon the edge of her cot, facing her friends. Then she drew her own blanket up around her shoulders.

"Girls," she began, "I don't usually do the talking, but I want both of you to listen to me for a few moments tonight. I have been trying to speak of this for several days, and if I don't tell you now the order may come when you are wholly unprepared. We are to be sent back to Petrograd as soon as a safe escort can be found for us."

"Sent back to Petrograd! Thank fate for even so much!" Barbara whispered under the cover. "Petrograd might be the beginning of a return journey to France."

Then she drew her chin up, endeavoring to appear deeply wounded.

"Do you mean, Mildred, that our services as Red Cross nurses are not considered valuable?" she demanded. "Why, only today one of the Russian surgeons declared that it was difficult to decide which one of us did the best work. Of course, I think Mildred at present deserves the prize, Nona has been off duty so long in taking care of Sonya Valesky."

Mildred Thornton glanced from one girl's face to the other. In spite of Barbara's effort to conceal her pleasure, it was evident that she was secretly rejoicing. But Mildred understood Barbara's position; it was natural that she should feel as she did under the circumstances. Then Barbara had never put forth any claims to being a martyr.

What really surprised Mildred Thornton was Nona Davis' expression of relief, almost of pleasure, at her news.

Why, Nona had been more enthusiastic than any one of them over the Red Cross nursing in Russia! She it was who had originally planned their coming into Russia and had been most deeply interested since their arrival.

"But why are we to be sent back to Petrograd?" Nona also demanded, frowning a little in her effort to grasp the situation. "What reason was given; have we failed in any duty or service since our arrival at Grovno?" Nona went on, sitting up, while two spots of color appeared in her cheeks. "Please, Mildred, don't be mysterious. Tell us where you received your information and why we are to be sent away so ignominiously?"

Mildred Thornton shook her head in quiet reproach. She was not so impatient nor so unreasonable as the other two girls.

"I am waiting to tell you," she returned. "The other afternoon I was sitting alone in the little Russian church when General Dmitri Alexis came in. On leaving he chanced to discover me and asked me to walk with him for a few moments. You know I told you I had met him the day he came into my hospital ward to decorate the dying soldier?" Mildred added.

This time her companions only nodded, not wishing to interrupt.

"Well, it was General Alexis himself who said that he wished us to go back to Petrograd. It was not that he felt the fortress at Grovno would not be able to hold out against the German attacks, but that a soldier should be prepared for any emergency. In case Grovno should fall, or General Alexis decide it wiser to retreat and join another portion of Grand Duke Nicholas' army, he does not wish us at Grovno. He says that the Russian Red Cross nurses have the right to remain with their own soldiers, but that we are Americans and with us the circumstances are different. He does not intend that harm shall befall us. So I am afraid we have no choice in the matter. As soon as the order comes from General Alexis we must be ready to leave at once. One can scarcely dare disobey the commander in chief," Mildred concluded, with regret in her tones.

"Certainly not," Barbara added with emphasis.

Then for another moment Nona Davis continued gazing thoughtfully at Mildred.

"I suppose I ought to tell you, Mildred, you and Barbara both, that I am not sorry we are to go to Petrograd; indeed, I am truly glad. Because I had intended to try to get permission to return there alone. You know I told you of Sonya's arrest, but I did not tell you that I intend to do all that I possibly can to befriend her. She seems to have no one who cares what becomes of her so far as I can find out, except her two old servants, Katja and Nika. I may not be able to do much, but I have written Eugenia, asking her to lend me some money and to forward it to the American Ambassador at Petrograd as soon as possible. I would like to leave almost at once. You see, I don't know what has become of Sonya, nor when her trial may take place."

"And for my part I hope you may never know," Barbara protested, sitting up with her cheeks suddenly crimson and her hair much tousled.

"See here, girls, I know neither of you think much of my advice, and very probably you don't consider me especially brave. I'm not disputing the last point. But I am more sensible than either of you and I can see both sides of a situation better. Mildred is an idealist, and Nona, you are a dreamer. You think you are not, but I expect you have more of your mother's blood in you than you realize. I am desperately sorry for Sonya Valesky. I think she is an exquisite and much-wronged woman with the courage and devotion necessary to a martyr. But I don't see that you are particularly fitted to follow her example, Nona. That is all that would happen if you attempt to mix yourself up with Sonya Valesky's political fortunes in Petrograd. You have no important friends and could do absolutely nothing for her, but you might manage to get yourself and us, because we care for you, into a great deal of hot water."

Mildred began to undress.

"I think Bab is right, Nona, though I understand just how you feel. It does seem too cruel to desert a friend in a time of such extremity. When we get to Petrograd perhaps we can talk Sonya Valesky's case over with our Ambassador and he may help us with his advice. Let's get to sleep now; we can judge more wisely in the morning."

It was too cold for a leisurely disrobing, so in a very short time the three girls were ready for the night. Soon after they were asleep.

For many hours, lasting all through the darkness, the fortress at Grovno appeared wrapped in a profound silence. This in spite of the presence of many thousands of men without and within its gates. Now and then there may have been the faint noise of a sentry changing his watch, or a scout arriving with a report for headquarters.

It was just at dawn when the German attack began. But the Russian general had been warned and was awaiting it.

Never in all the grim history of war was there ever a more sudden or more terrific cannonading.

The three American girls were at first stunned by the unexpected noises of the explosions. Shell after shell shrieked over the walls of the fortress, cannon after cannon repeated an unceasing bombardment.

Neither were the Russian guns slow in replying. Except for the location of the sounds it was impossible to tell which were the Russian cannon and which those of the enemy.

For some time no one of the three American girls attempted to speak. It would have been impossible to have heard one another. But by and by Barbara crawled out of her cot and put her arm about Mildred Thornton.

"I am frightened, Mildred. I wish your General's order had come sooner and we were safely away from Grovno. I think perhaps because of Dick I don't want anything dreadful to happen. I want to be happy."

There was a sob in Barbara's voice which Mildred heard, if not with her ears, at least with her heart.

"It is going to be all right, little sister," she returned. "I can't explain exactly why, but I have perfect faith in General Alexis."



Chapter X

Mildred's Opportunity


For five days and nights the firing continued almost without cessation.

In a measure the occupants of the Russian fortress grew accustomed to the noises, unless one explosion seemed a little more terrific than the others.

Actually the Red Cross nurses went about their work inside the hospital wing of the fort as though the Germans were not attacking.

There was one fact, however, that could not be overlooked: more and more wounded were constantly being brought in, until not only the cots but most of the floor space of the wards were covered with stricken soldiers.

There was no definite news. No one could say whether the Germans had been seriously depleted by the Russian gun fire, or whether the Grovno fort would be able to continue its resistance. A few of the outer defenses had already fallen. The Russian soldiers in the trenches behind the first line of barricades had sought safety inside the fortress. But these signs meant nothing of moment, and no one dared ask questions of the Russian officers, who alone might know the purpose of their commander.

Then on the morning of the seventh day, at dawn, Mildred Thornton, who chanced to be gazing out of a small window which overlooked the courtyard of the fort, made a discovery.

She had not been asleep all night, as there was so much work to be done, but on the way to her room had stopped for a single breath of fresh air, after the fever and confusion of the hospital.

What she saw were enormous cannon being lifted on low motor trucks and these trucks being driven as swiftly as possible outside the Grovno gate and along the Russian highway. There were a few soldiers accompanying them.

Almost with the flash of an intuition the idea came to Mildred: General Alexis was contemplating a retreat. He must have decided that, alone and with only a limited number of regiments at his command, he would be unable to hold out against the enemy for an unlimited time. Therefore it might be wiser to draw them further into Russia and away from their own supplies. General Alexis could join Grand Duke Nicholas beyond the Styr River and there be better prepared to meet the invaders. Mildred knew that the country on the other side of the river covered miles of swamps. If the bridges over the river were destroyed, the Germans would find great difficulty in pursuit.

Therefore the cannon and other heavy guns, with whatever munitions could be spared, were first to be taken to places of safety. Later on General Alexis would probably give orders for a more general retreat. But when Grovno fell the Germans would find none of the spoils of war left behind for the victors.

All this Mildred thought out slowly and carefully as she stood for a few moments beside the tiny window. Then she went into her room, changed her uniform for a fresher one and returned to her work. Not a word of her idea did she breathe to any one. She had no foundation for her impression, and at first it was an impression, nothing more. Yet Barbara or Nona might have been frightened by the suggestion.

However, as the dawn passed and the hours of the day followed, other persons beside Mildred Thornton began dimly to appreciate the possible conditions. More and more of the munitions of war were hauled away, and surely this did not look as if the fight were to be persisted in at Grovno.

Finally, just before twilight the order came that the wounded, with their nurses and surgeons, were to be moved at nightfall. Whatever preparations were necessary must be made at once.

Silently small groups of soldiers were already being marched away.

Oh, of course the old guns of the famous fortress continued to belch forth destruction, and there was no lessening of the front ranks of soldiers, who were directly attacking the enemy. General Alexis was merely drawing off the men whom he did not actually need for defense. Grovno could be protected by a comparatively small number of soldiers without the enemy appreciating any depreciation in their numbers. For all the firing was done behind a barricade of walls. So far the Germans were about a mile away. There would be no hand-to-hand combats until the fortress was finally demolished.

Even under such dangerous conditions the American Red Cross girls were relieved to hear that they were to be sent from Grovno. They were also told that they were not to follow the army. As soon as they reached a railroad, the wounded and their nurses were to be removed to Petrograd. There they would find hospitals ready for their accommodation.

So it was to be Petrograd after all! The three girls were not seriously frightened; indeed, they were less so than at the time of the French retreat. It was so evident that General Alexis was providing for the safety of the wounded before the danger time. They would find all the roads open to them now, while the Germans were being held on the farther side of the ancient stone walls.

Just after dusk the hospital staff and their patients were ready for departure. Parties of ten, consisting of seven wounded soldiers, two nurses and a physician, gathered quietly in the stone courtyard enclosed by the wings of the fortress. They were then placed in low carts, drawn by gaunt horses and driven by a Russian moujik, wearing a long blouse, high boots and a cap with the peculiar Russian peak.

There were no such facilities for transportation in Russia as the American Red Cross girls had found in France. The motor cars and ambulances owned by the Russian army were few in number and inadequate to their needs. These could only be employed in cases where swiftness was a pressing necessity.

The three American girls were standing together just outside a stone doorway leading into the yard and awaiting orders. As a matter of course they wore their Red Cross uniforms: the long circular cape and the small close-fitting bonnet. But Barbara had also put on nearly everything else she possessed. They would be traveling all night under extremely uncomfortable conditions and through a bitterly cold country. In fact, Barbara looked rather like a little "Mother Bunch" with her squirrel fur coat on top of her sweater and her cape over them both, and carrying her army blanket.

Mildred was also prepared for the cold with a heavy coat under her uniform cape. Unfortunately, Nona owned nothing to make her more comfortable, except that Mildred had insisted upon lending her her sweater. But both girls had their blankets over their arms and small bags in their hands. There would be no room for other luggage.

"We are going to have a wonderful night, I think," Barbara murmured. "Of course it will be hard and we may have to suffer discomfort and see others suffering far worse things. But a retreat through this strange country, with its odd inhabitants, as unlike as if they belonged in different planets, will be an experience none of us will ever wish to forget."

It was curious that Barbara should almost whisper her little speech, as if her voice could be heard above the uproar of the cannonading. Yet in the pauses between the firing lasting a few moments the silence seemed almost unearthly.

At present there was just such a silence, so that the American girls could even hear the creaking of the old wagon wheels as the ambulance carts rolled out of the fortress yard. Now and then there was a faint groan from a wounded man that could not be repressed. The wagons had no springs, but were made as comfortable as possible by layers of hay covering the wagon floors.

Almost the moment that Barbara's speech was finished, some one suddenly stepped out of the door, near which the three girls were standing. Looking up they discovered a colonel in the Russian army, on the personal staff of General Alexis. No one of the three girls knew the officer's name; his rank they recognized from the uniform he wore. Moreover, they had observed him always accompanying the Russian commander as one of his chief aides.

His appearance in the courtyard at this moment was surprising, but in all probability he wished to issue a direct order concerning the plan of retreat.

Yet the officer did not at once move forward to where groups of soldiers were also making preparations to be on the march. Instead he stood for a few moments just outside the door, gazing searchingly about him.

No one of the Red Cross girls spoke. They were too awed by the gravity of the situation to make trivial remarks. Moreover, the big Russian officer was an impressive figure. It was more interesting to watch him until they were summoned to take their places in the wagons that were now leaving the fortress at intervals of about ten minutes apart.

By chance Mildred Thornton made a movement and immediately the Russian colonel directed his glance toward her. He stared at her for a moment in silence and then, stepping forward, touched her upon the arm.

"I should like to speak to you a moment alone, nurse," he announced in low tones, although Barbara and Nona both heard this part of his speech.

Instantly Mildred complied, and the girl and man moved a few feet away, where they could talk without being overheard.

Under the circumstances neither Barbara nor Nona had the temerity to follow them. But this did not mean that they were not both extraordinarily curious. At least they strained their ears as much as possible in order to try and catch a stray word spoken either by Mildred or her companion. But they heard nothing except the low murmur of the two voices, the officer asking questions and Mildred making replies.

"What on earth do you suppose he can be saying to Mill?" Barbara finally whispered.

Nona only shook her head. Any guessing would be a pure waste of energy, since Mildred would return in a few moments to explain.

She did come back almost immediately, but with her first words her friends realized that something unusual had occurred. Ordinarily Mildred was calm and self possessed. Now her voice shook and indeed she seemed to be shivering either from cold or excitement.

"I can't go with you to Petrograd, girls," she said quietly enough, however. "Listen, please, so I can make matters plain to you, for you may be ordered to leave at any moment. Barbara, I want you to write my father and mother and try and make them see I had no choice in this decision. But you must not speak of the circumstances to any one else. It would be dangerous for me and for us all if you betray this confidence. The officer who talked with me just then is Colonel Feodorovitch. He is very near General Alexis and tells me that General Alexis has been wounded. The wound is not considered serious and he refuses to give up his command or to leave the fort until the final moment for retreat. Neither must his soldiers learn of what has taken place. His own surgeon is with him now and will remain with him. But there is a chance that they will also require a nurse. Colonel Feodorovitch came to find one before we all got away. By accident he saw me first and requested me to remain behind. I could not refuse."

"Mildred!" Nona and Barbara exclaimed in unison, with no attempt to conceal their dismay, almost their horror.

"But you can't accept, Mildred," Barbara expostulated. "If you do I shall not leave you. Why, what would your mother and father and Dick think of my deserting you at such a time? Besides, don't you remember that General Alexis himself wanted us safe in Petrograd before the retreat. He would be bitterly opposed to your being chosen to remain behind. Didn't you speak of this to Colonel Feodorovitch?"

"I couldn't, Barbara," Mildred insisted. "It would have been such a long story and Colonel Feodorovitch knows about as much English as I do Russian. It would only have looked as though I were shirking a most important duty. General Alexis will not recall ever having thought or spoken to me, at a time when the Russian army, perhaps the whole Russian nation, is dependent on his failure or success. If I can do even the least thing to help him at such a crisis, why, how could I refuse? Please try and see this as I do, Barbara, you and Nona. There may be nothing for me to do. General Alexis' wound is not serious or he could not retain his command. I must leave you now; I am wanted at once. I'll join you in Petrograd as soon as it is humanly possible."

But Barbara had clutched Mildred's coat.

"You shall not stay alone. I am almost your sister and I won't allow it."

Quietly Mildred unclasped the younger girl's hand.

"For my own sake I would give a great deal to have you stay, Bab, but we have no choice. Remember, we are under discipline like soldiers. We must do as we are commanded."

With this Mildred returned inside the fortress.

At the same instant Nona Davis and Barbara Meade heard their names being called. At once they moved forward and were assisted inside the wagon, which soon after passed out of the gate and moved creakingly along the main road in the direction of the Styr River.

They were to cross one of its bridges, as the main army was now doing. The last of the regiments at Grovno would see that the bridges were destroyed before the German soldiers could come up to them.



Chapter XI

A Russian Retreat


For many hours the ambulance wagon in which Nona and Barbara were riding jogged on, forming one of a procession of similar wagons.

The girls grew cold and cramped. Now and then they tried to move in order to make their patients more comfortable or at least to give water to the wounded men. But the wagons were so crowded that the slightest stirring was well nigh impossible.

Nevertheless, as Barbara Meade had predicted, the long night was one neither she nor Nona would ever be willing to forget.

At first they rode along, passing the wooden huts of the peasants that once had lined both sides of the main road leading to the middle bridge across the river Styr. But many of these shacks had suffered from the stray shells of the Germans, which, having passed beyond the fortress, had brought desolation to the country side. These little wooden houses in many places were mere heaps of burnt-out ashes. Others were half burned, or else collapsed, as if they had been houses built by children, who had afterwards kicked them down.

Everywhere, from the little homes that were unhurt, as well as from the ruined ones, the peasants were fleeing. With the passing of the first Russian regiment away from Grovno they had guessed what must inevitably follow.

There were bent-over old women and men carrying packs on their backs like beasts of burden, and in truth the Russian peasant has been nothing more for many centuries. The children, who ran along beside them, were incredibly thin and dirty and hungry.

One member of each little group would carry a lighted pine torch, pointing the way with fitful shadows. But wherever it was possible they followed in the wake of the wagons.

At first the night was dark and the American girls could hear their driver muttering strange Russian imprecations as his horses stumbled and felt their way along. Finally Barbara presented him with the electric lamp, which had been Dick Thornton's farewell present to her on the day of her sailing from New York City. She had used it many times since then, but never for a queerer purpose.

However, before they reached the river the moon had risen and both Nona and Barbara were grateful for the added light. Yet the scene they next witnessed was lighted by many camp fires.

The Russian infantry, who had been first to begin the retreat from Grovno, had camped on this side the river for a few hours rest.

A confused murmur of sounds arose. In little knots before the fires men squatted on their knees in Oriental fashion, waiting for the copper pots to boil. For at all hours of the day and night the Russian drinks tea, now more than ever, since by command of the Czar the soldier is forbidden to touch alcohol.

The girls could observe that the men had curiously unlike faces. It was difficult to understand how they could all be Russians. Never before had they seen so many of the soldiers at one time. Some of them had flat faces and high cheek bones, with eyes like the Chinese.

It was very strange! Yet Nona whispered that they must remember some of these Russian soldiers had come from Asia, from beyond the Caspian Sea. Perhaps their ancestors had been members of the great Mongolian horde that had once invaded Europe under Genghis Khan.

In their interest Nona and Barbara began discussing the possible history of these soldiers aloud. By and by, one of the wounded men, who chanced to be a Russian university graduate, smiled to himself over the interest and excitement of the two American nurses. He had been suffering intensely from the jolting and was glad for anything that would distract his mind from his suffering.

"The soldiers you are discussing are called 'Turcomen,'" he remarked aloud.

Nona and Barbara were startled by the voice out of the darkness, but they murmured confused thanks.

"Perhaps we had best not discuss our surroundings so openly," Nona suggested, and Barbara agreed with a silent motion of her head.

By this time they had reached the central bridge. It was built of steel and stretched like a long line of silver across the dark river.

Over the bridge, like enormous over-burdened ants, the American girls could see other ambulance wagons moving slowly on. For the horses had become weary of their heavy loads and yet were to have no rest of any length until daylight.

On the farther side of the river there were other small encampments. But by and by Barbara Meade fell asleep with her head pressed against Nona's shoulder.

Occasionally Nona drowsed, but not often. She was torn between two worries. What would become of Mildred Thornton, left behind with strangers in a besieged fortress that might fall at any hour? Surely her situation was more fraught with danger than any in which the Red Cross girls had found themselves since their arrival in Europe.

Nona wished that she had taken sides with Barbara more decisively and refused to leave Grovno unless Mildred accompanied them.

But Mildred had disappeared so quickly. Then the order had come for their departure almost at the same instant. There had been so little time to protest or even to think what was best. Certainly Mildred herself should have refused to accept such a dangerous responsibility. But at the same moment that Nona condemned her friend, she realized that she would have done exactly the same thing in her place. In coming to assist with the Red Cross nursing they had promised to put the thought of duty first. Mildred could not shirk the most important task that had yet been asked of her.

Perhaps no harm would befall her. Certainly Nona appreciated that everything possible would be done to insure Mildred's safety. Her life and honor would be the first charge of the soldiers surrounding her. Moreover, General Alexis would certainly leave the fortress before there was a chance of his being taken prisoner. He was too valuable a commander to have his services lost and the Germans would regard him as too important a capture.

So Nona's attention wandered from Mildred to her other friend, Sonya Valesky. What had become of Sonya and how was she ever to find her in the great and unknown city of Petrograd? If she only had a friend to consult, but she had even been compelled to leave Grovno without seeing Lieutenant Orlaff again. He had promised to write a few letters in Sonya's behalf, although assured that they would do no good.

Yet in some way Nona was determined to discover the Russian woman. Perhaps the Czar himself might be brought to pardon Sonya if he heard that she would leave for the United States and never return to Russia again. Then Nona smiled and sighed at the same time over her own simplicity. The Czar was at the head of his troops, with the fate of his crown and his country at stake. "What did one woman more or less count in times like these?"

Before daylight Nona must have also slept, because she was finally awakened by the stopping of their ambulance wagon.

When she opened her eyes she was surprised to see a rose flush in the sky and to hear the slow puffing of an engine.

The wagons had arrived at a small railroad station, connecting with the main road leading into Petrograd.

Word of the approach of the ambulances must have been sent ahead, for a train of more than a dozen coaches was even now in waiting.

As quickly as possible Nona and Barbara crawled out of their wagon, stamping their feet on the frozen ground and waving their arms in order to start their circulation. Then they began to assist in transferring the wounded soldiers from the wagons to the cars. The men were wonderfully patient and plucky, for they must have suffered tortures. They had first to be lifted on to an ambulance cot and then transferred to another cot inside the train. A few of the soldiers fainted and for them Nona and Barbara were relieved. At least they were spared the added pain.

Yet by and by, when the long line of cars started for Petrograd, the occupants of the coaches were amazingly cheerful. Tea and bread had been served all of the travelers and cigarettes given to the men.

Some of the soldiers sang, others told jokes, those who were most dangerously ill only lay still and smiled. They were on their way to Petrograd! This meant home and friends to some of them. To others it meant only the name of their greatest city and the palace of their Czar. But to all of them Petrograd promised comfort and quiet, away from the horrible, deafening noises of exploding bullets and shells.

Naturally Nona and Barbara were affected by the greater cheerfulness about them.

"If only Mildred were with us, how relieved I would be. Really, I don't know how we are to bear the suspense of not knowing what has become of her," Barbara said not once, but a dozen times in the course of the day.

But night brought them into the famous Russian capital.



Chapter XII

Petrograd


On their arrival Barbara and Nona went with the wounded soldiers to a Red Cross hospital in Petrograd.

There, to her consternation, a few days later Nona Davis became ill. The illness was only an attack of malarial fever, which Nona had been subject to ever since her childhood; nevertheless, the disease had never chosen a more unpropitious time for its reappearance.

For a few days she seemed dangerously ill, then her convalescence left her weak and exhausted. She was totally unfit for work and only a burden instead of an aid to the hospital staff.

Poor Barbara had a busy, unhappy time of it. She did her best to look after Nona in spare moments from her regular nursing, and she also tried not to lose courage when no word came from Mildred. Neither from newspapers nor inquiries in all possible directions could she even learn whether Grovno had fallen.

She was unable to read the newspapers for herself and so was compelled to wait until one of the other nurses could find time to laboriously translate the information into English.

Evidently at the present time the Russian papers did not desire the Russian people to learn the fate of the fortress and its commander. For all news on the subject was carefully withheld.

Under the strain Barbara might have broken down herself except for a piece of good fortune that at length came to Nona and to her.

An American woman, married to a Russian, the Countess Sergius, learning of the presence of the two American Red Cross nurses in the Russian hospital, called at once to see if she could do anything for their comfort. Discovering Nona ill and Barbara on the verge of a breakdown, the American woman insisted that the girls be her guests. They were not able to be of special assistance at the hospital under the present circumstances, while a week or so of rest and change might do wonders for them both.

In answer to Nona's protest that she was not well enough to be an agreeable visitor and could not bear the ordeal of meeting strangers, the older woman announced that the girls could live as quietly as they liked. She would let them have a private apartment in her house and they need see no one except the servants who would look after them.

As the American Countess was undoubtedly extremely wealthy and most anxious to be of service, Barbara and Nona gratefully accepted her invitation. So about ten days after their arrival in Petrograd they were living in one of the handsomest houses along the famous Nevski Prospect. This is the Fifth Avenue of Petrograd, a wide avenue three miles in length. Nothing is small in Russia or in the Russian people.

The girls were delightfully comfortable. One-half the third floor of the great house had been given up to them, consisting of two bedrooms, a bath, and a sitting room where their meals were served.

Indeed, the girls soon discovered that although the Countess meant to be hospitable and kind, she was sincerely glad that they wished to be left alone. She was an extremely busy woman, one of the important hostesses of Petrograd in times of peace. But now, like most society women in the allied countries, she was devoting all her energies to relief work. There were charity bazaars and concerts and Russian ballet performances, for the benefit of the soldiers, that must be managed day and night.

After three days of luxury and idleness Nona Davis felt strong again.

Perhaps more than the other Red Cross girls she deserved credit for her devotion to her nursing. For Nona had the southern temperament which loves beauty and ease, and there were times in her life when she had deliberately to shut her eyes to these enticements.

But now, with the thought of Sonya Valesky ever on her mind, she could not allow herself to relax an hour longer than necessary.

Contrary to Barbara Meade's judgment, Nona decided to ask the advice of their hostess as to how she should begin the search for her Russian friend.

Instantly the American woman became less cordial. But when Nona had told as much of the other woman's story as she dared, the Countess frankly discussed the situation with her.

If Nona would be guided by an older woman she would give up the quest for Sonya Valesky. Certainly Sonya's fate was an unhappy one, but she was wholly responsible for it herself. If she had been content to take life as she found it she would now have been occupying a brilliant position.

The Countess evidently had no use for reformers or persons who break away from recognized conditions. She confessed to Nona that her own position in Russian society had been difficult to attain. Not for worlds would she be suspected of having anything to do with a Socialist, or an Anarchist, or whatever dreadful character Nona's friend might be! The Countess was perfectly polite, but Nona thoroughly understood that if she insisted upon discovering the unfortunate Sonya, her presence as a guest in the Countess' home would no longer be desired.

Since there was nothing else to do, Nona decided that she must wait until help came from some unexpected direction. She had no idea of giving up the search for Sonya. But in the meantime she could enjoy a brief rest and see Petrograd.

In the winter time Petrograd is the most beautifully quiet city in the world. And now in war times it was scarcely less so, for the ground was covered with many inches of snow. There was a muffled sound even to the tread of the soldiers' feet, marching through the frozen streets. Neither was there a single wagon or carriage to be heard, since everybody went about in sleighs and everything was hauled in the same way. But now, because all the best horses were at the front, one often saw great oxen drawing sledges through the once gay and fashionable city.

The Countess Sergius had retained only a single pair of horses for her own use and that of her big household, nevertheless, she now and then loaned her sleigh for an afternoon to her two American girl guests.

Sight-seeing was the only amusement which kept Nona and Barbara from a morbid dwelling on their worries. Barbara had written to Judge and Mrs. Thornton in the way that Mildred had directed. But she could not feel that either of Mildred's parents would feel any the less wretched and uneasy because their daughter believed that she was only "doing her duty." Since the original letter Barbara had never been able to write them again. What could she say, except that no word of any kind had since been received from Mildred? There would be small consolation in this news, and of course Barbara wrote Dick every few days.

One afternoon Barbara and Nona left the Countess' house at about three o'clock and drove down the entire length of the Nevski Prospect toward the Winter Palace of the Czar.

There were scudding gray clouds overhead and a light snow falling.

No one could have failed to be interested. The Russian streets are ordinarily paved with sharp-edged stones, but the ice made them smooth as glass. Over the windows of the shops the girls could see painted pictures of what the shopkeepers had to sell inside. This is common in Russia, since so many of her poorer people are unable to read.

Most of the buildings in Petrograd are of stucco, and indeed, except for her churches and a few other buildings, the Russian capital resembles a poor imitation of Paris. Peter the Great, who constructed the city upon the swamp lands surrounding the river Neva, was determined to force Russia into the western world instead of the east. For this reason he brought all his artists from France and Italy, so that he might model his new city upon their older ones.

The Winter Palace itself the girls discovered to be a Renaissance building, with one side facing the river and the other a broad square. Their sleigh stopped by the tall monolith column commemorating Alexander the First, which stands almost directly in front of the Palace. Leading from the Palace to the Hermitage, once the palace of the great Catherine, is a covered archway.

The Hermitage is one of the greatest art museums in the world and contains one of the finest collections of paintings in Europe. Although the two Red Cross girls had now been in Petrograd several weeks, neither of them had yet been inside the famous gallery.

"Suppose we go in now and see the pictures," Barbara proposed. "We might as well take advantage of our opportunities, even if we are miserable," she added with the characteristic wrinkling of her small nose. "Besides, I'm frozen, and you must be more so, Nona. How I have adored my squirrel coat and cap ever since we came to this arctic zone! Thank fortune, our Countess has loaned you some furs, Nona! Do you know, I really am not so surprised that your mother was a Russian noble woman. You look like my idea of a Russian princess, with your pale gold hair showing against that brown fur. Who knows, maybe you'll turn into a Russian princess some day! But shall I tell our driver to stop?"

Nona Davis shook her head, smiling and yet rather pathetic, in spite of her lovely appearance in borrowed finery.

"I don't want to be a Russian princess, Bab, or a Russian anything, I am afraid, in spite of my heritage. I think it a good deal nicer to be engaged to an American like Dick Thornton. If you don't mind, let's don't try to see the pictures today. I am tired and we ought to be fresh for such an experience. If you are cold, suppose we go back into the center of the town and walk about for a while. Then we can send the sleigh home to the Countess. I don't feel that we should keep it for our use the entire afternoon, and if we stop to look at the pictures it would take the rest of the day. There are some queer side streets that join the Nevski Prospect I should like to see."

The Countess Sergius lived about two miles away from the Winter Palace. When the girls were within a quarter of a mile of the house where they were guests, they finally got out of the sleigh. Their driver was an old man with a long beard and not the character of servant the American Countess would have employed under ordinary conditions. But her former young men servants were in the army, and like other wealthy families in Russia at this time, she was glad to employ any one possible.

However, Nona undertook to make the man understand that they would not need his services again that afternoon. She had more of a gift for languages than the western girl and her knowledge of French was always useful. So after a little hesitation, the big sleigh at last drove away. And actually for the first time since their arrival in Petrograd Nona and Barbara found themselves alone in the Russian streets.

There could be no danger of getting lost, for they had only to come to this central thoroughfare and the Countess' house lay straight ahead.

So the two girls turned into the side street that lay nearest them.

After a five minutes walk they found themselves in another world.

On the Nevski Prospect they were in Europe; here they were in Asia.

It was curious, but even the smells were different. These were Asiatic odors, if the girls had only known, queer smells of musk and attar of roses and other less pleasant things.

The Russian women and children were crowding the narrow streets, while inside the little shops the wares were displayed on big tables. In the summer time these goods were sold on open stalls in the streets.

"Let us go into one of the shops and buy a few trinkets," Barbara suggested. "I would like to own one of those embroidered Russian aprons."

Then she stopped, her attention caught, as Nona's had been, by a sudden rustling in the air above them. A moment later a flock of gray and white pigeons was crowding about their feet. These also were the pigeons that haunt the thoroughfares of the east.

Personally Nona Davis would have preferred remaining outside in the fresh air. She was cold, but she objected to the squalid atmosphere of the interior of so many Russian houses. However, she could not refuse to agree to every request Barbara made of her all that afternoon.

A moment later and she was almost as interested as the younger girl in making purchases.

There were odd pieces of beautiful, gayly colored embroideries that, according to American ideas, appeared incredibly cheap. Then there were bits of Russian brass, that seemed to interest Barbara particularly, as it is probable that she had a sudden rush of the housekeeper's ardor. Here were interesting things that might be purchased for her own and Dick's apartment in New York almost for nothing!

Whatever the cause, Nona, after fifteen or twenty minutes, found her own pleasure cooling. Moreover, she had very little money to spend on frivolities, and so found a stool in a corner and sat down to wait for Barbara and to watch the crowd.

There were numbers of people in the shop, although few of them seemed to be making purchases. Now and then a big soldier, crowned by his peaked fur cap, would stalk proudly in to purchase a trinket, possibly for the girl of his heart. The Russians are ardent lovers, and as the soldier was only at home on a short leave, he had to make the best of his opportunity.

Most of the women who were not wearing furs had heavy shawls drawn over their heads and shoulders. Nona could not see their faces very well, and only received flitting impressions of dark eyes and large, heavy features, with almost always the curiously pale and yet sallow skin peculiar to the Russian peasant. It is only among the better classes that one finds other types.

Suddenly Nona gave a cry of alarm, which she quickly hushed. To her surprise some one had quietly come up back of her and laid a hand on her shoulder. It was one of these same peasant women, wearing a heavy, dark shawl.

She was trying to say something which Nona could not at once understand. Yet it was plain enough that the woman was imploring her to make no disturbance that would attract attention.

The next moment Nona had recognized the woman. It was old Katja, Sonya Valesky's servant, whom she had left with Nika in her little hut.

What had brought the old woman to Petrograd? In reality Nona knew without asking the question. It was Katja's devotion to Sonya.

The old woman was speaking a queer jumble of languages, Russian and the few words of English she had learned while the American girl was living in the same house.

What Nona finally learned was, that Katja was imploring her to meet her somewhere the next day, where they could talk without being observed.

Nona knew of no place except the one that was always open to rich and poor alike in Russia. And she had to think quickly. Yet the churches had always been their refuge ever since the arrival of the four Red Cross girls in Europe.

At the same moment Nona could only recall the most celebrated Russian church in Petrograd. She must lose no time, for even Barbara must not learn of her mission, and Barbara might turn and come back to join her at any moment.

"In the Cathedral of St. Isaac, toward the left and in the rear of the church at three o'clock tomorrow," Nona murmured. And Katja must have understood, for she went away at once.

It was just as well, because at almost the same moment Barbara returned to join Nona, her arms full of queer-shaped packages, and looking happier than she had since their arrival in the Russian city.



Chapter XIII

The Next Step


The following afternoon it seemed to Nona Davis that all Petrograd was a-glitter with onion-shaped domes. The Russian priests explained that these domes were really shaped like folded rosebuds, symbolizing the church on earth that was to blossom in heaven. But to see them in this fashion required a Russian imagination.

However, the effect was very beautiful, and Nona was glad to have her attention diverted, as she started out to find the Cathedral of St. Isaac. Some of the domes were of blue, set with stars to represent the canopy of the sky. But Nona knew that the central dome of St. Isaac's was an enormous copper ball covered with gold and that its radiance could be seen at a great distance.

She had had great difficulty in fulfilling her engagement with Katja. At first she had tried to deceive Barbara in regard to her intention, being fully determined to continue her search for Sonya until she had discovered her; nevertheless, it did not seem worth while to trouble Barbara while she had no actual information to go upon. But Barbara would not be deceived.

Nona suggested that she wished to walk for several hours and feared the younger girl might become fatigued. In reply Barbara assured her that there was nothing she herself so much desired as exercise, and as for growing tired, Nona would the sooner be worn out, since she was the one who had been ill.

Afterwards, while there were other excuses for her departure which Nona struggled to invent, all were equally useless. From the first Barbara had guessed her plan. Although she had seen nothing and knew nothing of Nona's meeting with Katja the day before, she had immediately guessed that Nona's desire for a solitary excursion was in some way connected with her effort to find Sonya Valesky. And this effort the younger girl continued to oppose.

So Nona had finally departed, leaving Barbara in tears over her obstinacy and foolhardiness. She was very unhappy, but what else was possible for her to do? Had Barbara been in the same need that Sonya now was, surely no one could have persuaded her to turn her back upon Barbara.

Katja was waiting and fortunately there were but a few other persons in the Cathedral at the same hour.

As quickly and as intelligently as she knew how, the old woman explained that Sonya was in a civil prison in Petrograd and was to be tried for treason within another week. Katja had not seen her child, but had received a few lines in reply to a dozen letters which a friend had written for her. Katja herself could neither read nor write.

Although Nona could speak only a few words of Russian, she had learned to read a little of the language with difficulty. Now she managed to translate her friend's ideas, if not her exact words.

Sonya did not wish Katja to try to see her nor to attempt to appear at the prison at the hour of her trial. Nothing could be done for her release and Katja would only be made the more miserable. Neither was Katja to let Nona know anything of her whereabouts until after sentence was passed. Then if Katja could find the American girl she was to say farewell for Sonya Valesky. She was also to thank Nona for her kindness and add that the acquaintance with her friend's daughter had brought Sonya much happiness.

Standing with the crumpled sheet of paper in her hand, written by the woman who so soon expected to say farewell to the things that make life worth living, Nona Davis felt her own cheeks flush and her eyes fill with tears. How little had she really deserved the Russian woman's affection, for how much she had distrusted her!

Well, Nona again determined to do all that was possible now to prove her allegiance.

As soon as she could get away from Katja, Nona secured a sleigh and drove at once to the house of the American Ambassador. Because her card represented her as an American Red Cross nurse she felt assured that she would be treated with every courtesy.

This was perfectly true, although obliged to wait half an hour; finally one of the secretaries of the Ambassador invited the American girl into a small office. She could not, of course, see the Ambassador without a special engagement, but the secretary would be pleased to do whatever was possible.

Nona was both pleased and relieved. The secretary proved to be a southerner, a young fellow from Georgia, who could not have been more than twenty-five years old. Certainly it was far easier to tell the story of Sonya Valesky to him than to an older man or to one whose time was more valuable.

Nevertheless, when she had finished, although there was no doubt of the secretary's attention and interest, Nona found him equally as discouraging as everybody else had been concerning Sonya Valesky's fate and any part which she might have hoped to play in it. There could be little doubt that Sonya would be condemned to Siberia. She was a political prisoner and would not be tried by a military court. Her offense was spoken of as sedition, or as an infringement of the "Defense of the Realm" act. For Sonya had been endeavoring to induce the Russian soldiers to join her peace societies rather than to fight for their country.

The young American secretary did his best to make the situation plain to Nona Davis. In England or France, under the same circumstances, Sonya Valesky might have escaped with only a short term of imprisonment or a fine. But this would not be true in Russia. Besides, it appeared that Sonya was an old offender and that her socialist ideas were well known. It would be impossible for the American Ambassador or any member of his staff to make the smallest effort in Sonya's behalf. Such an effort would represent an act of discourtesy on the part of the United States Government, as if she were attempting to interfere with Russia's treatment of her own subjects.

There was one thing only which the young secretary could undertake in Nona's cause. He would make an effort to have her allowed to visit her friend. If Sonya's trial was not to take place for a week, it was just possible that the American girl might be permitted to see her.

So Nona was compelled to go away with only this small consolation.

However, before leaving she secured the address of an American family in Petrograd who might be willing to take her as a boarder. For Nona realized that with her present plan she could not longer remain as a guest in the Countess' house.

Then Barbara had again to be reckoned with. It was early dusk when Nona Davis finally reached their apartment in the splendid Russian house. Barbara had just finished tea, but the tea things had not been sent away.

Because Nona was evidently so tired and discouraged the younger girl comforted her with tea and cakes before beginning to ask questions. Afterwards Barbara insisted upon being told the entire account of the afternoon's experiences. Nona must begin with her meeting with Katja, her interview in the Cathedral, then her visit to the house of the United States Ambassador and finally the description of the place where she had engaged board before returning to her temporary home.

Although Barbara was ordinarily much given to conversation and frequent interruptions of other people's anecdotes, she listened without comment until the other girl had finished.

"We are both too tired to pack up our few possessions tonight, Nona," she answered in conclusion; "but we can attend to them in the morning and then say good-by to the Countess."

Nona was lying upon a divan with her yellow head sunk among a number of brown cushions, but she got half way up at Barbara's words.

"But I don't expect you to leave here, Barbara dear, to go with me," she protested. "I didn't engage board for anyone else. The house where I am to stay is shabby and not especially comfortable. I wouldn't have you leave this lovely home for worlds! I am sorry, you may be a little lonely without me. But I am hoping we may hear from Mildred at almost any hour and then I'm sure the Countess would be only too happy to have her take my place here. I expect Mildred will be a distinguished character after having been chosen to nurse the great General Alexis."

"Don't talk nonsense," Barbara protested, in answer to the first part of her friend's speech. "Of course, I am not going to let you wander off and live in a strange family by yourself." Then Barbara sighed.

She was sitting on a small stool beside Nona's couch, resting her chin on her hand and looking very childish and homesick.

"Of course, I know you have to do whatever you can for Sonya Valesky, Nona," she agreed unexpectedly. "In your position I hope I would have the courage to behave in the same way. I have only made a fuss about things because I was worried for you, but I have always known you would not pay any attention to me. Nobody ever does."

Although Nona laughed and attempted to argue this point, Barbara remained unconvinced.

"Oh, well, possibly Dick or Eugenia can sometimes be persuaded into doing what I ask, but never you or Mildred," she concluded, and then sighed again. "If we could hear just a single word from Mildred!"

The next day the two girls moved to their new lodgings. Their hostess was gracious enough, but made no protest when Nona explained that she expected to be permitted to visit the Russian prisoner within the next few days.

The order to see Sonya came sooner than Nona expected. Indeed, the two girls had only been in their new quarters for about thirty-six hours when the young secretary from the embassy called upon them. With him he brought the permit from the Russian government.

Nona was to be allowed to visit the prison near the Troitska bridge on the following day and to spend ten minutes with her friend. She must understand that a guard would listen to whatever conversation was held. Also she must take with her nothing of any kind to present to Sonya Valesky. Their interview would be closely watched.

Naturally Barbara Meade insisted upon accompanying Nona. She knew, of course, that she would not be allowed to see the prisoner, nor had she the least wish to see her. But she could wait in some antechamber until the ten minutes passed and then bring Nona safely back to their lodging place. For certainly the experience ahead of her friend would be a painful one, and although Nona did her best to conceal her nervousness from the younger girl, Barbara again was not deluded.

When the two girls set out for the prison the next afternoon it would have been difficult to decide which one most dreaded the ordeal. But in truth the ordeal was in a way a mutual one. While she waited, doubtless Barbara's imagination would paint as tragic a scene as Nona might be obliged to go through with.

It seemed to Nona Davis, after leaving Barbara, that she walked down a mile or more of corridor. The corridor might have been an underground sewer, so dark and unwholesome were its sights and smells. It led past dozens of small iron doors with locks and chains fastened on the outside.

Finally Nona's guard paused before one of these doors and then opened it. Inside was an iron grating with bars placed at intervals of about six inches apart. The room it barricaded was six feet square and contained a bed and stool. There was one small window overhead, not much larger than a single pane of glass in an average old-fashioned window.

But the light from the window fell directly upon the head of the woman who was seated beneath it.

Sonya Valesky had not been told that she was to receive a visitor. So perhaps Nona did appear like a sudden vision of a Fra Angelico angel, standing unexpectedly in the dark corridor with her hair as golden as a shaft of sunlight.

Sonya only stared at the girl without speaking. But Nona saw that her friend's dark hair, which had been a little streaked with gray at their first meeting more than two years before, was now almost pure white. However, Sonya did not look particularly ill or unhappy; her blue eyes were still serene. Whatever faith in life she may have lost, she had not lost faith in the cause for which she must suffer.

"Don't you know me, Sonya?" Nona asked almost timidly, as if she were talking to a stranger.

Then the Russian woman came forward with all her former dignity and grace. She was wearing a black dress of some rough material, but it seemed to Nona Davis that she had never seen a more beautiful woman. Sonya was like a white lily found growing in some underground dungeon.

She put her hands through the bars and took hold of Nona's cold ones.

"This is wonderfully kind of you, Nona?" she said with the simplicity of manner that had always distinguished her. "I have wanted to know what had become of you and your friends. Somehow information sifts even inside a prison in war times, and I have learned that General Alexis gave up trying to hold Grovno. You are on your way back home, I trust."

Nona could scarcely reply. It seemed so strange that Sonya could be talking in such an everyday fashion, as if her visit were being made under ordinary circumstances. Not a word did she say of her own sorrow or the tragedy that lay ahead of her.

Nona could only fight back the tears. "We are returning to France as soon as Mildred Thornton joins us in Petrograd," she answered, and then explained that Mildred had stayed behind at Grovno.

"But isn't there anything I can do for you, Sonya?" Nona added. "I shall certainly not leave Petrograd until after your trial, and then if you are released you must come away with me."

The older woman only shook her head.

"I shall not be released, Nona, so don't make yourself unhappy with false hopes. This is not my first offense against the government of Russia. I have never believed in the things in which they believe, not since I was a little girl. I suppose I am a troublesome character. But after all, in going to Siberia I am only following the footsteps of greater men and women than I can hope to resemble."

Sonya let go Nona's hands and stepped back into her little room. From under her pillow she drew a small folded paper.

"In going to Siberia I forfeit all my estates, Nona," Sonya Valesky explained when she came back. "But I have a small amount of money in the United States, as well as in my own country. Perhaps the government may be willing to allow me to dispose of my property, although of course I can't tell. But I have made a will and had it witnessed here in the prison. If it is possible I want you to have half of the little I have left and Katja and Nika the rest. There would be no chance to leave it to the cause of peace in these days."

Nona received the little paper.

"You won't be in Siberia all your life, Sonya, that I won't believe," she protested. "Some day when this war is over the Czar will pardon you. Please remember that I shall never forget you and never stop trying to do what I can for your release. If I am allowed to have it, I will take care of your money until you are able to come to me."

Hearing a guttural noise behind her, Nona Davis now turned around. Her guard was signaling that the time allotted for her visit was over.

She was not able to kiss the older woman good-by, only to hold both her hands close for another moment and then to go away with her eyes so blinded with tears that she could not see. Yet she never forgot the picture that Sonya Valesky made when she had a final glance at her.

Four days later a few lines appeared in the Russian daily papers, stating that Sonya Valesky, a woman of noble birth, but at present a Russian nihilist, had been condemned to penal servitude in Siberia for life. She had been proved guilty of treason to the Imperial Government.



Chapter XIV

Mildred's Return


On the same afternoon that Nona and Barbara read the news of Sonya Valesky's sentence, Mildred Thornton came to Petrograd.

Her return was characteristic of Mildred.

It was a little past twilight and Nona and Barbara were in their shabby sitting room; they now shared the same bedroom in the new lodgings. Nona had been crying, and in order to try and make her forget, Barbara was reading aloud. She had received a package of books and magazines from Dick Thornton earlier in the day, but this was her first chance to look them over.

Although endeavoring to listen, in reality Nona's attention was only pretence. Her thoughts were with the Russian woman whose life had been so strangely associated with her own. It seemed to Nona that she had not realized how much she cared for Sonya Valesky until these last few weeks. She had become like an exquisite older sister whom she might possibly have had as a companion and friend. Never had Nona been more conscious of her own loneliness. It is true that she had been more or less lonely all her life, but this she had taken as a matter of course. Now in these last few hours she had suddenly been overwhelmed by the thought.

Apparently their work as Red Cross nurses in Europe was nearly over. At least, when Mildred finally joined them, the three girls intended returning to France to spend a little time with Madame Castaigne and Eugenia. Then Barbara and Mildred would doubtless go back to their homes in the United States. Barbara would be married in a short time and Mildred would not wish to remain longer away from her mother and father. But Nona had no home and no people to whom she might return.

The girl was glad at this moment that there were no lights in their sitting room save the two candles which were directly behind Barbara's book. She did not wish the younger girl to guess the extent of her depression.

Yet it was Nona who first heard the knock at their sitting room door. Quickly as possible she got up and walked forward to open it, not even attempting to smooth her hair or to wipe the traces of tears from her face. Barbara did not glance from the page of her book, both girls were so convinced that it was only the woman who usually brought them their dinner at this hour.

When Nona opened the door, Mildred took her by both shoulders and quietly kissed her.

"Mildred!" It was Nona's exclamation that finally aroused Barbara Meade. But even then, although Barbara rose to her feet, dropping her book on the floor, she did not move forward. She let Mildred come and put her arms around her and kiss her on both cheeks. Then Mildred stood still in the center of the room and smiled at her two friends.

"Won't either one of you say she is glad to see me?" she asked, with a mixture of gayety and wistfulness.

By this time Barbara and Nona were both embracing the newcomer at once, and at the same time attempting to remove her wraps. Under her nursing coat Mildred was wearing a long sable coat, suitable for a princess, but neither of the girls noticed it in the excitement of her arrival.

"Where did you come from? Oh, Mildred, what have you been doing all this time? I have nearly died of anxiety." Barbara protested. "Surely you could have gotten us some word, if only to say you were alive."

Mildred shook her head. "I couldn't, dear. I have come back to you the very first moment it was possible. But it is a long story. I can't tell you all at once. May I sit down?"

At last Nona and Barbara had the grace to observe that Mildred looked white and tired.

"I arrived in Petrograd about half an hour ago with General Alexis and his staff and the Russian maid who has been with us ever since we were left behind at Grovno," she explained, when her friends had thrust her unceremoniously into their only comfortable chair.

"I told General Alexis that I must find you at once, so we drove to the United States Embassy and they gave us your address. Then they left me here. I am dreadfully hungry; can't we have something to eat before I finish my story?"

"Certainly not," Barbara insisted, "or not until you have answered two or three more questions. For I am much more apt to die of curiosity than you are to perish of starvation. How long did you remain at Grovno, and did the Germans ever capture you? I suppose your general didn't die, if he escorted you to our humble door. But if he wasn't desperately ill, why did he have you stay so long in a position of such danger?" And Barbara ceased to ask more questions simply because her breath had given out.

At the same instant Nona signaled a warning glance. Mildred was almost fainting with exhaustion. In these last few weeks she must have passed through difficult experiences and naturally she could not tell them everything at once.

"Please go downstairs and ask that dinner be sent up, Barbara," Nona demanded. "And get soup or milk or something special; if not I'll make some beef tea for Mildred on the alcohol lamp. Mildred, suppose you put on my wrapper and lie down until after you have eaten, then we can talk as long as you have strength for."

And the girls did talk until nearly midnight in spite of Mildred's fatigue. She was perfectly well, only tired, she insisted, and greatly excited at seeing Nona and Barbara again.

She had passed through events in these past few weeks such as few women have ever known. But of course Mildred related what had taken place in a simple, almost matter of fact fashion. She was so little given to heroics, or to thinking of herself as a conspicuous personage.

"Yes, they had stayed on at Grovno until almost the hour when the Germans entered the old fortress. General Alexis had been wounded, but had not considered his wound serious and would not desert his post until he had finally accomplished his purpose. For the last hour virtually only six persons had kept the German army from entering the fortifications: General Alexis, Colonel Feodorovitch, two lieutenants and two private soldiers, although the Russian physician, who had remained with his commander, had turned soldier toward the last."

"But you don't mean that you continued inside the fort to the very end?" Barbara demanded almost angrily. "I suppose you were forgotten."

"I think I was at the last," Mildred returned. "You see, at first when General Alexis discovered that I was the Red Cross nurse who had been chosen to stay behind, he was angry and insisted that I leave at once. But by the time he learned of my presence, it was too late to find me an escort. Besides, the doctor did not wish me to go. There was a Russian woman, a kind of servant, who was also with us, and did the cooking, I believe, if we ever ate. Anyhow, she stayed with me and looked after me when she could, so that I was never actually alone."

"But Mildred," Nona asked, guessing at many details that her friend did not mention, "how did you finally get away at last? And have you come directly here from Grovno? Surely the fort did not hold out all these weeks."

"No, we have been away from Grovno nearly two weeks, I can't remember the exact passage of time very well," Mildred explained, lifting her hands to let down the long braids of her heavy flaxen hair, and allowing the hairpins to drop girl fashion, carelessly into her lap. She was wearing Nona's kimono, and it is always easier to talk confidentially with one's hair down, if one happens to have the mass that Mildred had. The very weight of it was oppressive when she was tired.

"Yes, it was terribly interesting toward the last," she went on, "although I don't believe even then we were in great danger. General Alexis is too wise to have permitted that. Everything was in readiness; all the plans were made days beforehand for our getting away. The different regiments of private soldiers with their officers continued to march away from Grovno, and so much ammunition was moved that I think almost no stores of any value were left. Then the moment finally came for our own retreat."

To Barbara's intense irritation, Mildred actually paused for an instant at this point in her story. But she continued almost immediately.

"There was an underground passage outside the fort, leading all the way to the river. The seven of us at last left the fort together. By this time General Alexis had almost to be carried, the pain from his wound had grown so intense. Then every once in a while, as we went on, one of the soldiers would place a bomb in such a position that it would explode after we had gone. In this way the underground passage was wrecked, so there never was any possibility of the Germans being able to follow us. When we reached the bridge over the river two motor cars were waiting for us. Colonel Feodorovitch, one of the lieutenants and the two private soldiers stayed to see that the last bridge over the Styr was blown up. The other five, General Alexis, his physician, and one officer and we two women started west in an effort to join the retreating regiments, who were to come up with a portion of the Grand Duke's army."

"Goodness, Mildred Thornton, what an experience you have been through!" Nona ejaculated. "Yet you talk as quietly as if it were almost an ordinary occurrence!"

Mildred shook her head. "It is not because I feel it an ordinary experience, Nona, but because so much has happened I am overpowered by the bigness of it. Really, when we got safely away from the fort, the battle, or at least my share in it, was only about to begin. We had gone a few miles into the country, when General Alexis became desperately ill. Unless he could have immediate attention his physician said there was no possible hope for his life."

Barbara had by this time slipped out of her chair and was sitting on the floor with her hands clasped over her knees, looking all eyes, and rocking herself slowly back and forward as a relief for her excitement.

"But you brought your general back with you, Mildred Thornton, or you said you did. How on earth did you manage about him?" she interrupted.

"That is just what I am going to tell you, because that explains where I have been and why I have not been able to let you hear from me. Our Russian doctor ordered our motor car stopped and we entered a Russian house some distance from any main road. We purposely chose a house that had been deserted, and there we have been for two weeks, struggling to save the life of General Alexis. Of course, his wound had been more serious than he would admit. The wonder is that he is still alive!"

"But he has recovered?" Barbara inquired with her usual unsatisfied curiosity. "Goodness, Mill, what a heroine you will be, to have nursed one of the most famous generals in the Allied armies and to have restored him to health. Won't your mother be charmed!"

Naturally Mildred smiled. The thought of her mother's pleasure in her distinction had occurred to her several times in the last two weeks.

"Oh, of course I am glad to have had the honor, Bab, because I too think General Alexis a great man. He is perhaps the simplest man I have ever known, except my father, and I like him very much. Only he has not recovered and I have not restored him to health. If General Alexis had recovered he would never have come to Petrograd, he would have rejoined his troops. But he was well enough to be moved and Petrograd seemed the safest place for him at present. Besides, I believe he wished to have an audience with the Czar."

Barbara again rocked back and forth. "You say 'Czar,' Mill, just as if you were speaking of an everyday person. Really, I believe you are the best bred girl I ever saw. Position, wealth, no distinctions seem to excite you. You just take people for exactly what they are," Barbara murmured, in reality speaking to herself.

But Nona overheard her. "You are quite right, Bab," she agreed. "Mildred does not know it, but she has taught me many a lesson on that subject since we came to Europe. It would be a nicer world if everybody thought and acted as Mildred does. But what has become of your general, Mill? Are you to go on nursing him or to see him again?"

"No, to the first question, Nona dear, and yes, to the second. Now I am so tired I simply must go to bed. I told the doctor and General Alexis that since he was better, I wanted to come to you. Besides, I was sure that here in Petrograd there would be so many cleverer nurses than I can ever hope to be. And I didn't want to stay at the Winter Palace with you girls here."

"You mean," Nona asked quietly, "that you were invited to be a guest at the Czar's own palace and you declined?"

Mildred clasped her hands behind her head. "Oh, I thought I told you. General Alexis is to be at the Winter Palace while he is in Petrograd. He is very close to the Czar, I believe. As his nurse, of course I was asked to stay there with him; he is to have his physician and his aides as well as his servants in attendance. There was nothing personal in my being permitted inside the Palace. Some other nurse will take my place."

"But the point is, Mildred Thornton, that you refused to stay under the same roof with the Czar of all the Russias. Never so long as you live will your mother forgive you."

The other girl flushed and laughed. "I hadn't thought of that, Bab dear. Please don't tell on me. But we are to be under the same roof with the Czar some day for a few moments, all of us. General Alexis said that he wished to have us presented to the Czar and Czarina, if it were possible to arrange. He seems to feel grateful to me for the little I was able to do. But please, Bab, don't say that I refused to continue to nurse General Alexis. I only asked that they get some one to take my place, who would be wiser."

"Did General Alexis agree to a new nurse for that reason, Mildred?" Barbara demanded in her driest manner.

But Mildred was too tired for further conversation.

"Oh, he was kind enough to say that I needed a rest more than he required my services. Am I to have a bed or the cot in this sitting room?"

"You may have them all, Mildred Thornton!" Barbara returned, getting up on her feet and then bowing until her forehead almost touched the floor.

"Any human being who is going to allow me to enter the presence of the Czar and Czarina, has got to be treated like royalty for the rest of her life."

Nevertheless, Barbara kissed Mildred good night. Mildred whispered, "Don't be a goose," and then at last was permitted to retire.



Chapter XV

The Winter Palace


The next day Nona found opportunity for confiding to Mildred the fate of Sonya Valesky. She found Mildred more deeply concerned than Barbara had been. This was true because Mildred had a different nature; it was easier for her to understand a temperament that would sacrifice everything to its dream, than for the more practical and sensible Barbara. Moreover, Barbara was so much in love these days that she found it difficult to give a great deal of thought to other people. She struggled against the tendency, but it is ever the vice of lovers.

Finally, on Thursday, Mildred Thornton received a note from General Alexis inviting her and her two friends to come that afternoon at four o'clock to the Winter Palace. And although the three girls were Americans, they understood that such an invitation was not in reality an invitation, but a command. For the Czar and Czarina had announced that they would be pleased to meet the three American Red Cross nurses.

The meeting was to be informal, as these were war times and there were no court levees. Indeed, the Czar was only staying for a brief time at his palace before going to take command of his own troops. Owing to the frequent Russian defeats in the past few months, the Czar had concluded that he must command his men in person in order to give them greater courage and steadfastness. The munitions of war, of which they had been sadly in need for several months, were now pouring in from Japan and the United States.

Of course, in the excitement and nervousness due to such an important and unexpected occasion, the three Red Cross girls had the same problem to settle that attacks all women at critical moments:

"What on earth should they wear to the presentation?"

Fortunately, under the circumstances there was but one answer to this question. They were invited to the Palace as Red Cross nurses, they must therefore wear their Red Cross uniforms. Since the three girls had almost nothing else left in their wardrobes, this was just as well. Constant moving from place to place, with little opportunity for transportation, had reduced their luggage to the most limited amounts.

Yet assuredly they were as handsome and far more dignified on the afternoon of their appearance at the Winter Palace in the costumes of American Red Cross nurses, than if they had been appareled in the court trains and feathers of more gala occasions.

Mildred always looked especially well in her uniform. She was less pretty than the other two girls. But for this very reason her dignity and the sense of serenity that her personality suggested showed to best advantage in the simple toilette of white with the Red Cross insignia on the arm. However, over her uniform Mildred wore the magnificent sable coat in which she had appeared at her friends' lodgings in Petrograd.

This afternoon, in spite of her excitement over what lay ahead of them, Barbara did not allow the coat to pass unnoticed a second time.

"For goodness' sake, Mildred, where did you get that magnificent garment?" she demanded, just as they were about to go downstairs to get into their sleigh. "You owned a very nice coat when we left you behind in Grovno, but some fairy wand must have changed it. This is the most wonderful sable I ever saw."

Mildred flushed and then laid her cheek against the beautiful, soft brown warmth of her furs. "It is time you and Nona were speaking of my grandeur," she declared. "You see, in getting away from the fort at the last I stupidly left my own furs behind; indeed, I don't know what became of them. General Alexis noticed that I was cold almost immediately. Somehow, after he began to get stronger, he managed to have this coat brought to the country house where we were staying. Then just before we started to Petrograd he presented it to me. Of course, I did not feel that I ought to accept it and insisted I could not. But General Alexis said that he had received so much kindness from me, he thought it very ungenerous of me to make him altogether my debtor. I didn't know what to do. Do you think it wrong to accept it, Bab? Somehow I did not know how to continue to refuse."

As Barbara was just going into her bedroom at this moment, she made no reply. Nona was more reassuring.

"Of course it was all right, Mildred, or at least I suppose it was if General Alexis insisted, and you had done a great deal for him."

Then Nona followed Barbara. Barbara was standing perfectly still in the center of the room and apparently thinking with all the concentration possible.

"I wonder if this General Alexis is more fond of Mildred than he would be of any nurse who might have cared for him?" Barbara murmured. Then she shook her head. "That was an absurd suggestion on my part and Mildred would not like it. I am sorry," she said.

At the door of the Winter Palace, after the girls had passed beyond the servants and the detectives who watch every human being permitted to approach their Imperial Majesties, the three American girls were ushered into a reception room. Except for the fact that there were more paintings on the walls, the room resembled other similar chambers now left on exhibition at Versailles or the Louvre in Paris.

However, the girls had little time for investigation, for almost at once General Alexis entered the room to greet them. He was accompanied by a lieutenant who was his aide. To Nona Davis' surprise, the young man proved to be Lieutenant Michael Orlaff, whom she had not seen since the afternoon when she had walked to the fortress with him and confided the news of Sonya Valesky's arrest.

After a few moments of general conversation a man servant, wearing an elaborate uniform, announced that General Alexis and his guests might walk into the Czar's private sitting room.

Naturally this was a very unusual proceeding, but war times had changed the manners of courts as well as other places. Moreover, General Alexis was a personal friend of the Czar's, so far as a Czar may ever have a friend. In any case, he was one of his most trusted generals. This reception to the American Red Cross girls was entirely due to the fact that General Alexis had declared Mildred Thornton's courage and devotion had saved his life. But of this she was not yet aware.

The Czar and Czarina were not decorating gilded thrones as one sees them in portraits or paints them in one's own imagination. Indeed, they were seated in chairs, but rose as any other host and hostess might when their guests came into the room. They were not alone, however, for beside the guards stationed outside their door, two of them kept always within a short distance of the Czar himself.

The Czarina was a beautiful woman, tall and dark, but looking infinitely sad. The girls could not but remember having heard how frequently she suffered from a melancholia so severe that it was almost akin to an unbalanced mind.

She now murmured a few words to the three girls and then reseated herself. Barbara hoped profoundly that the distinguished audience would soon be over. Of course, this meeting of the Czar and Czarina was perhaps the most extraordinary honor that had yet been paid to any American Red Cross nurses in Europe. But like other honors, it carried its discomfort. For Barbara had not the faintest idea what she should do or say, when she should stand up and when sit down. She had never imagined herself a large person before, but now she felt so awkward that she might have been a giant. Yet really there was but one thing for her to do: she must merely keep still and watch what was taking place.

Actually the Czar, Nicholas II, was talking pleasantly with Mildred Thornton, and Mildred was answering with her usual quiet dignity.

The Czar looked older than Barbara would have supposed from his pictures. But then the war may have aged him. His close-cropped brown beard with the tiny point was turning gray. And he had large, full and, Barbara thought, not particularly intelligent eyes.

At this moment he moved toward a small table and picked up what appeared like a medal.

Barbara eyed it curiously. She could not hear what the Czar was saying. But she saw Mildred turn suddenly white and appear to protest. Then the two men, General Alexis and the Czar, actually smiled at her. The next moment the Czar pinned a cross on Mildred's white dress.

Without realizing what she was doing, Barbara pressed closer until she stood in front of Nona and Lieutenant Orlaff. This time she distinctly heard the Czar say:

"I take pleasure in presenting you, Miss Thornton, with the Cross of St. George, which is only awarded for special bravery. Only one other woman has been presented with the Cross of St. George since the outbreak of this war. She is Madame Kokavtseva, a colonel of the Sixth Ural Cossack Regiment, who has twice been wounded while leading her men. She is called our 'Russian Joan of Arc.' But there is a courage as great as leading troops to battle. This valor, it seems to me, you showed in remaining to the last at the ancient fortress of Grovno to care for a great soldier who was not even your countryman. In my own name and in the name of my country, I wish to thank you for your service to General Alexis."

Then Barbara observed Mildred flush a beautiful, warm crimson, and stammer something in response. Almost immediately after they were again standing outside in the big antechamber.

Afterwards General Alexis and Lieutenant Orlaff and several of the palace servants showed the three girls over certain portions of the palace that could be exhibited to visitors. On the desk in the hall was an ikon, carefully preserved under glass, which was said to have been painted by St. Luke.

However, in spite of their honors, as soon as possible the three girls were glad to return to their lodgings. Yet Mildred promised that they would allow General Alexis to send his sleigh to them the following day. The great general looked haggard and worn, but appeared to be quickly recovering his strength. Indeed, Barbara afterwards assured Mildred that she considered him extremely good looking and not half so old as she had supposed.



Chapter XVI

The Unexpected Happens


One afternoon a short time after the visit to the Winter Palace, General Alexis and Lieutenant Orlaff came to the girls' lodgings to have a drive in the sleigh with them.

It was a cold, brilliant afternoon, and they were to undertake a more interesting excursion than usual. Nevertheless, Barbara Meade refused to go.

There were letters which she must write, she pleaded. However, this was not Barbara's real reason: that fact she kept in her own head. Both Mildred and Nona she assisted to get ready, insisting that they both dress as warmly as possible, no matter how stuffy they might feel before starting.

"You are both blondes and a blonde is never so homely as when she is cold," she added sententiously, "for her face is much more apt to get blue than red, except the end of her nose."

Mildred had purchased a lovely fur hat to match her sable coat. And in spite of her poverty Nona had been unable to resist a set of black fox. Furs were so much cheaper in Russia than in the United States that it really almost seemed one's duty to buy them.

When General Alexis' sleigh arrived, Barbara would not even go downstairs to see the others start. But she managed by pressing her nose against the window to observe that the arrangements for the drive were satisfactory.

The sleigh was a beautiful one, built of mahogany, and the pair of horses wore real silver mountings on their harness.

A driver, in the Imperial livery, sat upon the front seat with a man beside him, who acted as a private guard for General Alexis, although he wore citizen's clothes. There was far less danger of anarchy in Russia during war times; nevertheless, men in public positions in Russia were always watchful of trouble from fanatics.

Therefore, General Alexis and Mildred were together in the middle seat, while Nona and Lieutenant Orlaff occupied the one back of them.

Then the sleigh started off so quickly that it had disappeared before Barbara realized it. Afterwards, with feminine inconsistency, she turned back into their small sitting room, frowning and sighing.

"I do wish I had gone along, after all. There wasn't any place for me, except to sit either between Mildred and General Alexis, or Nona and her Russian lieutenant. Then nobody would have had a good time. Still, perhaps I should have stuck close to Mildred; she is almost my sister. And though Mrs. Thornton might be pleased, Judge Thornton and Dick would be wretched. Russia is so far away and so cold."

Then Barbara made no further explanation, even to herself, of her enigmatic state of mind, but fell to writing letters as she had planned. Some thought she devoted to what she should write Dick about his sister's friend, the distinguished Russian general. But whatever she planned sounded either too pointed or else had no point at all. So she merely closed her letter by explaining that the others had gone for a ride and that General Alexis appeared extremely grateful to Mildred for her care of him in his illness. She also mentioned that she personally liked the distinguished soldier very much and that he was not nearly so foreign as one might expect.

This was not a sensible statement, for General Alexis could scarcely have been more of a Russian than he was. A foreigner, of course, simply is an individual who belongs to another country than one's own. Presumably an American is equally a foreigner to a European. What Barbara actually meant was that General Alexis was not unlike the men to whom she had been accustomed in the United States. He had the courtesy and quiet dignity of the most distinguished of her own countrymen. There was nothing particularly oriental about him or his attitude to women. The truth is that Barbara did not appreciate the fact that General Alexis was too cosmopolitan to show many of the peculiarities of his race. He had seen too much of the world and studied and thought too deeply. Besides, he was a man of real gentleness and simplicity.

As Mildred rode beside him, she too was wondering why she felt so at ease with so great a person. Why, at home, in New York society, she had always been awkward and tongue-tied with the most ordinary young man worthy of no thought. Now she was telling General Alexis the entire story of Sonya Valesky as she might have told it to her own father. And she felt equally sure of his sympathy and understanding. General Alexis would, of course, have no political sympathy with Sonya's ideas. He was a soldier devoted to his Czar and his country, while in his opinion Sonya could only be regarded as mistaken and dangerous. But Mildred knew that he would be sorry for Sonya, the woman, and sorry for them as her friends.

So she described their original meeting on board the "Philadelphia," and the suspicion, then wrongfully directed against Sonya, who was at that time using the name of Lady Dorian. Afterwards she told of Sonya's appearance at the Sacred Heart Hospital and her work there. Last of all, of their unexpected coming together in Russia and of the peculiar bond between Nona Davis and the Russian woman.

At the beginning of her conversation with General Alexis, Mildred had no idea in mind, except to tell the story that had been weighing heavily upon her since Nona's confidence. Ever since she had seen the picture of Sonya, as Nona had last seen her, the beautiful woman with her too-soon white hair and the haunting beauty of her tragic blue eyes. She, a woman of rare refinement and not yet forty, to spend the rest of her life working among the convicts in Siberia. It was as if she were buried alive!

Suddenly it occurred to Mildred that she might ask the advice of General Alexis. She did not believe it possible that anything could be done for Sonya Valesky now, after her sentence had been passed. But still it would be well to feel they had tried all that was possible.

"You don't think, General, that there is anything that could be done to have Sonya Valesky pardoned, do you?" she inquired, with unconscious wistfulness. "You see, my friend, Nona Davis, wants so much to take Madame Valesky back to the United States with her. Then neither she nor her ideas would be of any more danger to Russia. Nona says Madame Valesky is much broken by her illness and confinement. She had a terrible attack of fever only a short time before. Probably she won't live very long, if she is taken to Siberia."

Then, to hide her tears from her companion, Mildred turned her head aside. General Alexis seemed to be staring at her very steadfastly. But fortunately the beauty of the landscape surrounding them gave her an excuse for the movement.

They had crossed the Nicholas bridge and were driving out among the parks and estates that cover the small islands, set like jewels among the white fastness of the river Neva. Here and there the river was solid ice, in other places the thin ice was decorated with a light coating of snow.

The handsome private homes of Petrograd are situated in these island suburbs. Beautiful trees and lawns come down to the water's edge. But today they too were snow sprinkled and most of the homes were closed.

Mildred attempted to pretend that her attention had been attracted by one of these houses, built like a glorified Swiss chalet.

But General Alexis continued to gaze at the side of her cheek and Mildred was painfully conscious that the tears might at any moment slide out of her eyes.

"You care very much about this woman, this Sonya Valesky, Miss Thornton?" General Alexis inquired. "You say that she is a friend of yours and that it will bring you great distress if she must suffer the penalty of her mistakes? I do not wish you to leave Russia in unhappiness."

Mildred slowly shook her head. Had she been almost any other girl, she would have seen nothing to deny in her companion's last speech. But Mildred had the spirit of entire truthfulness that belongs to only a few natures.

"No, I cannot say that Madame Valesky is exactly my friend," she answered slowly. "I do not know her very well, but I think I should care for her a great deal if we could know each other better. Perhaps she was altogether wrong; anyhow, I do not think she should have attempted to persuade the Russians not to fight for their country at a time like this. Yet when one has seen the horrible, the almost useless suffering that I have seen in these few years I have been acting as a Red Cross nurse, well, one can hardly condemn a human being who believes in peace. Still, Madame Valesky is in reality more Nona's friend than mine."

Pausing abruptly, Mildred again turned her face to look at the soldier beside her. She had been tactless as usual in thus expressing her feelings about peace to a man who was a great warrior. But General Alexis did not appear angry. Indeed, there was no disagreement in the expression of his eyes, it was almost as if he too felt as Mildred did. Besides, his next words were:

"I too appreciate what you feel, Miss Thornton, and I too am sorry for this Sonya Valesky. War is a great, a terrible evil, and there was never a time when the world so realized it as it does now. It is my hourly prayer that, after this vast bloodshed, war shall vanish from the face of the earth. But this will not happen if we give up the fight while we are in the thick of it. So Madame Valesky was wrong, so wrong that I might think she deserved her fate, if I did not feel her more mistaken than wicked."

General Alexis paused and his face grew suddenly lined and thoughtful, as Mildred had seen it in those days at Grovno. Of what he was thinking the girl did not dream, but neither would she wish to have intruded upon his train of thought.

So she sat quite still with her hands folded under the heavy fur rug and her gray-blue eyes fastened on the snow-covered landscape. Mildred had grown handsomer since her coming to Europe. She would never be beautiful in the ordinary acceptance of the term. But she was the type of girl who becomes handsomer as she grows older, when character which makes the real beauty of a woman's face had a chance to reveal itself. Already a great deal of her awkwardness and angularity had disappeared with the self-confidence, or rather more the self-forgetfulness which her work had given her. Her eyes had a deeper, less unsatisfied expression and her always handsome mouth more humor. For her own experiences and the friendship with the three other American Red Cross nurses had taught her to see many things in truer proportion.

"Miss Thornton," Mildred's attention was again aroused by her companion, "I want to tell you something, but I want you to promise me you will not have too much hope in consequence. I have been thinking of this Sonya Valesky. I believe I can remember her father, or if not her father himself, at least I knew him by reputation. He did not share his daughter's views, but was the faithful servant of the present Czar's father. Moreover, the Czar is my friend, so I mean to tell him the story of Sonya Valesky and see if he will pardon her. She must, of course, leave Russia, perhaps never to return."

General Alexis had been in a measure thinking aloud. But now Mildred's sudden exclamation of happiness made his eyes soften into a look of kindliness that again reminded the girl of her father.

"But, my child, you must not hope too much," he remonstrated. "The Czar may not feel as I do about your friend. After your service to me there is little you could desire which I would not wish to give you."

One would never have thought of General Alexis as a great soldier at this moment. The heavy lines of his face had gone. There was no sternness about his mouth. His eyes, which were so surprisingly blue because of his other dark coloring, gazed at Mildred's until for an instant she dropped the lids over her own, feeling embarrassed without exactly knowing why.

The next moment she looked directly at the man, whom she felt sure was her friend, in spite of the differences in their ages, their rank and their countries.

"General Alexis, I am going to ask you to do me a favor -- no, I don't mean about Sonya this time. I shall be more grateful than I can even try to say for that kindness. But this is something which does not concern anyone except just you and me. Will you never in the future speak or think of the service which you are good enough to say I have rendered you." Actually, Mildred was now twisting her hands together in the old nervous fashion which she thought she had overcome. "It is difficult for me to say things," she went on, "but I want you to know that the greatest honor I shall ever have in my life was the privilege of nursing you. If I did help make you well, why I am so happy and proud the favor is on my side and not yours." And Mildred ended with a slight gasp, feeling her cheeks burning in spite of the cold, so unaccustomed was she to making long speeches or to revealing her emotions.

"Miss Thornton," General Alexis returned. Then instead of finishing his sentence he leaned over and touched his coachman.

"Stop the sleigh for a moment. We are growing cold. It will be better for us to walk for ten or fifteen minutes and then come back to the sleigh." Again he spoke to Mildred.

"You will come with me for a little?" he asked. "It will be wiser for you not to grow stiff with sitting still." Afterwards he said something to Lieutenant Orlaff, to which he and Nona agreed.

Five minutes later Mildred was walking across the snow toward the river, with her hand resting on General Alexis' arm. She was colder than she had imagined and it was difficult to walk over the icy and unfamiliar ground.

But suddenly she stopped and gave an exclamation of surprise and delight which was almost one of awe.

She and General Alexis were alone. Nona and Lieutenant Orlaff had walked off in an opposite direction. But Mildred now beheld the sun setting upon the Russian capital. Beneath, the world was pure white, and above, the sky a glory of orange and purple and rose. Between the two, suspended like giant fairy balls, were the great domes of Petrograd's many churches.

"I shall never, never forget that picture so long as I live. It will stay with me as my vision of Petrograd long after I have gone home to my own country," Mildred said simply. Then she stopped in her walk and held out her hand. "Thank you for this afternoon."

General Alexis did not release the girl's hand. Instead he lifted it to his lips and kissed it, although the hand was covered with a heavy glove.

Then he smiled at Mildred almost boyishly. "I want to say something to you, Miss Thornton, which I suppose a woman does not really mind hearing, no matter to what country she belongs or what her answer may be. In these weeks I have known you I have come to care for you very deeply. I am old enough perhaps to be your father. I have said this to myself a hundred times and that it ought to make my feeling impossible. It has not. Naturally I understand that my age may make it impossible for you to return my affection, but it has not made the difference with me. I love you, Mildred. I have known many women, but have never met one so fine and sweet as you. It is the custom of your country when a man cares for a woman to tell her so, is it not, or perhaps I should have written first to your father?"

General Alexis' manner was so naïve, almost as if he had been a boy instead of one of the most distinguished men in Europe. Mildred could almost have smiled if she had not been so overwhelmed by his speech.

Was General Alexis actually saying that he was in love with her? No one had ever proposed to her in her life and she had never expected that any one would care sufficiently. But that the words should come from the man whom she felt to be a genius and a hero! No wonder Mildred was speechless for a moment.

"General Alexis, I have never dreamed of anything like this. I only hoped at the most that you were my friend," she answered a little later. "Really, I don't know -- I can't say how I feel. I appreciate the honor, but Russia is so far away, and my father --  -- "

"Yes, I know," General Alexis interrupted. "Do you not suppose I have thought over all those things? Until this war is past I shall not even ask you to become my wife. My life belongs to my country and I would not have you alone here in a foreign land. All I ask is that I may write you and some day in happier times may I come to see my American friend?"

Mildred could only nod and let General Alexis keep tight hold of her hand, while a sense of the warmth and sweetness of the affection of a big nature slowly enveloped her.

Then, as they walked back to the sleigh in silence and continued in silence almost all the way back to the lodgings, Mildred could only keep thinking how much her father would like General Alexis. Once she smiled, because her next thought was how immensely pleased and impressed her mother would be. It seemed impossible that the plain and unattractive Mildred could have captured so distinguished an admirer.

Late that night, as she lay awake, Nona Davis' voice suddenly broke the stillness. The two girls were in the single bedroom, Barbara occupying a lounge in the sitting room.

"There is something I want to tell you, Mildred. The strangest thing happened to me this afternoon. Lieutenant Orlaff proposed to me. Why, I scarcely know him at all, but he says that is not necessary when a foreigner meets an American girl," Nona confided.

"You -- why, Nona!" Mildred faltered, too surprised for the moment to answer intelligently, because her friend's speech so oddly fitted into her own thoughts. "Did you accept him?"

It was dark in the room, and yet Mildred could see that Nona had risen half way up in bed.

"My gracious, no!" she ejaculated. "In the first place, I don't care for him at all, and in the second, I just want to get hold of my dear Sonya and return home to the United States. If your general does have her pardoned I shall say prayers for him every night of my life. Funny, but I believe I am afraid of Russia, even though I am half Russian. Still, my mother did prefer to come to America to live. I simply couldn't bear living in Russia always, could you, Mildred?" Nona ended, as she again dropped back on her pillow.

But Mildred only answered, "I don't know," which was not in the least conclusive.



Chapter XVII

The Departure


Four days later the three American girls left Petrograd. This was sooner than they had expected to leave, but a desirable opportunity arose for them to get safely across the continent and into France.

The journey was a long and tiresome one, as they had to cross the northern countries of Finland, Sweden and Norway until finally they were able to reach Holland, and thence journey to England and France. But it was not possible to make the trip in any other way, since all of southern Europe was engaged in active fighting.

However, the Red Cross girls did not travel alone. Sonya Valesky went with them. At General Alexis' request the Czar had pardoned her, but she was an exile from Russia forever, never to return at any future time.

Fortunately for the imprisoned woman, her reprieve had come before her sentence had time to be carried out. She was brought directly from the prison, where Nona had once visited her, to the lodgings where the American girls were making ready to depart.

If Sonya regretted the terms of her pardon, she showed no signs of sorrow. But she was strangely quiet then and during the long, cold trip across the continent. In a measure she seemed to have been crushed by the weeks of solitary confinement in the Russian jail with the prospect of Siberia ever before her. Often she would sit for hours with her hands crossed in her lap and her eyes staring out the window, without seeming to see anything in the landscape. One could scarcely imagine her as a woman who had devoted her life to traveling from one land to another, trying to persuade men and women to believe in universal peace.

Yet she was sincerely grateful and appreciative of any attention of affection from the three American girls who were her companions. And after a short time Barbara and Mildred were almost as completely under the spell of this grave woman's charm, as Nona had grown to be. Moreover, the girls felt that she had not yet recovered from her illness, because of the hardships following it. After a few weeks or months in the beloved "Farmhouse with the Blue Front Door" perhaps she would become more cheerful.

For it was toward the chateau country of France that the three American girls were again traveling. The little house where they had once lived for a winter had been Captain Castaigne's wedding gift to Eugenia. Since Eugenia was away nursing in a hospital she had offered her home to her friends. Madame Castaigne had also insisted that they come to her at the chateau; nevertheless, the girls had chosen the farmhouse.

The Countess was no longer young, and still had no servants save old François. The work of entertaining four guests, and one of them a stranger, would have put too great a tax upon her. Moreover, Eugenia would undoubtedly come back for a while to be with her friends and would naturally stay with her mother-in-law. The girls also hoped that Captain Castaigne might be spared for a short leave of absence. However, in order that the Countess Amélie should not be wounded, or feel that the girls no longer cared to be with her, Barbara had written to say that she would stay at the chateau whenever the Countess wished her society.

Certainly the trip from Russia into France during war times was a difficult one. The girls believed that they could not have made it, except that now and then they stopped for a day or more to rest. On these days Barbara and Nona used to spend at least a few hours in sightseeing, no matter what their fatigue. Now and then Mildred would go with them, but never Sonya. Occasionally Nona would urge her, saying that the exercise and change of atmosphere would be good for her. But Sonya used always to plead fatigue or a lack of interest. Finally she confessed frankly that she had seen most of these cities and countries before, and in some of them was fairly well known. Therefore it might be safer and happier for all of them if she remained quietly in whatever hotel they happened to be staying.

Yet Sonya appeared almost as anxious as her three companions to reach France and the "Farmhouse with the Blue Front Door." This, of course, was because the three girls had talked of it so continuously and the longed for meeting with Eugenia again. For somehow, although the farmhouse was in a war-stained country, its name suggested quiet and a brooding peace.

Nevertheless, several times, after mentioning Eugenia's name, Nona had observed Sonya's face flush and the expression of her eyes become almost apologetic. At first she was unable to understand this and then she remembered.

In the early days Eugenia had not liked their friendship with the woman who was then calling herself Lady Dorian. Indeed, in Eugenia fashion she had frankly stated this fact to the older woman. Now how much less might she care for their intimacy with the exiled Russian. Yet Sonya was going as an uninvited guest to Eugenia's home.

There had been no time to ask permission. It was true Barbara had written the entire story to Eugenia as soon as Sonya Valesky was released from prison. But one could not tell whether the letter would reach France as soon as the four travelers.

Nona felt that she would have given a great deal to have assured Sonya of Eugenia's welcome, but she was nervous over the situation herself.

Of course, Eugenia would be kind to the exiled woman and offer her hospitality and care. But Eugenia had rigid views of life and was not given to concealing them. It was more than possible that she might let Sonya know of her disapproval. Moreover, she might object to Nona's own championship of Sonya and to her purpose to return with her to the United States and there make their future home together.

Of course, no views of Eugenia's would interfere with this intention of Nona's. But the younger girl would be sorry of Eugenia's disapproval, since she too had learned to have the greatest affection and admiration for the oldest of the four American Red Cross girls. However, there was nothing to do except to wait and meet the situation when the time came.

Actually it was a month between the day of leaving Petrograd and the day when the four travelers arrived in southern France in the neighborhood of the Chateau d'Amélie. But this was because the girls and Sonya had spent some little time in London before attempting to cross the channel.

London was a delightful experience for the three American Red Cross girls. In some fashion the story of their varied service to the Allied cause had reached the London newspapers. For several days there were columns devoted to their praise. Later, invitations poured in upon them from every direction. Mildred was most conspicuous, since the story of her presentation by the Czar with the Cross of St. George was copied from the Russian newspapers into the English, and must have ultimately reached the United States press.

But the girls were not thinking of themselves or their work. They simply gave themselves up to the pleasure of meeting delightful English people and being entertained by them. Sonya would not go about with them, but appeared stronger and more content, so there was no point in worrying over her.

One of the English women, who was again gracious to the three American girls, was the Countess of Sussex, at whose home they had spent a week-end on their first arrival in England several years before. Once more she invited them to her country home, but this time it was impossible for the girls to accept her invitation. However, Nona recalled her meeting in the old rose garden near the gardener's cottage with Lieutenant Robert Hume. She also thought of Lieutenant Hume's last letter telling her that he had been sent back to England as an exchanged prisoner because of his health. But when Nona inquired for the young English lieutenant, the Countess' expression checked further curiosity.

Suddenly she appeared very unhappy and distressed.

"Robert is not in England," she said hastily. "He has been sent away to try to recover, but we do not dare hope too much."

At the moment Nona did not feel that she had the courage to ask where the young man had gone nor from what he was trying to recover.

Actually it was one afternoon in late February, when the three Red Cross girls and Sonya came at last to the village of Le Pretre, near the forest of the same name.

There they found old François awaiting them in a carriage that must have belonged to the Second Empire. It was toward twilight and on a February afternoon, yet after the cold of the northern countries where the girls had been for the past winter, the atmosphere had the appeal of spring. It was not warm, yet there was a gentleness in the air and a suggestion of green on the bare branches of the trees.

François drove them in state to the little "Farmhouse with the Blue Front Door." But this afternoon the door was standing open and on the threshold was Madame, the Countess, with both white hands extended in welcome.

She wore the same black dress and the same point of lace over her white hair. And by her side stood Monsieur Le Duc, more solemn and splendid than ever and as gravely welcoming of his guests as the Countess herself.

Madame explained that Eugenia had been unable to leave the hospital to be at home to greet her friends, but hoped to see them in a few days. In the meantime they were to feel more than welcome in the farmhouse and in the old chateau, when they cared to come to her there.

Then the Countess said good-by and allowed François to take her home. She knew that her guests were weary and her courtesy was too perfect to permit herself the privilege of a longer conversation, no matter how much she might be yearning for companionship.

The little house itself was warm and light with welcome. There was a fire in the living room and the four beds upstairs smelled of lavender and roses.

The girls took their old rooms, except that Sonya was allotted the bedroom that had once been Eugenia's.



Chapter XVIII

A Poem and a Conversation


Not the next day, but the one following, Barbara and Mildred walked over to the old chateau together.

Nona did not go with them, as Sonya did not appear to be well and she did not wish to leave her. So she sent a message of explanation to the Countess Amélie, saying that she hoped to be able to call upon her very soon.

It chanced that Sonya did not know of Nona's decision. She was lying down when the girls went away and believed she had the little house to herself. Really she was not ill, only tired and perhaps happier than she had been in a long time. It is true that she had confessed herself defeated and that there was no longer any illusion in her own mind. Perhaps so long as she lived, war and not peace would flourish upon the earth. But the world learns its lessons in strange and dreadful ways and perchance peace might be born in the end from the horror and waste of bloodshed.

By and by, when she felt more rested, Sonya got up and went down into the old dining room of the farmhouse, which the girls had made into their living room. There was a possibility that the fire might be dying out and it would be wise to replenish it.

To her surprise Sonya discovered Nona curled up in a chair by the window, reading.

The older woman no longer wore black; it had become too depressing in a continent where more than half of the women were in mourning. She had on a simple frock of a curious Russian blue, made almost like a monk's cowl, with a heavy blue cord knotted about her waist.

Nona stared at her friend for a moment in silence. It was curious that whatever costume Sonya Valesky wore seemed to have been created for her. Nona recalled the beauty of her clothes in their first meeting on shipboard, yet they held no greater distinction than this simple dress. Well, perhaps personality is the strongest force in the world and Sonya Valesky's distinction, whatever her mistakes, lay in this.

She now walked across the room and put a few of François' precious pine logs on the fire.

At this Nona stirred. "Don't trouble to do that, Sonya; I meant to in another minute. I thought you were ill upstairs."

Sonya shook her head. "I am not in the least ill and you are please to stop worrying about me, Nona. I thought you had gone with your friends to the chateau. What has kept you at home?"

The younger girl answered vaguely, not caring to confess her real motive, since her companion would have been distressed by it.

"If you are all right, Sonya, suppose you stay down here in the living room with me. I have just found a wonderful poem in an American magazine which I meant to save to read to you. Somehow I think it may comfort you. For it shows that there is a big design in this old universe, which works itself out somehow, in spite of all the tragedies and failures of human beings."

In a big chair in the half shadow Sonya sat down, folding her hands together loosely in her lap. It was a fashion which had come to be almost a habit with her recently. Curious that it should express a kind of resignation!

Nona began reading at once. "The poem is called 'At the Last' and is by George Sterling, a Californian, I believe.

"Now steel-hoofed War is loosened on the world, With rapine and destruction, as the smoke From ashen farm and city soils the sky. Earth reeks. The camp is where the vineyard was. The flocks are gone. The rains are on the hearth, And trampled Europe knows the winter near. Orchards go down. Home and cathedral fall In ruin, and the blackened provinces Reach on to drear horizons. Soon the snow Shall cover all, and soon be stained with red, A quagmire and a shambles, and ere long Shall cold and hunger dice for helpless lives. So man gone mad, despoils the gentle earth And wages war on beauty and on good.

"And yet I know how brief the reign shall be Of Desolation. But a little while, And time shall heal the desecrated lands, The quenchless fire of life shall take its own, The waters of renewal spring again. Quiet shall come, a flood of verdure clothe The fields misused. The vine and tree once more Shall bloom beside the trench, and humble roofs Cover again the cradle and the bed. Yea! Life shall have her way with us, until The past is dim with legend, and the days That now in nightmare brood upon the world Shall fold themselves in purples of romance, The peace shall come, so sure as ripples end And crystalline tranquillity returns Above a pebble cast into a pool."

When Nona had finished neither she nor her companion made any comment for a moment.

Yet when the girl looked across at the older woman for her opinion, she discovered that Sonya's cheeks had flushed and that her eyes were shining.

"Thank you, Nona; I shall not forget that," she then said, repeating to herself, "'The peace shall come, so sure as ripples end.' I suppose the trouble is we have not faith and patience enough to believe that love and peace must triumph before God's plan can be worked out."

Then Sonya got up. "Come, Nona," she suggested. "Don't you think it would be more agreeable to take a walk. It is really a lovely afternoon and I've some things I wish to talk to you about. Besides, I want to see the woods you girls have told me of."

It was delicious outdoors and Nona and Sonya both forgot their serious mood of a little while before. One could not be always serious even in war times in so lovely a land as southern France. No wonder the French nation is gay; it is their method of showing their gratitude for the country that gave them birth.

Finally the woman and girl reached the pool in the woods which Nona had once named "the pool of Melisande," and Eugenia had afterwards called "the pool of truth." However, since in Maeterlinck's play Melisande was seeking the light in the depth of the water, perhaps after all the two titles had almost a similar meaning.

Anyhow, by the pool Sonya chose to make a confession.

"Do you remember, Nona, once long ago, or perhaps it just seems a long time to me, you and I met a Colonel Dalton, an officer in the British army whom I had known before. I think I promised then to tell you of my previous acquaintance with him. I had almost forgotten."

Nona slipped her arm through her companion's.

"Don't tell me if you had rather not. We will both have a great deal to learn of each other when we go back to the United States to live together."

Sonya smiled. "There is no use waiting. I have never even told you, Nona, whether or not I am married. You see, I am often called Madame Valesky in Russia, but that is only a courtesy title. I have never married. The fact is, I once lived in England for some time and was engaged to Colonel Dalton. I think we cared a good deal for each other, but he was a soldier and we did not approve of each other's views of life. So by and by our engagement was broken off, which was probably the best thing for us both."

"Has Colonel Dalton ever married?" Nona inquired inconsequentially.

Her companion shook her head. "Really, I don't know. Suppose we walk on now to the hut where your little French girl Nicolete once lived."

When the two friends reached the hut, Nona Davis exclaimed in amazement:

"What on earth has happened? Why, our hut isn't a hut any longer; it is a charming little house with some one living in it. I am going to knock and see who it can be. French people are so courteous, I am sure they won't mind telling me."

Nona knocked and the next moment the door was opened by a young French woman. For an instant they stared at each other, then kissed in a bewilderingly friendly fashion.

"Why, Nicolete, I can't believe my own eyes!" Nona protested. "What are you doing back here in your own little house, only it is so changed that I would scarcely have recognized it."

Nicolete's dark eyes shone and the vivid color flooded her face.

"I am married," she explained. "You remember Monsieur Renay, whom Mademoiselle Barbara named 'Monsieur Bebé?' Well," Nicolete laughed bewitchingly, "he is my husband."

"And is he --  -- " Nona asked and hesitated.

Nicolete shook her head. "He can tell the light from the darkness, and now and then can see me moving in the shadow. Some day, the doctors say, his sight may be fully restored. He has seen the best specialists. Madame Eugenié sent us both to Paris. She it was who made us a home here in the woods out of the old hut, so that my husband might have the fresh air and grow strong to aid his recovery."

"Madame Eugenié," it was a pretty title and one that Eugenia would probably always have in this French country, which had so long known the old Countess as Madame Castaigne.

When Barbara and Mildred returned from the chateau Nona sincerely hoped they would bring news of Eugenia's arrival, since she was growing more than anxious to see her again.



Chapter XIX

The Reunion


In truth, Barbara and Mildred were having a delightful afternoon at the Chateau d'Amélie.

When they arrived, solemnly François invited them into the old French drawing room they so well remembered.

But here, instead of the slender, tiny figure of the old Countess appearing to greet them, a tall, dark young woman came forward, whose hair was wound about her head like a coronet.

"Eugenia!" Barbara exclaimed, and straightway shed several tears, while Eugenia and Mildred laughed at her.

Then the three girls went over and sat down on the same Louis XIV sofa that two of them had once occupied with young Captain Castaigne, on their first visit to the chateau.

This time Eugenia took the place of honor in the center, while each hand clasped one of her companions.

"Henri and I arrived just an hour ago," she explained. "He found he could get a three days leave to come with me. Of course, I wished to rush off to the farmhouse before I even got my traveling things off. But since I am a much managed woman these days, I was made to wait until you came here. I have been expecting you every minute. Now tell me about Nona and Madame Valesky."

This time it was Barbara who laughed. The idea of Eugenia's being managed instead of managing other people was amusing. Besides, it was unlike her to talk so fast and ask so many questions without giving one time to reply.

So Barbara only held closer to her friend's hand and looked at her, leaving Mildred the opportunity for answering.

It was still early in the afternoon and the sunshine flooded the beautiful drawing room. It was strange to see how at home Eugenia seemed to look and feel in it, when a little more than a year before she and the old room had been so antagonistic.

Eugenia had changed. In the first place, she wore this afternoon a lovely costume of violet crepe, trimmed in old gold brocade. It was a costume that must have been specially designed for Eugenia, so perfectly did it suit her rather stately beauty and dark, clear coloring. This turned out to be true, since Eugenia a short time before had discovered a little French dressmaker, whom the war had rendered penniless, and given her work to do.

Now, even while Mildred was talking of Nona and Sonya, the drawing room door opened and Captain Castaigne and his mother came in.

Monsieur Le Duc accompanied them, but promptly deserted his former master and mistress and padded over to Eugenia, placing his great silver head on her lap and gazing at her with adoration.

Captain Castaigne and his mother followed to greet their guests. In his hand the young officer carried a number of letters which he gave at once to Barbara and Mildred.

"These just arrived at the chateau for you; they are American letters and so I am sure you will be pleased."

Mildred's were from her mother and father and Barbara had received three from Dick in this same mail, and another which looked as if it might be the long-expected letter from Mrs. Thornton.

After ten minutes of conversation, it was Captain Castaigne who proposed that their guests might be allowed to read their letters without waiting to return home. It was not difficult to guess at their impatience, since it must have been a long time since they had heard from home.

Then he and Eugenia crossed over to the other side of the room and stood by the fireplace. Le Duc went with them and Eugenia kept one hand on the dog's head.

Now and then she smiled over something Captain Castaigne said to her, then again she looked at him with the anxious gravity that was a part of Eugenia's character. The war had made the young French officer older, love and marriage had apparently taken ten years from Eugenia's age. Plainly a beautiful understanding existed between the husband and wife, in spite of the differences in their natures, which would survive to the end.

For when Captain Castaigne suddenly lifted his wife's hand and kissed it, it was like Eugenia to blush and whisper a protest, at which the young officer only laughed.

Over by the window Barbara and Mildred were really too busy with their letters to notice what was taking place. Madame Castaigne had gone out of the room for the instant to speak to François.

Of course, Barbara had read Dick's letters first. She could only read them hastily, for Dick had written to say that he had a fine position with a big real estate office in New York City, and enough salary for two persons to live upon, in a tiny apartment on the west side. Barbara was to come home at once, else Dick would probably lose his job by deserting to fetch her. Also the letter from Mrs. Thornton was cheering. Whatever it may have been, something had occurred to change that lady's state of mind. Perhaps it was her anxiety about Mildred in the days when she knew nothing of her daughter's fate except that Mildred had stayed behind at Grovno until the hour of the final surrender of the Russian fort.

For Mrs. Thornton had written to Barbara to say that she would be most happy to welcome her as Dick's wife, and the dearest wish of her heart was to have her two daughters safe at home in New York City as soon as they were able to return.

Mildred's letters were much of the same character, and the two girls had only barely finished them when François appeared bearing coffee and cakes.

Then the little party talked on until nearly dusk.

At last, when Barbara and Mildred felt compelled to leave, Eugenia proposed that she and Captain Castaigne walk over to the farmhouse with them. She did not feel that she could wait for another day before seeing Nona.

Nona and Sonya had just been in a few moments and taken off their wraps when the others arrived. And Nona need have felt no nervousness over Eugenia's attitude toward Sonya. Many things had happened to broaden Eugenia's point of view since her arrival in Europe to act as a Red Cross nurse. Besides, few persons could fail to feel anything but sympathy and admiration for the beautiful Russian woman, whose life had come so near closing in tragedy.

There was not a great deal of food at the farmhouse, nevertheless Eugenia and Captain Castaigne remained to dinner.

Barbara and Mildred retired to act as cooks, while Eugenia and Sonya fell to talking together, and Nona and Captain Castaigne.

In the course of their talk Nona remembered to inquire for Lieutenant Hume, who was Captain Castaigne's friend. At last she might be able to hear real news of the young British officer.

By good fortune Captain Castaigne had received a letter written by him in the same post that had brought Barbara's and Mildred's letters.

"Lieutenant Hume had gone to the United States and was living at the present time in Florida. He had appeared to have contracted a fatal illness during his imprisonment, but his letter had said he was feeling ever so much better.

"I can't say how glad I am," Captain Castaigne continued. "There was never a braver fellow in the world than Robert Hume. And besides, if he should happen to die just now, it would be particularly hard on his family. You see, Hume's older brother, the one with the title, has just been killed in the Dardanelles. Robert Hume is Lord Hume now, I believe, and the English think more of titles than we do in Republican France," the French officer concluded.

"But I thought," Nona commented stupidly, "that Lieutenant Hume was a gardener's son and had been educated by friends who were interested in him."

Then Nona stopped, because Captain Castaigne was half smiling and half frowning over her information. Moreover, Nona suddenly remembered that what she was saying was founded partly on information and the rest on her own fancy.

"Lieutenant Hume told me he was the gardener's son," she protested, "or at least he called the gardener's wife 'Mother Susan.'"

Eugenia had suddenly spoken her husband's name and Captain Castaigne had gotten up to go over to her.

However, he stopped long enough to expostulate. "That was an extraordinary idea of yours, Miss Davis. Hume was only talking of his old nurse. His mother died when he was a baby and she brought him up. I have heard him speak of 'Mother Susan' myself. The Countess you visited in Surrey is a cousin of Hume's, I think, and the old nurse and her husband live there. Hume was having Mother Susan nurse him when you met, I expect. Hope you two may see each other some day in the United States and laugh over that impression of yours, Miss Davis," Captain Castaigne concluded, as he walked over to his wife's side.

At midnight Captain Castaigne and Eugenia went back to the chateau, walking hand-in-hand like children through the woods. There was no fighting these days in this particular portion of southern France and in the peace of the night one could almost forget that the world was at war.

"You will miss your friends when they return to their own country, Eugenia," Captain Castaigne suggested.

Eugenia nodded. "Yes, they will be gone, I believe, in another month. But we will go over ourselves some day, Henri, and perhaps you may learn to care for my country as I do for yours."

"Yes, and think of the service I shall owe her for the work the American Red Cross has done for France!" the young officer concluded, and in the darkness lifted his cap for a moment.

"Whatever Lafayette did for you in the cause of freedom, your land has now fully repaid."

<eob>

Folk Tales Every Child Should Know

By

Hamilton Wright Mabie



I

Hans In Luck


Hans had served his Master seven years, and at the end of that time he said to him: "Master, since my time is up, I should like to go home to my mother; so give me my wages, if you please."

His Master replied, "You have served me truly and honestly, Hans, and such as your service was, such shall be your reward;" and with these words he gave him a lump of gold as big as his head. Hans thereupon took his handkerchief out of his pocket, and, wrapping the gold up in it, threw it over his shoulder and set out on the road toward his native village. As he went along, carefully setting one foot to the ground before the other, a horseman came in sight, trotting gaily and briskly along upon a capital animal. "Ah," said Hans, aloud, "what a fine thing that riding is! one is seated, as it were, upon a stool, kicks against no stones, spares one's shoes, and gets along without any trouble!"

The Rider, overhearing Hans making these reflections, stopped and said, "Why, then, do you travel on foot, my fine fellow?"

"Because I am forced," replied Hans, "for I have got a bit of a lump to carry home; it certainly is gold, but then I can't carry my head straight, and it hurts my shoulder."

"If you like we will exchange," said the Rider. "I will give you my horse, and you can give me your lump of gold."

"With all my heart," cried Hans; "but I tell you fairly you undertake a very heavy burden."

The man dismounted, took the gold, and helped Hans on to the horse, and, giving him the reins into his hands, said, "Now, when you want to go faster, you must chuckle with your tongue and cry, 'Gee up! gee up!'"

Hans was delighted indeed when he found himself on the top of a horse, and riding along so freely and gaily. After a while he thought he should like to go rather quicker, and so he cried, "Gee up! gee up!" as the man had told him. The horse soon set off at a hard trot, and, before Hans knew what he was about, he was thrown over head and heels into a ditch which divided the fields from the road. The horse, having accomplished this feat, would have bolted off if he had not been stopped by a Peasant who was coming that way, driving a cow before him. Hans soon picked himself up on his legs, but he was terribly put out, and said to the countryman, "That is bad sport, that riding, especially when one mounts such a beast as that, which stumbles and throws one off so as to nearly break one's neck. I will never ride on that animal again. Commend me to your cow: one may walk behind her without any discomfort, and besides one has, every day for certain, milk, butter, and cheese. Ah! what would I not give for such a cow!"

"Well," said the Peasant, "such an advantage you may soon enjoy; I will exchange my cow for your horse."

To this Hans consented with a thousand thanks, and the Peasant, swinging himself upon the horse, rode off in a hurry.

Hans now drove his cow off steadily before him, thinking of his lucky bargain in this wise: "I have a bit of bread, and I can, as often as I please, eat with it butter and cheese, and when I am thirsty I can milk my cow and have a draught: and what more can I desire?"

As soon, then, as he came to an inn he halted, and ate with great satisfaction all the bread he had brought with him for his noonday and evening meals, and washed it down with a glass of beer, to buy which he spent his two last farthings. This over, he drove his cow farther, but still in the direction of his mother's village. The heat meantime became more and more oppressive as noontime approached, and just then Hans came to a common which was an hour's journey across. Here he got into such a state of heat that his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth, and he thought to himself: "This won't do; I will just milk my cow, and refresh myself." Hans, therefore tied her to a stump of a tree, and, having no pail, placed his leathern cap below, and set to work, but not a drop of milk could he squeeze out. He had placed himself, too, very awkwardly, and at last the impatient cow gave him such a kick on the head that he tumbled over on the ground, and for a long time knew not where he was. Fortunately, not many hours after, a Butcher passed by, trundling a young pig along upon a wheelbarrow. "What trick is this!" exclaimed he, helping up poor Hans; and Hans told him that all that had passed. The Butcher then handed him his flask and said, "There, take a drink; it will revive you. Your cow might well give no milk: she is an old beast, and worth nothing at the best but for the plough or the butcher!"

"Eh! eh!" said Hans, pulling his hair over his eyes, "who would have thought it? It is all very well when one can kill a beast like that at home, and make a profit of the flesh; but for my part I have no relish for cow's flesh; it is too tough for me! Ah! a young pig like yours is the thing that tastes something like, let alone the sausages!"

"Well now, for love of you," said the Butcher, "I will make an exchange, and let you have my pig for your cow."

"Heaven reward you for your kindness!" cried Hans; and, giving up the cow, he untied the pig from the barrow and took into his hands the string with which it was tied.

Hans walked on again, considering how everything had happened just as he wished, and how all his vexations had turned out for the best after all! Presently a boy overtook him carrying a fine white goose under his arm, and after they had said "Good-day" to each other, Hans began to talk about his luck, and what profitable exchanges he had made. The Boy on his part told him that he was carrying the goose to a christening-feast. "Just lift it," said he to Hans, holding it up by its wings, "just feel how heavy it is; why, it has been fattened up for the last eight weeks, and whoever bites it when it is cooked will have to wipe the grease from each side of his mouth!"

"Yes," said Hans, weighing it with one hand, "it is weighty, but my pig is no trifle either."

While he was speaking the Boy kept looking about on all sides, and shaking his head suspiciously, and at length he broke out, "I am afraid it is not all right about your pig. In the village through which I have just come, one has been stolen out of the sty of the mayor himself; and I am afraid, very much afraid, you have it now in your hand! They have sent out several people, and it would be a very bad job for you if they found you with the pig; the best thing you can do is to hide it in some dark corner!"

Honest Hans was thunderstruck, and exclaimed, "Ah, Heaven help me in this fresh trouble! you know the neighbourhood better than I do; do you take my pig and let me have your goose," said he to the boy.

"I shall have to hazard something at that game," replied the Boy, "but still I do not wish to be the cause of your meeting with misfortune;" and, so saying, he took the rope into his own hand, and drove the pig off quickly by a side-path, while Hans, lightened of his cares, walked on homeward with the goose under his arm. "If I judge rightly," thought he to himself, "I have gained even by this exchange: first there is a good roast; then the quantity of fat which will drip out will make goose broth for a quarter of a year; and then there are fine white feathers, which, when once I have put into my pillow I warrant I shall sleep without rocking. What pleasure my mother will have!"

As he came to the last village on his road there stood a Knife-grinder, with his barrow by the hedge, whirling his wheel round and singing:

"Scissors and razors and such-like I grind; And gaily my rags are flying behind."


Hans stopped and looked at him, and at last he said, "You appear to have a good business, if I may judge by your merry song?"

"Yes," answered the Grinder, "this business has a golden bottom! A true knife-grinder is a man who as often as he puts his hand into his pocket feels money in it! But what a fine goose you have got; where did you buy it?"

"I did not buy it at all," said Hans, "but took it in exchange for my pig." "And the pig?" "I exchanged for my cow." "And the cow?" "I exchanged a horse for her." "And the horse?" "For him I gave a lump of gold as big as my head." "And the gold?" "That was my wages for a seven years' servitude." "And I see you have known how to benefit yourself each time," said the Grinder; "but, could you now manage that you heard the money rattling in your pocket as you walked, your fortune would be made."

"Well! how shall I manage that?" asked Hans.

"You must become a grinder like me; to this trade nothing peculiar belongs but a grindstone; the other necessaries find themselves. Here is one which is a little worn, certainly, and so I will not ask anything more for it than your goose; are you agreeable?"

"How can you ask me?" said Hans; "why, I shall be the luckiest man in the world; having money as often as I dip my hand into my pocket, what have I to care about any longer?"

So saying, he handed over the goose, and received the grindstone in exchange.

"Now," said the Grinder, picking up an ordinary big flint stone which lay near, "now, there you have a capital stone upon which only beat them long enough and you may straighten all your old nails! Take it, and use it carefully!"

Hans took the stone and walked on with a satisfied heart, his eyes glistening with joy. "I must have been born," said he, "to a heap of luck; everything happens just as I wish, as if I were a Sunday-child."

Soon, however, having been on his legs since daybreak, he began to feel very tired, and was plagued too with hunger, since he had eaten all his provision at once in his joy about the cow bargain. At last he felt quite unable to go farther, and was forced, too, to halt every minute for the stones encumbered him very much. Just then the thought overcame him, what a good thing it were if he had no need to carry them any longer, and at the same moment he came up to a stream. Here he resolved to rest and refresh himself with drink, and so that the stones might not hurt him in kneeling he laid them carefully down by his side on the bank. This done, he stooped down to scoop up some water in his hand, and then it happened that he pushed one stone a little too far, so that both presently went plump into the water. Hans, as soon as he saw them sinking to the bottom, jumped up for joy, and then kneeled down and returned thanks, with tears in his eyes, that so mercifully, and without any act on his part, and in so nice a way, he had been delivered from the heavy stones, which alone hindered him from getting on.

"So lucky as I am," exclaimed Hans, "is no other man under the sun!"

Then with a light heart, and free from every burden, he leaped gaily along till he reached his mother's house.



II

Why The Sea Is Salt


Once on a time, but it was a long, long time ago, there were two brothers, one rich and one poor. Now, one Christmas eve, the poor one hadn't so much as a crumb in the house, either of meat or bread, so he went to his brother to ask him for something to keep Christmas with, in God's name. It was not the first time his brother had been forced to help him, and you may fancy he wasn't very glad to see his face, but he said:

"If you will do what I ask you to do, I'll give you a whole flitch of bacon."

So the poor brother said he would do anything and was full of thanks.

"Well, here is the flitch," said the rich brother, "and now go straight to Hell."

"What I have given my word to do, I must stick to," said the other; so he took the flitch and set off. He walked the whole day, and at dusk he came to a place where he saw a very bright light.

"Maybe this is the place," said the man to himself. So he turned aside, and the first thing he saw was an old, old man, with a long white beard, who stood in an outhouse, hewing wood for the Christmas fire.

"Good even," said the man with the flitch.

"The same to you; whither are you going so late?" said the man.

"Oh! I'm going to Hell, if I only knew the right way," answered the poor man.

"Well, you're not far wrong, for this is Hell," said the old man; "when you get inside they will be all for buying your flitch, for meat is scarce in Hell; but, mind you don't sell it unless you get the hand-quern which stands behind the door for it. When you come out, I'll teach you how to handle the quern, for it's good to grind almost anything."

So the man with the flitch thanked the other for his good advice, and gave a great knock at the Devil's door.

When he got in, everything was just as the old man had said. All the devils, great and small, came swarming up to him like ants round an anthill, and each tried to outbid the other for the flitch.

"Well!" said the man, "by rights, my old dame and I ought to have this flitch for our Christmas dinner; but since you have all set your hearts on it, I suppose I must give it up to you; but if I sell it at all, I'll have for it the quern behind the door yonder."

At first the Devil wouldn't hear of such a bargain, and chaffed and haggled with the man; but he stuck to what he said, and at last the Devil had to part with his quern. When the man got out into the yard, he asked the old woodcutter how he was to handle the quern; and after he had learned how to use it, he thanked the old man and went off home as fast as he could, but still the clock had struck twelve on Christmas eve before he reached his own door.

"Wherever in the world have you been?" said his old dame; "here have I sat hour after hour waiting and watching, without so much as two sticks to lay together under the Christmas brose."

"Oh!" said the man, "I couldn't get back before, for I had to go a long way first for one thing, and then for another; but now you shall see what you shall see."

So he put the quern on the table, and bade it first of all grind lights, then a table-cloth, then meat, then ale, and so on till they had got everything that was nice for Christmas fare. He had only to speak the word, and the quern ground out what he wanted. The old dame stood by blessing her stars, and kept on asking where he had got this wonderful quern, but he wouldn't tell her.

"It's all one where I got it from; you see the quern is a good one, and the mill-stream never freezes, that's enough."

So he ground meat and drink and dainties enough to last out till Twelfth Day, and on the third day he asked all his friends and kin to his house, and gave a great feast. Now, when his rich brother saw all that was on the table, and all that was behind in the larder, he grew quite spiteful and wild, for he couldn't bear that his brother should have anything.

"Twas only on Christmas eve," he said to the rest, "he was in such straits that he came and asked for a morsel of food in God's name, and now he gives a feast as if he were count or king;" and he turned to his brother and said:

"But whence, in Hell's name, have you got all this wealth?"

"From behind the door," answered the owner of the quern, for he didn't care to let the cat out of the bag. But later on in the evening, when he had got a drop too much, he could keep his secret no longer, and brought out the quern and said:

"There, you see what has gotten me all this wealth;" and so he made the quern grind all kind of things. When his brother saw it, he set his heart on having the quern, and, after a deal of coaxing, he got it; but he had to pay three hundred dollars for it, and his brother bargained to keep it till hay-harvest, for he thought, if I keep it till then, I can make it grind meat and drink that will last for years. So you may fancy the quern didn't grow rusty for want of work, and when hay-harvest came, the rich brother got it, but the other took care not to teach him how to handle it.

It was evening when the rich brother got the quern home, and the next morning he told his wife to go out into the hay-field and toss, while the mowers cut the grass, and he would stay at home and get the dinner ready. So, when dinner-time drew near, he put the quern on the kitchen table and said:

"Grind herrings and broth, and grind them good and fast."

So the quern began to grind herrings and broth; first of all, all the dishes full, then all the tubs full, and so on till the kitchen floor was quite covered. Then the man twisted and twirled at the quern to get it to stop, but for all his twisting and fingering the quern went on grinding, and in a little while the broth rose so high that the man was like to drown. So he threw open the kitchen door and ran into the parlour, but it wasn't long before the quern had ground the parlour full too, and it was only at the risk of his life that the man could get hold of the latch of the house door through the stream of broth. When he got the door open, he ran out and set off down the road, with the stream of herrings and broth at his heels, roaring like a waterfall over the whole farm.

Now, his old dame, who was in the field tossing hay, thought it a long time to dinner, and at last she said:

"Well! though the master doesn't call us home, we may as well go. Maybe he finds it hard work to boil the broth, and will be glad of my help."

The men were willing enough, so they sauntered homeward; but just as they had got a little way up the hill, what should they meet but herrings, and broth, and bread, all running and dashing, and splashing together in a stream, and the master himself running before them for his life, and as he passed them he bawled out: "Would to heaven each of you had a hundred throats! but take care you're not drowned in the broth."

Away he went, as though the Evil One were at his heels, to his brother's house, and begged him for God's sake to take back the quern that instant; for, said he:

"If it grinds only one hour more, the whole parish will be swallowed up by herrings and broth."

But his brother wouldn't hear of taking it back till the other paid him down three hundred dollars more.

So the poor brother got both the money and the quern, and it wasn't long before he set up a farmhouse far finer than the one in which his brother lived, and with the quern he ground so much gold that he covered it with plates of gold; and as the farm lay by the sea-side, the golden house gleamed and glistened far away over the sea. All who sailed by, put ashore to see the rich man in the golden house, and to see the wonderful quern, the fame of which spread far and wide, till there was nobody who hadn't heard tell of it.

So one day there came a skipper who wanted to see the quern; and the first thing he asked was if it could grind salt.

"Grind salt!" said the owner; "I should just think it could. It can grind anything."

When the skipper heard that, he said he must have the quern, cost what it would; for if he only had it, he thought he should be rid of his long voyages across stormy seas for a lading of salt. Well, at first the man wouldn't hear of parting with the quern; but the skipper begged and prayed so hard that at last he let him have it, but he had to pay many, many thousand dollars for it. Now, when the skipper had got the quern on his back, he soon made off with it, for he was afraid lest the man should change his mind; so he had no time to ask how to handle the quern, but got on board his ship as fast as he could, and set sail. When he had sailed a good way off, he brought the quern on deck and said:

"Grind salt, and grind both good and fast."

Well, the quern began to grind salt so that it poured out like water; and when the skipper had got the ship full, he wished to stop the quern, but whichever way he turned it, and however much he tried, it was no good; the quern kept grinding on, and the heap of salt grew higher and higher, and at last down sunk the ship.

There lies the quern at the bottom of the sea, and grinds away at this very day, and that's why the sea is salt.



III

The Lad Who Went To The North Wind


Once on a time there was an old widow who had one son and, as she was poorly and weak, her son had to go up into the safe to fetch meal for cooking; but when he got outside the safe, and was just going down the steps, there came the North Wind, puffing and blowing, caught up the meal, and so away with it through the air. Then the lad went back into the safe for more; but when he came out again on the steps, if the North Wind didn't come again and carry off the meal with a puff; and more than that, he did so the third time. At this the lad got very angry; and as he thought it hard that the North Wind should behave so, he thought he'd just look him up, and ask him to give up his meal.

So off he went, but the way was long, and he walked and walked; but at last he came to the North Wind's house.

"Good day!" said the lad, and "thank you for coming to see us yesterday."

"GOOD DAY!" answered the North Wind, for his voice was loud and gruff, "AND THANKS FOR COMING TO SEE ME. WHAT DO YOU WANT?"

"Oh!" answered the lad, "I only wished to ask you to be so good as to let me have back that meal you took from me on the safe steps, for we haven't much to live on; and if you're to go on snapping up the morsel we have there'll be nothing for it but to starve."

"I haven't got your meal," said the North Wind; "but if you are in such need, I'll give you a cloth which will get you everything you want, if you only say, 'Cloth, spread yourself, and serve up all kinds of good dishes!'"

With this the lad was well content. But, as the way was so long he couldn't get home in one day, he turned into an inn on the way; and when they were going to sit down to supper, he laid the cloth on a table which stood in the corner and said:

"Cloth spread yourself, and serve up all kinds of good dishes."

He had scarce said so before the cloth did as it was bid; and all who stood by thought it a fine thing, but most of all the landlady. So, when all were fast asleep, at dead of night, she took the lad's cloth, and put another in its stead, just like the one he had got from the North Wind, but which couldn't so much as serve up a bit of dry bread.

So, when the lad woke, he took his cloth and went off with it, and that day he got home to his mother.

"Now," said he, "I've been to the North Wind's house, and a good fellow he is, for he gave me this cloth, and when I only say to it, 'Cloth, spread yourself, and serve up all kinds of good dishes,' I get any sort of food I please."

"All very true, I dare say," said his mother; "but seeing is believing, and I shan't believe it till I see it."

So the lad made haste, drew out a table, laid the cloth on it, and said:

"Cloth, spread yourself, and serve all up kinds of good dishes."

But never a bit of dry bread did the cloth serve up.

"Well," said the lad, "there's no help for it but to go to the North Wind again;" and away he went.

So he came to where the North Wind lived late in the afternoon.

"Good evening!" said the lad.

"Good evening," said the North Wind.

"I want my rights for that meal of ours which you took," said the lad; "for as for that cloth I got, it isn't worth a penny."

"I've got no meal," said the North Wind; "but yonder you have a ram which coins nothing but golden ducats as soon as you say to it:

"'Ram, ram! make money!'"

So the lad thought this a fine thing but as it was too far to get home that day, he turned in for the night to the same inn where he had slept before.

Before he called for anything, he tried the truth of what the North Wind had said of the ram, and found it all right; but when the landlord saw that, he thought it was a famous ram, and, when the lad had fallen asleep, he took another which couldn't coin gold ducats, and changed the two.

Next morning off went the lad; and when he got home to his mother he said:

"After all, the North Wind is a jolly fellow; for now he has given me a ram which can coin golden ducats if I only say, 'Ram, ram! make money!'"

"All very true, I dare say," said his mother; "but I shan't believe any such stuff until I see the ducats made."

"Ram, ram! make money!" said the lad; but if the ram made anything it wasn't money.

So the lad went back again to the North Wind and blew him up, and said the ram was worth nothing, and he must have his rights for the meal.

"Well," said the North Wind; "I've nothing else to give you but that old stick in the corner yonder; but it's a stick of that kind that if you say:

"'Stick, stick! lay on!' it lays on till you say:

"'Stick, stick! now stop!'"

So, as the way was long, the lad turned in this night too to the landlord; but as he could pretty well guess how things stood as to the cloth and the ram, he lay down at once on the bench and began to snore, as if he were asleep.

Now the landlord, who easily saw that the stick must be worth something, hunted up one which was like it, and when he heard the lad snore, was going to change the two, but just as the landlord was about to take it the lad bawled out:

"Stick, stick! lay on!"

So the stick began to beat the landlord, till he jumped over chairs, and tables, and benches, and yelled and roared:

"Oh my! oh my! bid the stick be still, else it will beat me to death, and you shall have back both your cloth and your ram."

When the lad thought the landlord had got enough, he said:

"Stick, stick! now stop!"

Then he took the cloth and put it into his pocket, and went home with his stick in his hand, leading the ram by a cord round its horns; and so he got his rights for the meal he had lost.



IV

The Lad And The Deil


Once on a time there was a lad who was walking along a road cracking nuts, so he found one that was worm-eaten, and just at that very moment he met the Deil.

"Is it true, now," said the lad, "what they say, that the Deil can make himself as small as he chooses, and thrust himself on through a pinhole?"

"Yes, it is," said the Deil.

"Oh! it is, is it? then let me see you do it, and just creep into this nut," said the lad.

So the Deil did it.

Now, when he had crept well into it through the worm's hole, the lad stopped it up with a pin.

"Now, I've got you safe," he said, and put the nut into his pocket.

So when he had walked on a bit, he came to a smithy, and he turned in and asked the smith if he'd be good enough to crack that nut for him.

"Ay, that'll be an easy job," said the smith, and took his smallest hammer, laid the nut on the anvil, and gave it a blow, but it wouldn't break.

So he took another hammer a little bigger, but that wasn't heavy enough either.

Then he took one bigger still, but it was still the same story; and so the smith got wroth, and grasped his great sledge-hammer.

"Now, I'll crack you to bits," he said, and let drive at the nut with all his might and main. And so the nut flew to pieces with a bang that blew off half the roof of the smithy, and the whole house creaked and groaned as though it were ready to fall.

"Why! if I don't think the Deil must have been in that nut," said the smith.

"So he was; you're quite right," said the lad, as he went away laughing.



V

Ananzi And The Lion


Once on a time Ananzi planned a scheme. He went to town and bought ever so many firkins of fat, and ever so many sacks, and ever so many balls of string, and a very big frying pan, then he went to the bay and blew a shell, and called the Head-fish in the sea, "Green Eel," to him. Then he said to the fish, "The King sends me to tell you that you must bring all the fish on shore, for he wants to give them new life."

So "Green Eel" said he would, and went to call them. Meanwhile Ananzi lighted a fire, and took out some of the fat, and got his frying pan ready, and as fast as the fish came out of the water he caught them and put them into the frying pan, and so he did with all of them until he got to the Head-fish, who was so slippery that he couldn't hold him, and he got back again into the water.

When Ananzi had fried all the fish, he put them into the sacks, and took the sacks on his back, and set off to the mountains. He had not gone very far when he met Lion, and Lion said to him:

"Well, brother Ananzi, where have you been? I have not seen you a long time."

Ananzi said, "I have been travelling about."

"Oh! But what have you got there?" said the Lion.

"Oh! I have got my mother's bones -- she has been dead these forty-eleven years, and they say I must not keep her here, so I am taking her up into the middle of the mountains to bury her."

Then they parted. After he had gone a little way, the Lion said: "I know that Ananzi is a great rogue; I dare say he has got something there that he doesn't want me to see, and I will just follow him;" but he took care not to let Ananzi see him.

Now, when Ananzi got into the wood, he set his sacks down, and took one fish out and began to eat; then a fly came, and Ananzi said, "I cannot eat any more, for there is some one near;" so he tied the sack up, and went on farther into the mountains, where he set his sacks down, and took out two fish which he ate; and no fly came. He said, "There is no one near;" so he took out more fish. But when he had eaten about half a dozen the Lion came up and said:

"Well, brother Ananzi, a pretty tale you have told me."

"Oh! brother Lion, I am so glad you have come; never mind what tale I have told you, but come and sit down -- it was only my fun."

So Lion sat down and began to eat; but before Ananzi had eaten two fish, Lion had emptied one of the sacks. Then said Ananzi to himself:

"Greedy fellow, eating up all my fish."

"What do you say, sir?"

"I only said you do not eat half fast enough," for he was afraid the Lion would eat him up.

Then they went on eating, but Ananzi wanted to revenge himself, and he said to the Lion, "Which of us do you think is the stronger?"

The Lion said, "Why, I am, of course."

Then Ananzi said, "We will tie one another to the tree, and we shall see which is the stronger."

Now they agreed that the Lion should tie Ananzi first, and he tied him with some very fine string, and did not tie him tight. Ananzi twisted himself about two or three times, and the string broke.

Then it was Ananzi's turn to tie the Lion, and he took some very strong cord. The Lion said, "You must not tie me tight, for I did not tie you tight." And Ananzi said, "Oh! no, to be sure, I will not." But he tied him as tight as ever he could, and then told him to try and get loose.

The Lion tried and tried in vain -- he could not get loose. Then Ananzi thought, now is my chance; so he got a big stick and beat him, and then went away and left him, for he was afraid to loose him lest he should kill him.

Now there was a woman called Miss Nancy, who was going out one morning to get some "callalou" (spinach) in the wood, and as she was going she heard some one say, "Good morning, Miss Nancy!" She could not tell who spoke to her, but she looked where the voice came from, and saw the Lion tied to the tree.

"Good morning, Mr. Lion, what are you doing there?"

He said, "It is all that fellow Ananzi who has tied me to the tree, but will you loose me?"

But she said, "No, for I am afraid, if I do, you will kill me." But he gave her his word he would not; still she could not trust him; but he begged her again and again, and said:

"Well, if I do try to eat you, I hope all the trees will cry out shame upon me."

So at last she consented; but she had no sooner loosed him, than he came up to her to eat her, for he had been so many days without food that he was quite ravenous, but the trees immediately cried out, "Shame," and so he could not eat her. Then she went away as fast as she could, and the Lion found his way home.

When Lion got home he told his wife and children all that happened to him, and how Miss Nancy had saved his life, so they said they would have a great dinner, and ask Miss Nancy. Now when Ananzi heard of it, he wanted to go to the dinner, so he went to Miss Nancy, and said she must take him with her as her child, but she said, "No." Then he said, "I can turn myself into quite a little child and then you can take me," and at last she said, "Yes;" and he told her, when she was asked what pap her baby ate, she must be sure to tell them it did not eat pap, but the same food as every one else; and so they went, and had a very good dinner, and set off home again -- but somehow one of the Lion's sons fancied that all was not right, and he told his father he was sure it was Ananzi, and the Lion set out after him.

Now as they were going along, before the Lion got up to them, Ananzi begged Miss Nancy to put him down, that he might run, which he did, and he got away and ran along the wood, and the Lion ran after him. When he found the Lion was overtaking him, he turned himself into an old man with a bundle of wood on his head -- and when the Lion got up to him, he said, "Good morning, Mr. Lion," and the Lion said, "Good morning, old gentleman."

Then the old man said, "What are you after now?" and the Lion asked if he had seen Ananzi pass that way, but the old man said, "No, that fellow Ananzi is always meddling with some one; what mischief has he been up to now?"

Then the Lion told him, but the old man said it was no use to follow him any more, for he would never catch him, and so the Lion wished him good-day, and turned and went home again.



VI

The Grateful Foxes


One fine spring day two friends went out to a moor to gather fern, attended by a boy with a bottle of wine and a box of provisions. As they were straying about, they saw at the foot of a hill two foxes that had brought out their cub to play; and whilst they looked on, struck by the strangeness of the sight, three children came up from a neighbouring village with baskets in their hands, on the same errand as themselves. As soon as the children saw the foxes, they picked up a bamboo stick and took the creatures stealthily in the rear; and when the old foxes took to flight, they surrounded them and beat them with the stick, so that they ran away as fast as their legs could carry them; but two of the boys held down the cub, and, seizing it by the scruff of the neck, went off in high glee.

The two friends were looking on all the while, and one of them, raising his voice, shouted out, "Hallo! you boys! what are you doing with that fox?"

The eldest of the boys replied, "We're going to take him home and sell him to a young man in our village. He'll buy him, and then he'll boil him in a pot and eat him."

"Well," replied the other, after considering the matter attentively, "I suppose it's all the same to you whom you sell him to. You'd better let me have him."

"Oh, but the young man from our village promised us a good sum if we could find a fox, and got us to come out to the hills and catch one; and so we can't sell him to you at any price."

"Well, I suppose it cannot be helped, then; but how much would the young man give you for the cub?"

"Oh, he'll give us three hundred cash at least."

"Then I'll give you half a bu;[1] and so you'll gain five hundred cash by the transaction."

"Oh, we'll sell him for that, sir. How shall we hand him over to you?"

"Just tie him up here," said the other; and so he made fast the cub round the neck with the string of the napkin in which the luncheon-box was wrapped, and gave half a bu to the three boys, who ran away delighted.

The man's friend, upon this, said to him: "Well, certainly you have got queer tastes. What on earth are you going to keep the fox for?"

"How very unkind of you to speak of my tastes like that. If we had not interfered just now, the fox's cub would have lost its life. If we had not seen the affair, there would have been no help for it. How could I stand by and see life taken? It was but a little I spent -- only half a bu -- to save the cub, but had it cost a fortune I should not have grudged it. I thought you were intimate enough with me to know my heart; but to-day you have accused me of being eccentric, and I see how mistaken I have been in you. However, our friendship shall cease from this day forth."

And when he had said this with a great deal of firmness, the other, retiring backward and bowing with his hands on his knees, replied:

"Indeed, indeed, I am filled with admiration at the goodness of your heart. When I hear you speak thus, I feel more than ever how great is the love I bear you. I thought that you might wish to use the cub as a sort of decoy to lead the old ones to you, that you might pray them to bring prosperity and virtue to your house. When I called you eccentric just now, I was but trying your heart, because I had some suspicions of you; and now I am truly ashamed of myself."

And as he spoke, still bowing, the other replied: "Really! was that indeed your thought? Then I pray you to forgive me for my violent language."

When the two friends had thus become reconciled, they examined the cub, and saw that it had a slight wound in its foot, and could not walk; and while they were thinking what they should do, they spied out the herb called "Doctor's Nakasé," which was just sprouting; so they rolled up a little of it in their fingers and applied it to the part. Then they pulled out some boiled rice from their luncheon-box and offered it to the cub, but it showed no sign of wanting to eat; so they stroked it gently on the back and petted it; and as the pain of the wound seemed to have subsided, they were admiring the properties of the herb, when, opposite to them, they saw the old foxes sitting watching them by the side of some stacks of rice straw.

"Look there! the old foxes have come back, out of fear for their cub's safety. Come, we will set it free!" And with these words they untied the string round the cub's neck, and turned its head toward the spot where the old foxes sat; and as the wounded foot was no longer painful, with one bound it dashed to its parents' side and licked them all over for joy, while they seemed to bow their thanks, looking toward the two friends. So, with peace in their hearts, the latter went off to another place, and, choosing a pretty spot, produced the wine bottle and ate their noonday meal; and after a pleasant day, they returned to their homes, and became firmer friends than ever.

Now the man who had rescued the fox's cub was a tradesman in good circumstances: he had three or four agents and two maid-servants, besides men-servants; and altogether he lived in a liberal manner. He was married, and this union had brought him one son, who had reached his tenth year, but had been attacked by a strange disease which defied all the physicians' skill and drugs. At last a famous physician prescribed the liver taken from a live fox, which, as he said, would certainly effect a cure. If that were not forthcoming, the most expensive medicine in the world would not restore the boy to health. When the parents heard this, they were at their wits' end. However, they told the state of the case to a man who lived on the mountains. "Even though our child should die for it," they said, "we will not ourselves deprive other creatures of their lives; but you, who live among the hills, are sure to hear when your neighbours go out fox-hunting. We don't care what price we might have to pay for a fox's liver; pray, buy one for us at any expense." So they pressed him to exert himself on their behalf; and he, having promised faithfully to execute the commission, went his way.

In the night of the following day there came a messenger, who announced himself as coming from the person who had undertaken to procure the fox's liver; so the master of the house went out to see him.

"I have come from Mr. So-and-so. Last night the fox's liver that you required fell into his hands; so he sent me to bring it to you." With these words the messenger produced a small jar, adding, "In a few days he will let you know the price."

When he had delivered his message, the master of the house was greatly pleased and said, "Indeed, I am deeply grateful for this kindness, which will save my son's life."

Then the good wife came out, and received the jar with every mark of politeness.

"We must make a present to the messenger."

"Indeed, sir, I've already been paid for my trouble."

"Well, at any rate, you must stop the night here."

"Thank you, sir: I've a relation in the next village whom I have not seen for a long while, and I will pass the night with him;" and so he took his leave, and went away.

The parents lost no time in sending to let the physician know that they had procured the fox's liver. The next day the doctor came and compounded a medicine for the patient, which at once produced a good effect, and there was no little joy in the household. As luck would have it, three days after this the man whom they had commissioned to buy the fox's liver came to the house: so the goodwife hurried out to meet him and welcome him.

"How quickly you fulfilled our wishes, and how kind of you to send at once! The doctor prepared the medicine, and now our boy can get up and walk about the room; and it's all owing to your goodness."

"Wait a bit!" cried the guest, who did not know what to make of the joy of the two parents. "The commission with which you entrusted me about the fox's liver turned out to be a matter of impossibility, so I came to-day to make my excuses; and now I really can't understand what you are so grateful to me for."

"We are thanking you, sir," replied the master of the house, bowing with his hands on the ground, "for the fox's liver which we asked you to procure for us."

"I really am perfectly unaware of having sent you a fox's liver: there must be some mistake here. Pray inquire carefully into the matter."

"Well, this is very strange. Four nights ago, a man of some five or six and thirty years of age came with a verbal message from you, to the effect that you had sent him with a fox's liver, which you had just procured, and said that he would come and tell us the price another day. When we asked him to spend the night here, he answered that he would lodge with a relation in the next village, and went away."

The visitor was more and more lost in amazement, and, leaning his head on one side in deep thought, confessed that he could make nothing of it. As for the husband and wife, they felt quite out of countenance at having thanked a man so warmly for favours of which he denied all knowledge; and so the visitor took his leave and went home.

That night there appeared at the pillow of the master of the house a woman of about one or two and thirty years of age, who said: "I am the fox that lives at such-and-such a mountain. Last spring, when I was taking out my cub to play, it was carried off by some boys, and only saved by your goodness. The desire to requite this kindness pierced me to the quick. At last, when calamity attacked your house, I thought I might be of use to you. Your son's illness could not be cured without a liver taken from a live fox, so to repay your kindness I killed my cub and took out its liver; then its sire, disguising himself as a messenger, brought it to your house."

And as she spoke, the fox shed tears; and the master of the house, wishing to thank her, moved in bed, upon which his wife awoke and asked him what was the matter; but he too, to her great astonishment, was biting the pillow and weeping bitterly.

"Why are you weeping thus?" asked she.

At last he sat up in bed and said: "Last spring, when I was out on a pleasure excursion, I was the means of saving the life of a fox's cub, as I told you at the time. The other day I told Mr. So-and-so that, although my son were to die before my eyes, I would not be the means of killing a fox on purpose, but asked him, in case he heard of any hunter killing a fox, to buy it for me. How the foxes came to hear of this I don't know; but the foxes to whom I had shown kindness killed their own cub and took out the liver; and the old dog-fox, disguising himself as a messenger from the person to whom we had confided the commission, came here with it. His mate has just been at my pillow-side and told me all about it. Hence it was that, in spite of myself, I was moved to tears."

When she heard this, the goodwife likewise was blinded by her tears, and for a while they lay lost in thought; but at last, coming to themselves, they lighted the lamp on the shelf on which the family idol stood, and spent the night in reciting prayers and praises, and the next day they published the matter to the household and to their relations and friends. Now, although there are instances of men killing their own children to requite a favour, there is no other example of foxes having done such a thing; so the story became the talk of the whole country.

Now, the boy who had recovered through the efficacy of this medicine selected the prettiest spot on the premises to erect a shrine to Inari Sama,[2] the Fox God, and offered sacrifice to the two old foxes, for whom he purchased the highest rank at the court of the Mikado.

*    *    *    *    *

The passage in the tale which speaks of rank being purchased for the foxes at the court of the Mikado is, of course, a piece of nonsense. "The saints who are worshipped in Japan," writes a native authority, "are men who, in the remote ages, when the country was developing itself, were sages, and by their great and virtuous deeds having earned the gratitude of future generations, received divine honours after their death. How can the Son of Heaven, who is the father and mother of his people, turn dealer in ranks and honours? If rank were a matter of barter, it would cease to be a reward to the virtuous."

All matters connected with the shrines of the Shintô, or indigenous religion, are confided to the superintendence of the families of Yoshida and Fushimi, Kugés or nobles of the Mikado's court at Kiyôto. The affairs of the Buddhist or imported religion are under the care of the family of Kanjuji. As it is necessary that those who as priests perform the honourable office of serving the gods should be persons of some standing, a certain small rank is procured for them through the intervention of the representatives of the above noble families, who, on the issuing of the required patent, receive as their perquisite a fee, which, although insignificant in itself, is yet of importance to the poor Kugés, whose penniless condition forms a great contrast to the wealth of their inferiors in rank, the Daimios. I believe that this is the only case in which rank can be bought or sold in Japan. In China, on the contrary, in spite of what has been written by Meadows and other admirers of the examination system, a man can be what he pleases by paying for it; and the coveted button, which is nominally the reward of learning and ability, is more often the prize of wealthy ignorance.

The saints who are alluded to above are the saints of the whole country, as distinct from those who for special deeds are locally worshipped.

Touching the remedy of the fox's liver, prescribed in the tale, I may add that there would be nothing strange in this to a person acquainted with the Chinese pharmacopoeia, which the Japanese long exclusively followed, although they are now successfully studying the art of healing as practised in the West. When I was at Peking, I saw a Chinese physician prescribe a decoction of three scorpions for a child struck down with fever; and on another occasion a groom of mine, suffering from dysentery, was treated with acupuncture of the tongue. The art of medicine would appear to be at the present time in China much in the state in which it existed in Europe in the sixteenth century, when the excretions and secretions of all manner of animals, saurians, and venomous snakes and insects, and even live bugs, were administered to patients. "Some physicians," says Matthiolus, "use the ashes of scorpions, burnt alive, for retention caused by either renal or vesical calculi. But I have myself thoroughly experienced the utility of an oil I make myself, whereof scorpions form a very large portion of the ingredients. If only the region of the heart and all the pulses of the body be anointed with it, it will free the patients from the effects of all kinds of poisons taken by the mouth, corrosive ones excepted." Decoctions of Egyptian mummies were much commended, and often prescribed with due academical solemnity; and the bones of the human skull, pulverized and administered with oil, were used as a specific in cases of renal calculus. (See Petri Andree Matthioli "Opera," 1574.)

These remarks were made to me by a medical gentleman to whom I mentioned the Chinese doctor's prescription of scorpion tea, and they seem to me so curious that I insert them for comparison's sake.

Footnotes:

[Footnote 1: Bu. This coin is generally called by foreigners "ichibu," which means "one bu." To talk of "a hundred ichibus" is as though a Japanese were to say "a hundred one shillings." Four bus make a riyo, or ounce; and any sum above three bus is spoken of as so many riyos and bus -- as 101 riyos and three bus equal 407 bus. The bu is worth about 1s. 4d.]

[Footnote 2: Inari Sama is the title under which was deified a certain mythical personage, called Uga, to whom tradition attributes the honour of having first discovered and cultivated the rice-plant. He is represented carrying a few ears of rice, and is symbolized by a snake guarding a bale of rice grain. The foxes wait upon him, and do his bidding. Inasmuch as rice is the most important and necessary product of Japan, the honours which Inari Sama receives are extraordinary. Almost every house in the country contains somewhere about the grounds a pretty little shrine in his honour; and on a certain day of the second month of the year his feast is celebrated with much beating of drums and other noises, in which the children take a special delight. "On this day," says the O-Satsuyô, a Japanese cyclopedia, "at Yeddo, where there are myriads upon myriads of shrines to Inari Sama, there are all sorts of ceremonies. Long banners with inscriptions are erected, lamps and lanterns are hung up, and the houses are decked with various dolls and figures; the sound of flutes and drums is heard, and people dance and make holiday according to their fancy. In short, it is the most bustling festival of the Yeddo year."]



VII

The Badger's Money


It is a common saying among men that to forget favours received is the part of a bird or a beast: an ungrateful man will be ill spoken of by all the world. And yet even birds and beasts will show gratitude; so that a man who does not requite a favour is worse even than dumb brutes. Is not this a disgrace?

Once upon a time, in a hut at a place called Namékata, in Hitachi, there lived an old priest famous neither for learning nor wisdom, but bent only on passing his days in prayer and meditation. He had not even a child to wait upon him, but prepared his food with his own hands. Night and morning he recited the prayer "Namu Amida Butsu,"[3] intent upon that alone. Although the fame of his virtue did not reach far, yet his neighbours respected and revered him, and often brought him food and raiment; and when his roof or his walls fell out of repair, they would mend them for him; so for the things of this world he took no thought.

One very cold night, when he little thought any one was outside, he heard a voice calling, "Your reverence! your reverence!" So he rose and went out to see who it was, and there he beheld an old badger standing. Any ordinary man would have been greatly alarmed at the apparition; but the priest, being such as he has been described above, showed no sign of fear, but asked the creature its business. Upon this the badger respectfully bent its knees and said:

"Hitherto, sir, my lair has been in the mountains, and of snow or frost I have taken no heed; but now I am growing old, and this severe cold is more than I can bear. I pray you to let me enter and warm myself at the fire of your cottage, that I may live through this bitter night."

When the priest heard what a helpless state the beast was reduced to, he was filled with pity and said:

"That's a very slight matter: make haste and come in and warm yourself."

The badger, delighted with so good a reception, went into the hut, and squatting down by the fire began to warm itself; and the priest, with renewed fervour, recited his prayers and struck his bell before the image of Buddha, looking straight before him.

After two hours the badger took its leave, with profuse expressions of thanks, and went out; and from that time forth it came every night to the hut. As the badger would collect and bring with it dried branches and dead leaves from the hills for firewood, the priest at last became very friendly with it, and got used to its company; so that if ever, as the night wore on, the badger did not arrive, he used to miss it, and wonder why it did not come. When the winter was over, and the springtime came at the end of the second month, the badger gave up its visits, and was no more seen; but, on the return of the winter, the beast resumed its old habit of coming to the hut. When this practice had gone on for ten years, one day the badger said to the priest, "Through your reverence's kindness for all these years, I have been able to pass the winter nights in comfort. Your favours are such that during all my life, and even after my death, I must remember them. What can I do to requite them? If there is anything that you wish for, pray tell me."

The priest, smiling at this speech, answered: "Being such as I am, I have no desire and no wishes. Glad as I am to hear your kind intentions, there is nothing that I can ask you to do for me. You need feel no anxiety on my account. As long as I live, when the winter comes, you shall be welcome here." The badger, on hearing this, could not conceal its admiration of the depth of the old man's benevolence; but having so much to be grateful for, it felt hurt at not being able to requite it. As this subject was often renewed between them, the priest at last, touched by the goodness of the badger's heart, said: "Since I have shaven my head, renounced the world, and forsaken the pleasures of this life, I have no desire to gratify, yet I own I should like to possess three riyos in gold. Food and raiment I receive by the favour of the villagers, so I take no heed for those things. Were I to die to-morrow, and attain my wish of being born again into the next world, the same kind folk have promised to meet and bury my body. Thus, although I have no other reason to wish for money, still if I had three riyos I would offer them up at some holy shrine, that masses and prayers might be said for me, whereby I might enter into salvation. Yet I would not get this money by violent or unlawful means; I only think of what might be if I had it. So you see, since you have expressed such kind feelings toward me, I have told you what is on my mind." When the priest had done speaking, the badger leant its head on one side with a puzzled and anxious look, so much so that the old man was sorry he had expressed a wish which seemed to give the beast trouble, and tried to retract what he had said. "Posthumous honours, after all, are the wish of ordinary men. I, who am a priest, ought not to entertain such thoughts, or to want money; so pray pay no attention to what I have said;" and the badger, feigning assent to what the priest had impressed upon it, returned to the hills as usual.

From that time forth the badger came no more to the hut. The priest thought this very strange, but imagined either that the badger stayed away because it did not like to come without the money, or that it had been killed in an attempt to steal it; and he blamed himself for having added to his sins for no purpose, repenting when it was too late: persuaded, however, that the badger must have been killed, he passed his time in putting up prayers upon prayers for it.

After three years had gone by, one night the old man heard a voice near his door calling out, "Your reverence! your reverence!"

As the voice was like that of the badger, he jumped up as soon as he heard it, and ran to open the door; and there, sure enough, was the badger. The priest, in great delight, cried out: "And so you are safe and sound, after all! Why have you been so long without coming here? I have been expecting you anxiously this long while."

So the badger came into the hut and said: "If the money which you required had been for unlawful purposes, I could easily have procured as much as ever you might have wanted; but when I heard that it was to be offered to a temple for masses for your soul, I thought that, if I were to steal the hidden treasure of some other man, you could not apply to a sacred purpose money which had been obtained at the expense of his sorrow. So I went to the island of Sado,[4] and gathering the sand and earth which had been cast away as worthless by the miners, fused it afresh in the fire; and at this work I spent months and days." As the badger finished speaking, the priest looked at the money which it had produced, and sure enough he saw that it was bright and new and clean; so he took the money, and received it respectfully, raising it to his head.

"And so you have had all this toil and labour on account of a foolish speech of mine? I have obtained my heart's desire, and am truly thankful."

As he was thanking the badger with great politeness and ceremony, the beast said: "In doing this I have but fulfilled my own wish; still I hope that you will tell this thing to no man."

"Indeed," replied the priest, "I cannot choose but tell this story. For if I keep this money in my poor hut, it will be stolen by thieves: I must either give it to some one to keep for me, or else at once offer it up at the temple. And when I do this, when people see a poor old priest with a sum of money quite unsuited to his station, they will think it very suspicious, and I shall have to tell the tale as it occurred; but I shall say that the badger that gave me the money has ceased coming to my hut, you need not fear being waylaid, but can come, as of old, and shelter yourself from the cold." To this the badger nodded assent; and as long as the old priest lived, it came and spent the winter nights with him.

From this story, it is plain that even beasts have a sense of gratitude: in this quality dogs excel all other beasts. Is not the story of the dog of Totoribé Yorodzu written in the Annals of Japan? I[5] have heard that many anecdotes of this nature have been collected and printed in a book, which I have not yet seen; but as the facts which I have recorded relate to a badger, they appear to me to be passing strange.

Footnotes:

[Footnote 3: A Buddhist prayer, in which something approaching to the sounds of the original Sanscrit has been preserved. The meaning of the prayer is explained as, "Save us, eternal Buddha'" Many even of the priests who repeat it know it only as a formula, without understanding it.]

[Footnote 4: An island on the west coast of Japan, famous for its gold mines.]

[Footnote 5: The author of the tale.]



VIII

Why Brother Bear Has No Tail


"I 'clar' ter gracious, honey," Uncle Remus exclaimed one night, as the little boy ran in, "you sholy ain't chaw'd yo' vittles. Hit ain't bin no time, skacely, sence de supper-bell rung, en ef you go on dis a-way, you'll des nat'ally pe'sh yo'se'f out."

"Oh, I wasn't hungry," said the little boy. "I had something before supper, and I wasn't hungry anyway."

The old man looked keenly at the child, and presently he said:

"De ins en de outs er dat kinder talk all come ter de same p'int in my min'. Youer bin a-cuttin' up at de table, en Mars John, he tuck'n sont you 'way fum dar, en w'iles he think youer off some'er a-snifflin' en a-feelin' bad, yer you is a-high-primin' 'roun' des lak you done had mo' supper dan de King er Philanders."

Before the little boy could inquire about the King of Philanders he heard his father calling him. He started to go out, but Uncle Remus motioned him back.

"Des set right whar you is, honey -- des set right still."

Then Uncle Remus went to the door and answered for the child; and a very queer answer it was -- one that could be heard half over the plantation:

"Mars John, I wish you en Miss Sally be so good ez ter let dat chile 'lone. He down yer cryin' he eyes out, en he ain't boddern' 'long er nobody in de roun' worl'."

Uncle Remus stood in the door a moment to see what the reply would be, but he heard none. Thereupon he continued, in the same loud tone:

"I ain't bin use ter no sich gwines on in Ole Miss time, en I ain't gwine git use ter it now. Dat I ain't."

Presently 'Tildy, the house-girl, brought the little boy his supper, and the girl was no sooner out of hearing than the child swapped it with Uncle Remus for a roasted yam, and the enjoyment of both seemed to be complete.

"Uncle Remus," said the little boy, after a while, "you know I wasn't crying just now."

"Dat's so, honey," the old man replied, "but 't wouldn't er bin long 'fo' you would er bin, kaze Mars John bawl out lak a man wa't got a strop in he han', so wa't de diff'unce?"

When they had finished eating, Uncle Remus busied himself in cutting and trimming some sole-leather for future use. His knife was so keen, and the leather fell away from it so smoothly and easily, that the little boy wanted to trim some himself. But to this Uncle Remus would not listen.

"'Tain't on'y chilluns w'at got de consate er doin' eve'ything dey see yuther folks do. Hit's grown folks w'at oughter know better," said the old man. "Dat's des de way Brer B'ar git his tail broke off smick-smack-smoove, en down ter dis day he be funnies'-lookin' creetur w'at wobble on top er dry groun'."

Instantly the little boy forgot all about Uncle Remus's sharp knife.

"Hit seem lak dat in dem days Brer Rabbit en Brer Tarrypin done gone in cohoots fer ter outdo de t'er creeturs. One time Brer Rabbit tuck'n make a call on Brer Tarrypin, but w'en he git ter Brer Tarrypin house, he year talk fum Miss Tarrypin dat her ole man done gone fer ter spen' de day wid Mr. Mud-Turkle, w'ich dey wuz blood kin. Brer Rabbit he put out atter Brer Tarrypin, en w'en he got ter Mr. Mud-Turkle house, dey all sot up, dey did, en tole tales, en den w'en twelf er' clock come dey had crawfish fer dinner, en dey 'joy deyse'f right erlong. Atter dinner dey went down ter Mr. Mud-Turkle mill-pon,' en w'en dey git dar Mr. Mud-Turkle en Brer Tarrypin dey 'muse deyse'f, dey did, wid slidin' fum de top uv a big slantin' rock down inter de water.

"I'speck you moughter seen rocks in de water 'fo' now, whar dey git green en slipp'y," said Uncle Remus.

The little boy had not only seen them, but had found them to be very dangerous to walk upon, and the old man continued:

"Well, den, dish yer rock wuz mighty slick en mighty slantin'. Mr. Mud-Turkle, he'd crawl ter de top, en tu'n loose, en go a-sailin' down inter de water -- kersplash! Ole Brer Tarrypin, he'd foller atter, en slide down inter de water -- kersplash! Ole Brer Rabbit, he sot off, he did, en praise um up.

"W'iles dey wuz a-gwine on dis a-way, a-havin' der fun, en 'joyin' deyse'f, yer come ole Brer B'ar. He year um laffin' en holl'in', en he hail um.

"'Heyo, folks! W'at all dis? Ef my eye ain't 'ceive me, dish yer's Brer Rabbit, en Brer Tarrypin, en ole Unk' Tommy Mud-Turkle,' sez Brer B'ar, sezee.

"'De same,' sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, 'en yer we is 'joyin' de day dat passes des lak dey wa'n't no hard times.'

"'Well, well, well!' sez ole Brer B'ar, sezee, 'a-slippin' en a-slidin' en makin' free! En w'at de matter wid Brer Rabbit dat he ain't j'inin' in?' sezee.

"Ole Brer Rabbit he wink at Brer Tarrypin, en Brer Tarrypin he hunch Mr. Mud-Turkle, en den Brer Rabbit he up'n 'low, he did:

"'My goodness, Brer B'ar! you can't 'speck a man fer ter slip en slide de whole blessid day, kin you? I done had my fun, en now I'm a-settin' out yer lettin' my cloze dry. Hit's tu'n en tu'n about wid me en deze gents w'en dey's any fun gwine on,' sezee.

"'Maybe Brer B'ar might jine in wid us,' sez Brer Tarrypin, sezee.

"Brer Rabbit he des holler en laff.

"'Shoo!' sezee, 'Brer B'ar foot too big en he tail too long fer ter slide down dat rock,' sezee.

"Dis kinder put Brer B'ar on he mettle, en he up'n 'spon', he did:

"'Maybe dey is, en maybe dey ain't, yit I ain't a-feared ter try.'

"Wid dat de yuthers tuck'n made way fer 'im, en ole Brer B'ar he git up on de rock he did, en squot down on he hunkers, en quile he tail und' 'im, en start down. Fus' he go sorter slow, en he grin lak he feel good; den he go sorter peart, en he grin lak he feel bad; den he go mo' pearter, en he grin lak he skeerd; den he strack de slick part, en, gentermens! he swaller de grin en fetch a howl dat moughter bin yeard a mile, en he hit de water lak a chimbly a-fallin'.

"You kin gimme denial," Uncle Remus continued after a little pause, "but des ez sho' ez you er settin' dar, w'en Brer B'ar slick'd up en flew down dat rock, he break off he tail right smick-smack-smoove, en mo'n dat, w'en he make his disappear'nce up de big road, Brer Rabbit holler out:

"'Brer B'ar! -- O Brer B'ar! I year tell dat flaxseed poultices is mighty good fer so' places!'

"Yit Brer B'ar ain't look back."



IX

The Origin Of Rubies


There was a certain king who died leaving four sons behind him with his queen. The queen was passionately fond of the youngest of the princes. She gave him the best robes, the best horses, the best food, and the best furniture. The other three princes became exceedingly jealous of their youngest brother, and, conspiring against him and their mother, made them live in a separate house, and took possession of the estate. Owing to overindulgence, the youngest prince had become very wilful. He never listened to any one, not even to his mother, but had his own way in everything. One day he went with his mother to bathe in the river. A large boat was riding there at anchor. None of the boatmen were in it. The prince went into the boat, and told his mother to come into it. His mother besought him to get down from the boat, as it did not belong to him. But the prince said, "No, mother I am not coming down; I mean to go on a voyage, and if you wish to come with me, then delay not but come up at once, or I shall be off in a trice." The queen besought the prince to do no such thing, but to come down instantly. But the prince gave no heed to what she said, and began to take up the anchor. The queen went up into the boat in great haste; and the moment she was on board the boat started, and falling into the current passed on swiftly like an arrow. The boat went on and on till it reached the sea. After it had gone many furlongs into the open sea, the boat came near a whirlpool where the prince saw a great many rubies of monstrous size floating on the waters. Such large rubies no one had ever seen, each being in value equal to the wealth of seven kings. The prince caught hold of half-a-dozen of those rubies, and put them on board. His mother said, "Darling, don't take up those red balls; they must belong to somebody who has been shipwrecked, and we may be taken up as thieves." At the repeated entreaties of his mother, the prince threw them into the sea, keeping only one tied up in his clothes. The boat then drifted toward the coast, and the queen and the prince arrived at a certain port where they landed.

The port where they landed was not a small place; it was a large city, the capital of a great king. Not far from the palace, the queen and her son hired a hut where they lived. As the prince was yet a boy, he was fond of playing at marbles. When the children of the king came out to play on a lawn before the palace, our young prince joined them. He had no marbles, but he played with the ruby which he had in his possession. The ruby was so hard that it broke every taw against which it struck. The daughter of the king, who used to watch the games from a balcony of the palace, was astonished to see a brilliant red ball in the hand of the strange lad, and wanted to take possession of it. She told her father that a boy of the street had an uncommonly bright stone in his possession which she must have or else she would starve herself to death. The king ordered his servants to bring to him the lad with that precious stone. When the boy was brought, the king wondered at the largeness and brilliancy of the ruby. He had never seen anything like it. He doubted whether any king of any country in the world possessed so great a treasure. He asked the lad where he had got it. The lad replied that he got it from the sea. The king offered a thousand rupees for the ruby, and the lad, not knowing its value, readily parted with it for that sum. He went with the money to his mother, who was not a little frightened, thinking that her son had stolen the money from some rich man's house. She became quiet, however, on being assured that the money was given to him by the king in exchange for the red ball which he had picked up in the sea.

The king's daughter, on getting the ruby put it in her hair, and, standing before her pet parrot, said to the bird, "Oh, my darling parrot, don't I look very beautiful with this ruby in my hair?" The parrot replied, "Beautiful! you look quite hideous with it! What princess ever puts only one ruby in her hair? It would be somewhat feasible if you had two at least." Stung with shame at the reproach cast in her teeth by the parrot, the princess went into the grief-chamber of the palace, and would neither eat nor drink. The king was not a little concerned when he heard that his daughter had gone into the grief-chamber. He went to her, and asked her the cause of her grief. The princess told the king what her pet parrot had said, and added, "Father, if you do not procure for me another ruby like this, I'll put an end to my life by mine own hands." The king was overwhelmed with grief. Where was he to get another ruby like it? He doubted whether another like it could be found in the whole world. He ordered the lad who had sold the ruby, to be brought into his presence. "Have you, young man," asked the king, "another ruby like the one you sold me?" The lad replied: "No, I have not got one. Why, do you want another? I can give you lots, if you wish to have them. They are to be found in a whirlpool in the sea, far, far away. I can go and fetch some for you." Amazed at the lad's reply, the king offered rich rewards for procuring only another ruby of the same sort.

The lad went home and said to his mother that he must go to sea again to fetch some rubies for the king. The woman was quite frightened at the idea, and begged him not to go. But the lad was resolved on going, and nothing could prevent him from carrying out his purpose. He accordingly went alone on board that same vessel which had brought him and his mother, and set sail. He reached the whirlpool, from near which he had formerly picked up the rubies. This time, however, he determined to go to the exact spot whence the rubies were coming out. He went to the centre of the whirlpool, where he saw a gap reaching to the bottom of the ocean. He dived into it, leaving his boat to wheel round the whirlpool. When he reached the bottom of the ocean he saw there a beautiful palace. He went inside. In the central room of the palace there was the god Siva, with his eyes closed, and absorbed apparently in intense meditation. A few feet above Siva's head was a platform, on which lay a young lady of exquisite beauty. The prince went to the platform and saw that the head of the lady was separated from her body. Horrified at the sight, he did not know what to make of it. He saw a stream of blood trickling from the severed head, falling upon the matted head of Siva, and running into the ocean in the form of rubies. After a little two small rods, one of silver and one of gold, which were lying near the head of the lady, attracted his eyes. As he took up the rods in his hands, the golden rod accidentally fell upon the head, on which the head immediately joined itself to the body, and the lady got up. Astonished at the sight of a human being, the lady asked the prince who he was and how he had got there. After hearing the story of the prince's adventures, the lady said, "Unhappy young man, depart instantly from this place; for when Siva finishes his meditations he will turn you to ashes by a single glance of his eyes." The young man, however, would not go except in her company, as he was over head and ears in love with the beautiful lady. At last they both contrived to run away from the palace, and coming up to the surface of the ocean they climbed into the boat near the centre of the whirlpool, and sailed away toward land, having previously laden the vessel with a cargo of rubies. The wonder of the prince's mother at seeing the beautiful damsel may be well imagined. Early next morning the prince sent a basin full of big rubies, through a servant. The king was astonished beyond measure. His daughter, on getting the rubies, resolved on marrying the wonderful lad who had made a present of them to her. Though the prince had a wife, whom he had brought up from the depths of the ocean, he consented to have a second wife. They were accordingly married, and lived happily for years, begetting sons and daughters.

Here my story endeth, The Natiya-thorn withereth, etc.



X

Long, Broad, And Sharpsight


There was a king, who was already old, and had but one son. Once upon a time he called this son to him and said to him: "My dear son! you know that old fruit falls to make room for other fruit. My head is already ripening, and maybe the sun will soon no longer shine upon it; but before you bury me, I should like to see your wife, my future daughter. My son, marry!" The prince said: "I would gladly, father, do as you wish; but I have no bride, and don't know any." The old king put his hand into his pocket, took out a golden key and showed it to his son, with the words, "go up into the tower, to the top story, look round there, and then tell me which you fancy." The prince went without delay. Nobody within the memory of man had been up there or had ever heard what was up there.

When he got up to the last story, he saw in the ceiling a little iron door like a trap-door. It was closed. He opened it with the golden key, lifted it, and went up above it. There was a large circular room. The ceiling was blue like the sky on a clear night, and silver stars glittered on it, the floor was a carpet of green silk, and around in the wall were twelve high windows in golden frames, and in each window on crystal glass was a damsel painted with the colours of the rainbow, with a royal crown on her head, in each window a different one in a different dress, each handsomer than the other, and it was a wonder that the prince did not let his eyes dwell upon them. When he had gazed at them with astonishment, the damsels began to move as if they were alive, looked down upon him, smiled, and did everything but speak.

Now the prince observed that one of the twelve windows was covered with a white curtain; he drew the curtain to see what was behind it. There there was a damsel in a white dress, girt with a silver girdle, with a crown of pearls on her head; she was the most beautiful of all, but was sad and pale, as if she had risen from the grave. The prince stood long before the picture, as if he had made a discovery, and as he thus gazed, his heart pained him, and he cried, "This one will I have, and no other." As he said the words the damsel bowed her head, blushed like a rose, and that instant all the pictures disappeared.

When he went down and related to his father what he had seen and which damsel he had selected, the old king became sad, bethought himself, and said: "You have done ill, my son, in uncovering what was curtained over, and have placed yourself in great danger on account of those words. That damsel is in the power of a wicked wizard, and kept captive in an iron castle; of all who have attempted to set her free, not one has hitherto returned. But what's done cannot be undone; the plighted word is a law. Go! try your luck, and return home safe and sound!"

The prince took leave of his father, mounted his horse, and rode away in search of his bride. It came to pass that he rode through a vast forest, and through the forest he rode on and on till he lost the road. And as he was wandering with his horse in thickets and amongst rocks and morasses, not knowing which way to turn, he heard somebody shout behind him, "Hi! stop!" The prince looked round, and saw a tall man hastening after him. "Stop and take me with you, and take me into your service, and you won't regret it!" "Who are you," said the prince, "and what can you do?" "My name is Long, and I can extend myself. Do you see a bird's nest in that pine yonder? I will bring you the nest down without having to climb up."

Long then began to extend himself; his body grew rapidly till it was as tall as the pine; he then reached the nest, and in a moment contracted himself again and gave it to the prince. "You know your business well, but what's the use of birds' nests to me, if you can't conduct me out of this forest?"

"Ahem! that's an easy matter," said Long, and began to extend himself till he was thrice as high as the highest fir in the forest, looked round, and said: "Here on this side we have the nearest way out of the forest." He then contracted himself, took the horse by the bridle, and before the prince had any idea of it, they were beyond the forest. Before them was a long and wide plain, and beyond the plain tall gray rocks like the walls of a large town, and mountains overgrown with forest trees.

"Yonder, sir, goes my comrade!" said Long, and pointed suddenly to the plain; "you should take him also into your service; I believe he would serve you well." "Shout to him, and call him hither, that I may see what he is good for." "It is a little too far, sir," said Long; "he would hardly hear me, and it would take a long time before he came, because he has a great deal to carry. I'll jump after him instead." Then Long again extended himself to such a height that his head plunged into the clouds, made two or three steps, took his comrade by the arm, and placed him before the prince. He was a short, thick-set fellow, with a paunch like a sixty-four-gallon cask. "Who are you?" demanded the prince, "and what can you do?" "My name, sir, is Broad; I can widen myself." "Give me a specimen." "Ride quick, sir, quick, back into the forest!" cried Broad, as he began to blow himself out.

The prince didn't understand why he was to ride away; but seeing that Long made all haste to get into the forest, he spurred his horse and rode full gallop after him. It was high time that he did ride away, or else Broad would have squashed him, horse and all, as his paunch rapidly grew in all directions; it filled everything everywhere, just as if a mountain had rolled up. Broad then ceased to blow himself out, and took himself in again, raising such a wind that the trees in the forest bowed and bent, and became what he was at first. "You have played me a nice trick," said the prince, "but I shan't find such a fellow every day; come with me."

They proceeded further. When they approached the rocks, they met a man who had his eyes bandaged with a handkerchief. "Sir, this is our third comrade," said Long, "you ought to take him also into your service. I'm sure he won't eat his victuals for naught."

"Who are you?" the prince asked him, "and why are your eyes bandaged? You don't see your way!" "No, sir, quite the contrary! It is just because I see too well that I am obliged to bandage my eyes; I see with bandaged eyes just as well as others with unbandaged eyes; and if I unbandage them I look everything through and through, and when I gaze sharply at anything it catches fire and bursts into flame, and what can't burn splits into pieces. For this reason my name is Sharpsight." He then turned to a rock opposite, removed the bandage, and fixed his flaming eyes upon it; the rock began to crackle, pieces flew on every side, and in a very short time nothing of it remained but a heap of sand, on which something glittered like fire. Sharpsight went to fetch it, and brought it to the prince. It was pure gold.

"Heigho! you're a fellow that money can't purchase!" said the prince. "He is a fool who wouldn't make use of your services, and if you have such good sight, look and tell me whether it is far to the iron castle, and what is now going on there?" "If you rode by yourself, sir," answered Sharpsight, "maybe you wouldn't get there within a year; but with us you'll arrive to-day -- they're just getting supper ready for us." "And what is my bride doing?"

"An iron lattice is before her, In a tower that's high She doth sit and sigh, A wizard watch and ward keeps o'er her."

The prince cried, "Whoever is well disposed, help me to set her free!" They all promised to help him. They guided him among the gray rocks through the breach that Sharpsight had made in them with his eyes, and farther and farther on through rocks, through high mountains and deep forests, and wherever there was any obstacle in the road, forthwith it was removed by the three comrades. And when the sun was declining toward the west, the mountains began to become lower, the forests less dense, and the rocks concealed themselves amongst the heath; and when it was almost on the point of setting, the prince saw not far before him an iron castle; and when it was actually setting, he rode by an iron bridge to the gate, and as soon as it had set, up rose the iron bridge of itself, the gate closed with a single movement, and the prince and his companions were captives in the iron castle.

When they had looked round the court, the prince put his horse up in the stable, where everything was ready for it, and then they went into the castle. In the court, in the stable, in the castle hall, and in the rooms, they saw in the twilight many richly-dressed people, gentlemen and servants, but not one of them stirred -- they were all turned to stone. They went through several rooms, and came into the supper-room. This was brilliantly lighted up, and in the midst was a table, and on it plenty of good meats and drinks, and covers were laid for four persons. They waited and waited, thinking that some one would come: but when nobody came for a long time, they sat down and ate and drank what the palate fancied.

When they had done eating, they looked about to find where to sleep. Thereupon the door flew open unexpectedly all at once, and into the room came the wizard; a bent old man in a long black garb, with a bald head, a gray beard down to his knees, and three iron hoops instead of a girdle. By the hand he led a beautiful, very beautiful damsel, dressed in white; she had a silver girdle round her waist, and a crown of pearls on her head, but was pale and sad, as if she had risen from the grave. The prince recognized her at once, sprang forward, and went to meet her; but before he could utter a word the wizard addressed him: "I know for what you have come; you want to take the princess away. Well, be it so! Take her, if you can keep her in sight for three nights, so that she doesn't vanish from you. If she vanishes, you will be turned into stone as well as your three servants; like all who have come before you." He then motioned the princess to a seat and departed.

The prince could not take his eyes off the princess, so beautiful was she. He began to talk to her, and asked her all manner of questions, but she neither answered nor smiled, nor looked at any one more than if she had been of marble. He sat down by her, and determined not to sleep all night long lest she should vanish from him, and, to make surer, Long extended himself like a strap, and wound himself round the whole room along the wall; Broad posted himself in the doorway, swelled himself up, and stopped it up so tight that not even a mouse could have slipped through; while Sharpsight placed himself against a pillar in the midst of the room on the look-out. But after a time they all began to nod, fell asleep, and slept the whole night, just as if the wizard had thrown them into the water.

In the morning, when it began to dawn, the prince was the first to wake, but -- as if a knife had been thrust into his heart -- the princess was gone! He forthwith awoke his servants, and asked what was to be done. "Never mind, sir," said Sharpsight, and looked sharply out through the window, "I see her already. A hundred miles hence is a forest, in the midst of the forest an old oak, and on the top of the oak an acorn, and she is that acorn." Long immediately took him on his shoulders, extended himself, and went ten miles at a step, while Sharpsight showed him the way.

No more time elapsed than would have been wanted to move once round a cottage before they were back again, and Long delivered the acorn to the prince. "Sir, let it fall on the ground." The prince let it fall and that moment the princess stood beside him. And when the sun began to show itself beyond the mountains, the folding doors flew open with a crash, and the wizard entered the room and smiled spitefully; but when he saw the princess he frowned, growled, and bang! one of the iron hoops which he wore splintered and sprang off him. He then took the damsel by the hand and led her away.

The whole day after the prince had nothing to do but walk up and down the castle, and round about the castle, and look at the wonderful things that were there. It was everywhere as if life had been lost in a single moment. In one hall he saw a prince, who held in both hands a brandished sword, as if he intended to cleave somebody in twain; but the blow never fell: he had been turned into stone. In one chamber was a knight turned into stone, just as if he had been fleeing from some one in terror, and, stumbling on the threshold, had taken a downward direction, but not fallen. Under the chimney sat a servant, who held in one hand a piece of roast meat, and with the other lifted a mouthful toward his mouth, which never reached it; when it was just in front of his mouth, he had also been turned to stone. Many others he saw there turned to stone, each in the position in which he was when the wizard said, "Be turned into stone." He likewise saw many fine horses turned to stone, and in the castle and round the castle all was desolate and dead; there were trees, but without leaves; there were meadows, but without grass; there was a river but it did not flow; nowhere was there even a singing bird, or a flower, the offspring of the ground, or a white fish in the water.

Morning, noon, and evening the prince and his companions found good and abundant entertainment in the castle; the viands came of themselves, the wine poured itself out. After supper the folding doors opened again, and the wizard brought in the princess for the prince to guard. And although they all determined to exert themselves with all their might not to fall asleep, yet it was of no use, fall asleep again they did. And when the prince awoke at dawn and saw the princess had vanished, he jumped up and pulled Sharpsight by the arm, "Hey! get up, Sharpsight, do you know where the princess is?" He rubbed his eyes, looked, and said: "I see her. There's a mountain two hundred miles off, and in the mountain a rock, and in the rock a precious stone, and she's that precious stone. If Long carries me thither, we shall obtain her."

Long took him at once on his shoulders, extended himself, and went twenty miles at a step. Sharpsight fixed his flaming eyes on the mountain, the mountain crumbled, and the rock in it split into a thousand pieces, and amongst them glittered the precious stone. They took it up and brought it to the prince, and when he let it fall on the ground, the princess again stood there. When afterward the wizard came and saw her there, his eyes flashed with spite, and bang! again an iron hoop cracked upon him and flew off. He growled and led the princess out of the room.

That day all was again as it had been the day before. After supper the wizard brought the princess in again, looked the prince keenly in the face, and scornfully uttered the words, "It will be seen who's a match for whom; whether you are victorious or I," and with that he departed. This night they all exerted themselves still more to avoid going to sleep. They wouldn't even sit down, they wanted to walk about all night long, but all in vain; they were bewitched; one fell asleep after the other as he walked and the princess vanished away from them.

In the morning the prince again awoke earliest, and, when he didn't see the princess, woke Sharpsight. "Hey! get up, Sharpsight! look where the princess is!" Sharpsight looked out for a long time. "Oh, sir," says he, "she is a long way off, a long way off! Three hundred miles off is a black sea, and in the midst of the sea a shell on the bottom, and in the shell is a gold ring, and she's the ring. But never mind! we shall obtain her, but to-day Long must take Broad with him as well; we shall want him." Long took Sharpsight on one shoulder, and Broad on the other, and went thirty miles at a step. When they came to the black sea, Sharpsight showed him where he must reach into the water for the shell. Long extended his hand as far as he could, but could not reach the bottom.

"Wait, comrades! wait only a little and I'll help you," said Broad, and swelled himself out as far as his paunch would stretch; he then lay down on the shore and drank. In a very short time the water fell so low that Long easily reached the bottom and took the shell out of the sea. Out of it he extracted the ring, took his comrades on his shoulders and hastened back. But on the way he found it a little difficult to run with Broad, who had half a sea of water inside him, so he cast him from his shoulder on to the ground in a wide valley. Thump he went like a sack let fall from a tower, and in a moment the whole valley was under water like a vast lake. Broad himself barely crawled out of it.

Meanwhile the prince was in great trouble in the castle. The dawn began to display itself over the mountains, and his servants had not returned; the more brilliantly the rays ascended, the greater was his anxiety; a deadly perspiration came out upon his forehead. Soon the sun showed itself in the east like a thin slip of flame -- and then with a loud crash the door flew open, and on the threshold stood the wizard. He looked round the room, and seeing the princess was not there, laughed a hateful laugh and entered the room. But just at that moment, pop! the window flew in pieces, the gold ring fell on the floor, and in an instant there stood the princess again. Sharpsight, seeing what was going on in the castle, and in what danger his master was, told Long. Long made a step, and threw the ring through the window into the room. The wizard roared with rage till the castle quaked, and then, bang! went the third iron hoop that was round his waist, and sprang off him; the wizard turned into a raven, and flew out and away through the shattered window.

Then, and not till then, did the beautiful damsel speak and thank the prince for setting her free, and blushed like a rose. In the castle and round the castle everything became alive again at once. He who was holding in the hall the outstretched sword, swung it into the air, which whistled again, and then returned it to its sheath; he who was stumbling on the threshold, fell on the ground, but immediately got up again and felt his nose to see whether it was still entire; he who was sitting under the chimney put the piece of meat into his mouth and went on eating; and thus everybody completed what he had begun doing, and at the point where he had left off. In the stables the horses merrily stamped and snorted, the trees round the castle became green like periwinkles, the meadows were full of variegated flowers, high in the air warbled the skylark, and abundance of small fishes appeared in the clear river. Everywhere was life, everywhere enjoyment.

Meanwhile a number of gentlemen assembled in the room where the prince was, and all thanked him for their liberation. But he said: "You have nothing to thank me for; if it had not been for my trusty servants Long, Broad, and Sharpsight, I too, should have been what you were." He then immediately started on his way home to the old king, his father, with his bride and servants. On the way they met Broad and took him with them.

The old king wept for joy at the success of his son; he had thought he would return no more. Soon afterward there was a grand wedding, the festivities of which lasted three weeks; all the gentlemen that the prince had liberated were invited. After the wedding Long, Broad, and Sharpsight announced to the young king that they were going again into the world to look for work. The young king tried to persuade them to stay with him. "I will give you everything you want, as long as you live," said he; "you needn't work at all." But they didn't like such an idle life, took leave of him, went away, and have been ever since knocking about somewhere or other in the world.



XI

Intelligence And Luck


Once upon a time Luck met Intelligence on a garden-seat. "Make room for me!" said Luck. Intelligence was then as yet inexperienced, and didn't know who ought to make room for whom. He said: "Why should I make room for you? you're no better than I." "He's the better man," answered Luck, "who performs most. See you there yon peasant's son who's ploughing in the field? Enter into him, and if he gets on better through you than through me, I'll always submissively make way for you, whensoever and wheresoever we meet." Intelligence agreed, and entered at once into the ploughboy's head. As soon as the ploughboy felt that he had intelligence in his head, he began to think: "Why must I follow the plough to the day of my death? I can go somewhere else and make my fortune more easily." He left off ploughing, put up the plough, and drove home. "Daddy," says he, "I don't like this peasant's life; I'd rather learn to be a gardener." His father said: "What ails you, Vanek? have you lost your wits?" However, he bethought himself and said: "Well, if you will, learn, and God be with you! Your brother will be heir to the cottage after me." Vanek lost the cottage, but he didn't care for that, but went and put himself apprentice to the king's gardener. For every little that the gardener showed him, Vanek comprehended ever so much more. Ere long he didn't even obey the gardener's orders as to how he ought to do anything, but did everything his own way. At first the gardener was angry, but, seeing everything thus getting on better, he was content. "I see that you've more intelligence than I," said he, and henceforth let Vanek garden as he thought fit. In no long space of time Vanek made the garden so beautiful that the king took great delight in it, and frequently walked in it with the queen and with his only daughter.

The princess was a very beautiful damsel, but ever since she was twelve years old she had ceased speaking, and no one ever heard a single word from her. The king was much grieved, and caused a proclamation to be made that whoever should bring it to pass that she should speak again, should be her husband. Many young kings, princes, and other great lords announced themselves one after the other, but all went away as they had come; no one succeeded in causing her to speak. "Why shouldn't I try my luck?" thought Vanek; "who knows whether I mayn't succeed in bringing her to answer when I ask her a question?" He at once caused himself to be announced at the palace, and the king and his councillors conducted him into the room where the princess was. The king's daughter had a pretty little dog, and was very fond of him, because he was so clever, understanding everything that she wanted. When Vanek went into the room with the king and his councillors, he made as if he didn't even see the princess, but turned to the dog and said: "I have heard, doggie, that you are very clever, and I come to you for advice. We are three companions in travel, a sculptor, a tailor, and myself. Once upon a time we were going through a forest and were obliged to pass the night in it. To be safe from wolves, we made a fire, and agreed to keep watch one after the other. The sculptor kept watch first, and for amusement to kill time took a log and carved a damsel out of it. When it was finished, he woke the tailor to keep watch in his turn. The tailor, seeing the wooden damsel, asked what it meant. 'As you see,' said the sculptor, 'I was weary, and didn't know what to do with myself, so I carved a damsel out of a log; if you find time hang heavy on your hands, you can dress her.' The tailor at once took out his scissors, needle and thread, cut out the clothes, stitched away, and, when they were ready, dressed the damsel in them. He then called me to come and keep watch. I, too, asked him what the meaning of all this was. 'As you see,' said the tailor, 'the sculptor found time hang heavy on his hands and carved a damsel out of a log, and I for the same reason clothed her; and if you find time hanging on your hands, you can teach her to speak.' And by morning dawn I had actually taught her to speak. But in the morning when my companions woke up, each wanted to possess the damsel. The sculptor said, 'I made her;' the tailor, 'I clothed her.' I, too, maintained my right. Tell me, therefore, doggie, to which of us the damsel belongs." The dog said nothing, but instead of the dog the princess replied: "To whom can she belong but to yourself? What's the good of the sculptor's damsel without life? What's the good of the tailor's dressing without speech? You gave her the best gift, life and speech, and therefore she by right belongs to you." "You have passed your own sentence," said Vanek; "I have given you speech again and a new life, and you therefore by right belong to me." Then said one of the king's councillors: "His Royal Grace will give you a plenteous reward for succeeding in unloosing his daughter's tongue; but you cannot have her to wife, as you are of mean lineage." The king said: "You are of mean lineage; I will give you a plenteous reward instead of our daughter." But Vanek wouldn't hear of any other reward, and said: "The king promised without any exception, that whoever caused his daughter to speak again should be her husband. A king's word is law; and if the king wants others to observe his laws, he must first keep them himself. Therefore the king must give me his daughter." "Seize and bind him!" shouted the councillor. "Whoever says the king must do anything, offers an insult to his Majesty, and is worthy of death. May it please your Majesty to order this malefactor to be executed with the sword?" The king said: "Let him be executed." Vanek was immediately bound and led to execution. When they came to the place of execution Luck was there waiting for him, and said secretly to Intelligence: "See how this man has got on through you, till he has to lose his head! Make way, and let me take your place!" As soon as Luck entered Vanek, the executioners sword broke against the scaffold, just as if some one had snapped it; and before they brought him another, up rode a trumpeter on horseback from the city, galloping as swift as a bird, trumpeted merrily, and waved a white flag, and after him came the royal carriage for Vanek. This is what had happened: The princess had told her father at home that Vanek had but spoken the truth, and the king's word ought not to be broken. If Vanek were of mean lineage the king could easily make him a prince. The king said: "You're right; let him be a prince!" The royal carriage was immediately sent for Vanek, and the councillor who had irritated the king against him was executed in his stead. Afterward, when Vanek and the princess were going together in a carriage from the wedding, Intelligence happened to be somewhere on the road, and seeing that he couldn't help meeting Luck, bent his head and slipped on one side, just as if cold water had been thrown upon him. And from that time forth it is said that Intelligence has always given a wide berth to Luck whenever he has had to meet him.



XII

George With The Goat


There was a king who had a daughter who never could be induced to laugh; she was always sad. So the king proclaimed that she should be given to any one who could cause her to laugh. There was also a shepherd who had a son named George. He said: "Daddy! I, too, will go to see whether I can make her laugh. I want nothing from you but the goat." His father said, "Well, go." The goat was of such a nature that, when her master wished, she detained everybody, and that person was obliged to stay by her.

So he took the goat and went, and met a man who had a foot on his shoulder. George said: "Why have you a foot on your shoulder?" He replied: "If I take it off, I leap a hundred miles." "Whither are you going?" "I am going in search of service, to see if any one will take me." "Well, come with us."

They went on, and again met a man who had a bandage on his eyes. "Why have you a bandage on your eyes?" He answered, "If I remove the bandage, I see a hundred miles." "Whither are you going?" "I am going in search of service, if you will take me." "Yes, I'll take you. Come also with me."

They went on a bit farther, and met another fellow, who had a bottle under his arm, and, instead of a stopper, held his thumb in it. "Why do you hold your thumb there?" "If I pull it out, I squirt a hundred miles, and besprinkle everything that I choose. If you like, take me also into your service; it may be to your advantage and ours too." George replied: "Well, come, too!"

Afterward they came to the town where the king lived, and bought a silken riband for the goat. They came to an inn, and orders had already been given there beforehand, that when such people came, they were to give them what they liked to eat and drink -- the king would pay for all. So they tied the goat with that very riband and placed it in the innkeeper's room to be taken care of, and he put it in the side room where his daughters slept. The innkeeper had three maiden daughters, who were not yet asleep. So Manka said: "Oh! if I, too, could have such a riband! I will go and unfasten it from that goat." The second, Dodla, said: "Don't; he'll find it out in the morning." But she went notwithstanding. And when Manka did not return for a long time, the third, Kate, said: "Go, fetch her." So Dodla went, and gave Manka a pat on the back. "Come, leave it alone!" And now she, too, was unable to withdraw herself from her. So Kate said: "Come, don't unfasten it!" Kate went and gave Dodla a pat on the petticoat; and now she, too, couldn't get away, but was obliged to stay by her.

In the morning George made haste and went for the goat, and led the whole set away -- Kate Dodla, and Manka. The innkeeper was still asleep. They went through the village, and the judge looked out of a window and said, "Fie, Kate! what's this? what's this?" He went and took her by the hand, wishing to pull her away, but remained also by her. After this, a cowherd drove some cows through a narrow street, and the bull came rushing round; he stuck fast, and George led him, too, in the procession.

Thus they afterward came in front of the castle, and the servants came out-of-doors; and when they saw such things they went and told the king. "Oh, sire, we have such a spectacle here; we have already had all manner of masquerades, but this has never been here yet." So they immediately led the king's daughter to the square in front of the castle, and she looked and laughed till the castle shook.

Now they asked him what sort of person he was. He said that he was a shepherd's son, and was named George. They said that it could not be done; for he was of mean lineage, and they could not give him the damsel; but he must accomplish something more for them. He said, "What?" They replied that there was a spring yonder, a hundred miles off; if he brought a goblet of water from it in a minute, then he should obtain the damsel. So George said to the man who had the foot on his shoulder: "You said that if you took the foot down, you could jump a hundred miles." He replied: "I'll easily do that." He took the foot down, jumped, and was there. But after this there was only a very little time to spare, and by then he ought to have been back. So George said to the other: "You said that if you removed the bandage from your eyes, you could see a hundred miles. Peep and see what is going on." "Ah, sir! Goodness gracious! he's fallen asleep!" "That will be a bad job," said George; "the time will be up. You, third man, you said if you pulled your thumb out, you could squirt a hundred miles; be quick and squirt thither, that he may get up. And you, look whether he is moving, or what." "Oh, sir, he's getting up now; he's knocking the dust off; he's drawing the water." He then gave a jump, and was there exactly in time.

After this they said that he must perform one task more; that yonder, in a rock, was a wild beast, a unicorn, of such a nature that he destroyed a great many of their people; if he cleared him out of the world he should obtain the damsel. So he took his people and went into the forest. They came to a firwood. There were three wild beasts, and three lairs had been formed by wallowing as they lay. Two did nothing: but the third destroyed the people. So they took some stones and some pine-cones in their pockets, and climbed up into a tree; and when the beasts lay down, they dropped a stone down upon that one which was the unicorn. He said to the next: "Be quiet; don't butt me." It said: "I'm not doing anything to you." Again they let a stone fall from above upon the unicorn. "Be quiet! you've already done it to me twice." "Indeed, I'm doing nothing to you." So they attacked each other and fought together. The unicorn wanted to pierce the second beast through; but it jumped out of the way, and he rushed so violently after it, that he struck his horn into a tree, and couldn't pull it out quickly. So they sprang speedily down from the fir, and the other two beasts ran away and escaped, but they cut off the head of the third, the unicorn, took it up, and carried it to the castle.

Now those in the castle saw that George had again accomplished that task. "What, prithee, shall we do? Perhaps we must after all give him the damsel!" "No, sire," said one of the attendants, "that cannot be; he is too lowborn to obtain a king's daughter! On the contrary, we must clear him out of the world." So the king ordered them to note his words, what he should say. There was a hired female servant there, and she said to him: "George, it will be evil for you to-day; they're going to clear you out of the world." He answered: "Oh, I'm not afraid. When I was only just twelve years old, I killed twelve of them at one blow!" But this was the fact: when his mother was baking a flat-cake, a dozen flies settled upon her, and he killed them all at a single blow.

When they heard this, they said: "Nothing else will do but we must shoot him." So they drew up the soldiers, and said they would hold a review in his honour, for they would celebrate the wedding in the square before the castle. Then they conducted him thither, and the soldiers were already going to let fly at him. But George said to the man who held his thumb in the bottle in the place of a stopper: "You said, if you pulled your thumb out, you could besprinkle everything. Pull it out -- quick!" "Oh, sir, I'll easily perform that." So he pulled out his thumb and gave them all such a sprinkling that they were all blind, and not one could see.

So, when they perceived that nothing else was to be done, they told him to go, for they would give him the damsel. Then they gave him a handsome royal robe, and the wedding took place. I, too, was at the wedding; they had music there, sang, ate, and drank; there was meat, there were cheesecakes, and baskets full of everything, and buckets full of strong waters. To-day I went, yesterday I came; I found an egg among the tree-stumps; I knocked it against somebody's head, and gave him a bald place, and he's got it still.



XIII

The Wonderful Hair


There was a man who was very poor, but so well supplied with children that he was utterly unable to maintain them, and one morning more than once prepared to kill them, in order not to see their misery in dying of hunger, but his wife prevented him. One night a child came to him in his sleep, and said to him: "Man! I see that you are making up your mind to destroy and to kill your poor little children, and I know that you are distressed there at; but in the morning you will find under your pillow a mirror, a red kerchief, and an embroidered pocket-handkerchief; take all three secretly and tell nobody; then go to such a hill; by it you will find a stream; go along it till you come to its fountain-head; there you will find a damsel as bright as the sun, with her hair hanging down over her back. Be on your guard, that the ferocious she-dragon do not coil round you; do not converse with her if she speaks; for if you converse with her, she will poison you, and turn you into a fish or something else, and will then devour you but if she bids you examine her head, examine it, and as you turn over her hair, look, and you will find one hair as red as blood; pull it out and run back again; then, if she suspects and begins to run after you, throw her first the embroidered pocket-handkerchief, then the kerchief, and, lastly, the mirror; then she will find occupation for herself. And sell that hair to some rich man; but don't let them cheat you, for that hair is worth countless wealth; and you will thus enrich yourself and maintain your children."

When the poor man awoke, he found everything under his pillow, just as the child had told him in his sleep; and then he went to the hill. When there, he found the stream, went on and on alongside of it, till he came to the fountain-head. Having looked about him to see where the damsel was, he espied her above a piece of water, like sunbeams threaded on a needle, and she was embroidering at a frame on stuff, the threads of which were young men's hair. As soon as he saw her, he made a reverence to her, and she stood on her feet and questioned him: "Whence are you, unknown young man?" But he held his tongue. She questioned him again: "Who are you? Why have you come?" and much else of all sorts; but he was as mute as a stone, making signs with his hands, as if he were deaf and wanted help. Then she told him to sit down on her skirt. He did not wait for any more orders, but sat down, and she bent down her head to him, that he might examine it. Turning over the hair of her head, as if to examine it, he was not long in finding that red hair, and separated it from the other hair, pulled it out, jumped off her skirt and ran away back as he best could. She noticed it, and ran at his heels full speed after him. He looked round, and seeing that she was about to overtake him, threw, as he was told, the embroidered pocket-handkerchief on the way, and when she saw the pocket-handkerchief she stooped and began to overhaul it in every direction, admiring the embroidery, till he had got a good way off. Then the damsel placed the pocket-handkerchief in her bosom, and ran after him again. When he saw that she was about to overtake him, he threw the red kerchief, and she again occupied herself, admiring and gazing, till the poor man had again got a good way off. Then the damsel became exasperated, and threw both the pocket-handkerchief and the kerchief on the way, and ran after him in pursuit. Again, when he saw that she was about to overtake him, he threw the mirror. When the damsel came to the mirror, the like of which she had never seen before, she lifted it up, and when she saw herself in it, not knowing that it was herself, but thinking that it was somebody else, she, as it were, fell in love with herself in the mirror, and the man got so far off that she was no longer able to overtake him. When she saw that she could not catch him, she turned back, and the man reached his home safe and sound. After arriving at his home, he showed his wife the hair, and told her all that had happened to him, but she began to jeer and laugh at him. But he paid no attention to her, and went to a town to sell the hair. A crowd of all sorts of people and merchants collected round him; one offered a sequin, another two, and so on, higher and higher, till they came to a hundred gold sequins. Just then the emperor heard of the hair, summoned the man into his presence, and said to him that he would give him a thousand sequins for it, and he sold it to him. What was the hair? The emperor split it in two from top to bottom, and found registered in it in writing many remarkable things, which happened in the olden time since the beginning of the world. Thus the man became rich and lived on with his wife and children. And that child, that came to him in his sleep, was an angel sent by the Lord God, whose will it was to aid the poor man, and to reveal secrets which had not been revealed till then.



XIV

The Dragon And The Prince


There was an emperor who had three sons. One day the eldest son went out hunting, and, when he got outside the town, up sprang a hare out of a bush, and he after it, and hither and thither, till the hare fled into a water-mill, and the prince after it. But it was not a hare, but a dragon, and it waited for the prince and devoured him. When several days had elapsed and the prince did not return home, people began to wonder why it was that he was not to be found. Then the middle son went hunting, and as he issued from the town, a hare sprang out of a bush, and the prince after it, and hither and thither, till the hare fled into the water-mill and the prince after it; but it was not a hare, but a dragon, which waited for and devoured him. When some days had elapsed and the princes did not return, either of them, the whole court was in sorrow. Then the third son went hunting, to see whether he could not find his brothers. When he issued from the town, again up sprang a hare out of a bush, and the prince after it, and hither and thither, till the hare fled into the water-mill. But the prince did not choose to follow it, but went to find other game, saying to himself: "When I return I shall find you." After thus he went for a long time up and down the hill, but found nothing, and then returned to the water-mill; but when he got there, there was only an old woman in the mill. The prince invoked God in addressing her: "God help you, old woman!" The old woman replied: "God help you, my son!" Then the prince asked her: "Where, old woman, is my hare?" She replied: "My son, that was not a hare, but a dragon. It kills and throttles many people." Hearing this, the prince was somewhat disturbed, and said to the old woman: "What shall we do now? Doubtless my two brothers also have perished here." The old woman answered: "They have indeed; but there's no help for it. Go home, my son, lest you follow them." Then he said to her: "Dear old woman, do you know what? I know that you will be glad to liberate yourself from that pest." The old woman interrupted him: "How should I not? It captured me, too, in this way, but now I have no means of escape." Then he proceeded: "Listen well to what I am going to say to you. Ask it whither it goes and where its strength is; then kiss all that place where it tells you its strength is, as if from love, till you ascertain it, and afterward tell me when I come." Then the prince went off to the palace, and the old woman remained in the water-mill. When the dragon came in, the old woman began to question it: "Where in God's name have you been? Whither do you go so far? You will never tell me whither you go." The dragon replied: "Well, my dear old woman, I do go far." Then the old woman began to coax it: "And why do you go so far? Tell me where your strength is. If I knew where your strength is, I don't know what I should do for love; I would kiss all that place." Thereupon the dragon smiled and said to her: "Yonder is my strength, in that fireplace." Then the old woman began to fondle and kiss the fireplace, and the dragon on seeing it burst into a laugh and said to her: "Silly old woman, my strength isn't there; my strength is in that tree-fungus in front of the house." Then the old woman began again to fondle and kiss the tree, and the dragon again laughed, and said to her: "Away, old woman! my strength isn't there." Then the old woman inquired: "Where is it?" The dragon began to give an account in detail: "My strength is a long way off, and you cannot go thither. Far in another empire under the emperor's city is a lake, in that lake is a dragon, and in that dragon a boar, and in the boar a pigeon, and in that is my strength." The next morning when the dragon went away from the mill, the prince came to the old woman, and the old woman told him all that she had heard from the dragon. Then he left his home, and disguised himself; he put shepherd's boots to his feet, took a shepherd's staff in his hand, and went into the world. As he went on thus from village to village, and from town to town, at last he came into another empire and into the imperial city, in a lake under which the dragon was. On going into the town he began to inquire who wanted a shepherd. The citizens told him that the emperor did. Then he went straight to the emperor. After he announced himself, the emperor admitted him into his presence, and asked him: "Do you wish to keep sheep?" He replied: "I do, illustrious crown!" Then the emperor engaged him, and began to inform and instruct him: "There is here a lake, and alongside of the lake very beautiful pasture, and when you call the sheep out, they go thither at once, and spread themselves round the lake; but whatever shepherd goes off there, that shepherd returns back no more. Therefore, my son, I tell you, don't let the sheep have their own way and go where they will, but keep them where you will." The prince thanked the emperor, got himself ready, and called out the sheep, taking with him, more-over, two hounds that could catch a boar in the open country, and a falcon that could capture any bird, and carrying also a pair of bagpipes. When he called out the sheep he let them go at once to the lake, and when the sheep arrived at the lake, they immediately spread round it, and the prince placed the falcon on a stump, and the hounds and bagpipes under the stump, then tucked up his hose and sleeves, waded into the lake, and began to shout: "Dragon, dragon! come out to single combat with me to-day that we may measure ourselves together, unless you're a woman."[6] The dragon called out in reply, "I will do so now, prince -- now!" Erelong behold the dragon! it is large, it is terrible, it is disgusting! When the dragon came out, it seized him by the waist, and they wrestled a summer day till afternoon. But when the heat of afternoon came on, the dragon said: "Let me go, prince, that I may moisten my parched head in the lake, and toss you to the sky." But the prince replied: "Come, dragon, don't talk nonsense; if I had the emperor's daughter to kiss me on the forehead, I would toss you still higher." Thereupon, the dragon suddenly let him go, and went off into the lake. On the approach of evening, he washed and got himself up nicely, placed the falcon on his arm, the hounds behind him, and the bagpipes under his arm, then drove the sheep and went into the town playing on the bagpipes. When he arrived at the town, the whole town assembled as to see a wondrous sight because he had come, whereas previously no shepherd had been able to come from the lake. The next day the prince got ready again, and went with his sheep straight to the lake. But the emperor sent two grooms after him to go stealthily and see what he did, and they placed themselves on a high hill whence they could have a good view. When the shepherd arrived, he put the hounds and bagpipes under the stump and the falcon upon it, then tucked up his hose and sleeves waded into the lake and shouted: "Dragon, dragon! come out to single combat with me, that we may measure ourselves once more together, unless you are a woman!" The dragon replied: "I will do so, prince, now, now!" Erelong, behold the dragon! it was large, it was terrible, it was disgusting! And it seized him by the waist and wrestled with him a summer's day till afternoon. But when the afternoon heat came on, the dragon said: "Let me go, prince, that I may moisten my parched head in the lake, and may toss you to the sky." The prince replied: "Come, dragon, don't talk nonsense; if I had the emperor's daughter to kiss me on the forehead, I would toss you still higher." Thereupon the dragon suddenly left hold of him, and went off into the lake. When night approached the prince drove the sheep as before, and went home playing the bagpipes When he arrived at the town, the whole town was astir and began to wonder because the shepherd came home every evening, which no one had been able to do before. Those two grooms had already arrived at the palace before the prince, and related to the emperor in order everything that they had heard and seen. Now when the emperor saw that the shepherd returned home, he immediately summoned his daughter into his presence and told her all, what it was and how it was. "But," said he, "to-morrow you must go with the shepherd to the lake and kiss him on the forehead." When she heard this she burst into tears and began to entreat her father. "You have no one but me, and I am your only daughter, and you don't care about me if I perish." Then the emperor began to persuade and encourage her: "Don't fear, my daughter; you see we have had so many changes of shepherds, and of all that went out to the lake not one has returned; but he had been contending with the dragon for two whole days and it has done him no hurt. I assure you, in God's name, that he is able to overcome the dragon, only go to-morrow with him to see whether he will free us from this mischief which has destroyed so many people."

When, on the morrow, the day dawned and the sun came forth, up rose the shepherd, up rose the maiden too, to begin to prepare for going to the lake. The shepherd was cheerful, more cheerful than ever, but the emperor's daughter was sad and shed tears. The shepherd comforted her: "Lady sister, I pray you, do not weep, but do what I tell you. When it is time, run up and kiss me, and fear not." As he went and drove the sheep, the shepherd was thoroughly cheery, and played a merry tune on his bagpipes; but the damsel did nothing but weep as she went beside him, and he several times left off playing and turned toward her: "Weep not, golden one; fear nought." When they arrived at the lake, the sheep immediately spread round it, and the prince placed the falcon on the stump, and the hounds and bagpipes under it, then tucked up his hose and sleeves, waded into the water, and shouted: "Dragon! dragon! Come out to single combat with me; let us measure ourselves once more, unless you're a woman!" The dragon replied: "I will, prince; now, now!" Erelong, there was the dragon! it was huge, it was terrible, it was disgusting! When it came out, they seized each other by the middle, and wrestled a summer's day till afternoon. But when the afternoon heat came on, the dragon said: "Let me go, prince, that I may moisten my parched head in the lake, and toss you to the skies." The prince replied: "Come, dragon, don't talk nonsense; if I had the emperor's daughter to kiss me on the forehead, I would toss you much higher." When he said this, the emperor's daughter ran up and kissed him on the face, on the eye, and on the forehead. Then he swung the dragon, and tossed it high into the air, and when it fell to the ground it burst into pieces. But as it burst into pieces, out of it sprang a wild boar, and started to run away. But the prince shouted to his shepherd dogs: "Hold it! don't let it go!" and the dogs sprang up and after it, caught it, and soon tore it to pieces. But out of the boar flew a pigeon, and the prince loosed the falcon, and the falcon caught the pigeon and brought it into the prince's hands. The prince said to it: "Tell me now, where are my brothers?" The pigeon replied: "I will; only do me no harm. Immediately behind your father's town is a water-mill, and in the water-mill are three wands that have sprouted up. Cut these three wands up from below, and strike with them upon their root; an iron door will immediately open into a large vault. In that vault are many people, old and young, rich and poor, small and great, wives and maidens, so that you could settle a populous empire; there, too, are your brothers." When the pigeon had told him all this, the prince immediately wrung its neck.

The emperor had gone out in person, and posted himself on the hill from which the grooms had viewed the shepherd, and he, too, was a spectator of all that had taken place. After the shepherd had thus obtained the dragon's head, twilight began to approach. He washed himself nicely, took the falcon on his shoulder, the hounds behind him, and the bagpipes under his arm, played as he went, drove the sheep, and proceeded to the emperor's palace, with the damsel at his side still in terror. When they came to the town, all the town assembled as to see a wonder. The emperor, who had seen all his heroism from the hill, called him into his presence, and gave him his daughter, went immediately to church, had them married, and held a wedding festival for a week. After this the prince told him who and whence he was, and the emperor and the whole town rejoiced still more. Then, as the prince was urgent to go to his own home, the emperor gave him a large escort, and equipped him for the journey. When they were in the neighbourhood of the water-mill, the prince halted his attendants, went inside, cut up the three wands, and struck the root with them, and the iron door opened at once. In the vault was a vast multitude of people. The prince ordered them to come out one by one, and go whither each would, and stood himself at the door. They came out thus one after another, and lo! there were his brothers also, whom he embraced and kissed. When the whole multitude had come out, they thanked him for releasing and delivering them, and went each to his own home. But he went to his father's house with his brothers and bride, and there lived and reigned to the end of his days.

Footnotes:

[Footnote 6: This is intended as an insult. "Azhdaja," a dragon, is feminine in Servian.]



XV

The Good Children


The Lord was angered at mankind, and for three years there was a great famine over all the world; nowhere in the world was even a grain of corn produced, and what people sowed failed to come up from a drought so great that for three years there was not a drop of rain or dew. For one year more people managed to live somehow or other, thrashing up what old corn there was; the rich made money, for corn rose very high. Autumn came. Where anybody had or purchased old seed, they sowed it; and entreated the Lord, hoped in the love of God, if God would give fertility, "if God would forgive our sins." But it was not so. They did not obtain the love of God. When they cast the seed into the holy earth, that was the last they saw of it; if it germinated somewhat, if it sent up shoots, it withered away close to the ground. Woe! and abundance of it! God's world went on, sorrowed and wept, for now it was manifest that death by hunger was approaching. They somehow got miserably through the winter. Spring came. Where anybody had still any grain, they sowed it. What would come to pass? No blessing was poured forth, for the thought began with wind. Moreover, there was but little snow in the winter, and everything dried up so that the black earth remained as it was. It now came to this -- all the world began to perish! The people died; the cattle perished; as misery carried them, so did the people proceed.

There was at that time a powerful emperor in a certain empire: as the young ordinarily cleave to the young, so would he associate only with young men. Whether in council or in office or in the army, there were none but young men; no old men had access to anything anywhere. Well, as young men, unripe in understanding, were the councillors, so was their counsel also unripe. One year passed; a second passed; then, in the third year, they saw that misery was already on every side, that it was already coming to this, that all the world would perish. The young emperor assembled his young council, and they began to advise after their fashion; they advised, they advised, and ah! the resolutions they came to were such that it is a sin even to give an account of their resolutions! Well, the emperor made proclamation after their advice, that all old people were to be drowned, in order that, said he, bread might not be wasted in vain, but there might be a supply of bread for the young; and that no one should venture, on pain of death, to maintain or harbour any old man. Well, heralds went about throughout the whole country, and promulgated the emperor's command everywhere -- yea, brigands seized old people where they chose, and drowned them without mercy.

There were then in a certain place three own brothers, who had an aged father. When they heard of this edict, they told their father; and their father said: "My sons, such is the will of God and the will of the emperor; take me, let me perish at once, only that you, my children, may live on. I am already with one foot in the grave," "No, our own daddy! we will die, but we will not give you up," cried the good sons with one voice, and fell upon his neck; "we will keep you; we will take from our own mouths, and will nourish you."

The three brothers took their aged father, conducted him into their cottage, dug under the raised portion of the floor, made up a bed with sheets and frieze-coats, for straw was scarce, and placed the old man there, brought him a loaf of bread as black as the holy earth, and covered him over with the floor. There the old man abode for two or three months, and his sons brought him clandestinely all they had. The summer passed without harvest, without mowing. September passed too. Autumn passed without joy. Winter passed too. Now came spring; the sun became warm. It was now time to sow, but there was no seed. The world was large, but there was no seed-corn. When one kind was used up, the people sowed others, hoping that there would be a crop; but when they cast it into the holy earth, it rotted there. It seemed as if the end of the world were come.

Then the three sons went to their father, and asked him: "Daddy, what shall we do? It's time to sow. God is now sending showers of rain; the earth is warmed and is crumbling like grits; but of seed there is not a blessed grain," "Take, my sons, and strip the old roof off the house, and thresh the bundles and sow the chaff." The lads stripped the house and barn (anyhow, there was nothing in it), and threshed away till the sweat ran from their brows, so that they crushed the bundles as small as poppy-seeds. When they sowed, God gave a blessing; so in a week's time it became green like rue; in a month's time, in two months' time, there was corn, ever so much -- ever so much, and all manner of seed was found there: there was rye, there was wheat and barley; yea, maybe, there was also a plant or two of buckwheat and millet. Wherever you went throughout the world there was no corn to be seen; all the plain was overgrown with grasses, steppe-grasses, and thistles, but with them was corn like a forest. How people wondered and were astounded! The fame thereof went over the whole world, and the news reached the emperor himself, that in such and such a place there were three own brothers, and with them corn had sprung up for all the world, and so beautiful, never was the like beheld! The emperor ordered the three brothers to appear in the imperial presence.

The brothers heard of it, and smacked the tops of their heads with their hands. "Now it will be amen with us!" They went again to their father. "Daddy! they tell us to appear before the emperor. Advise us, daddy, what to do!" "Go, my sons -- what will be, will be; and tell the pure truth before the emperor." The brothers started off and went to the emperor. The emperor inquired menacingly: "Why, villains, did ye hoard up corn, when there was such a famine that so many people died of hunger? Tell the truth; if not I shall order you to be tortured and racked even unto death." The brothers related all as it had been, from the beginning to the end. "Now, most gracious emperor, give us over to any torture whatever, or let thy kindness have compassion on us!" The emperor's brow became smooth, his eyes became serene. He then ordered the old father to be brought before him at once, and made him sit beside him close to his throne, and hearkened to his counsel till death, and his sons he rewarded handsomely. He ordered the corn to be collected ear by ear, and to be rubbed out in men's hands; and sent it about for seed-corn in all empires, and from it was produced holy corn for all the world.



XVI

The Dun Horse[7]


I

Many years ago there lived in the Pawnee tribe an old woman and her grandson a boy about sixteen years old. These people had no relations and were very poor. They were so poor that they were despised by the rest of the tribe. They had nothing of their own; and always, after the village started to move the camp from one place to another, these two would stay behind the rest, to look over the old camp and pick up anything that the other Indians had thrown away as worn out or useless. In this way they would sometimes get pieces of robes, wornout moccasins with holes in them, and bits of meat.

Now, it happened one day, after the tribe had moved away from the camp, that this old woman and her boy were following along the trail behind the rest, when they came to a miserable old wornout dun horse, which they supposed had been abandoned by some Indians. He was thin and exhausted, was blind of one eye, had a bad sore back, and one of his forelegs was very much swollen. In fact, he was so worthless that none of the Pawnees had been willing to take the trouble to try to drive him along with them. But when the old woman and her boy came along, the boy said, "Come now, we will take this old horse, for we can make him carry our pack." So the old woman put her pack on the horse, and drove him along, but he limped and could only go very slowly.


II

The tribe moved up on the North Platte, until they came to Court House Rock. The two poor Indians followed them, and camped with the others. One day while they were here, the young men who had been sent out to look for buffalo, came hurrying into camp and told the chiefs that a large herd of buffalo were near, and that among them was a spotted calf.

The Head Chief of the Pawnees had a very beautiful daughter, and when he heard about the spotted calf, he ordered his old crier to go about through the village and call out that the man who killed the spotted calf should have his daughter for his wife. For a spotted robe is ti-war'-uks-ti -- big medicine.

The buffalo were feeding about four miles from the village, and the chiefs decided that the charge should be made from there. In this way, the man who had the fastest horse would be the most likely to kill the calf. Then all the warriors and the young men picked out their best and fastest horses, and made ready to start. Among those who prepared for the charge was the poor boy on the old dun horse. But when they saw him, all the rich young braves on their fast horses pointed at him and said, "Oh, see; there is the horse that is going to catch the spotted calf;" and they laughed at him, so that the poor boy was ashamed, and rode off to one side of the crowd, where he could not hear their jokes and laughter.

When he had ridden off some little way the horse stopped and turned his head round, and spoke to the boy. He said, "Take me down the creek, and plaster me all over with mud. Cover my head and neck and body and legs." When the boy heard the horse speak, he was afraid; but he did as he was told. Then the horse said, "Now mount, but do not ride back to the warriors, who laugh at you because you have such a poor horse. Stay right here until the word is given to charge." So the boy stayed there.

And presently all the fine horses were drawn up in line and pranced about, and were so eager to go that their riders could hardly hold them in; and at last the old crier gave the word, "Loo-ah!" -- Go! Then the Pawnees all leaned forward on their horses and yelled, and away they went. Suddenly, away off to the right, was seen the old dun horse. He did not seem to run. He seemed to sail along like a bird. He passed all the fastest horses, and in a moment he was among the buffalo. First he picked out the spotted calf, and charging up alongside of it, U-ra-rish! straight flew the arrow. The calf fell. The boy drew another arrow, and killed a fat cow that was running by. Then he dismounted and began to skin the calf, before any of the other warriors had come up. But when the rider got off the old dun horse, how changed he was! He pranced about and would hardly stand still near the dead buffalo. His back was all right again; his legs were well and fine; and both his eyes were clear and bright.

The boy skinned the calf and the cow that he had killed, and then he packed all the meat on the horse, and put the spotted robe on top of the load, and started back to the camp on foot, leading the dun horse. But even with this heavy load the horse pranced all the time, and was scared at everything he saw. On the way to camp, one of the rich young chiefs of the tribe rode up by the boy and offered him twelve good horses for the spotted robe, so that he could marry the Head Chief's beautiful daughter; but the boy laughed at him and would not sell the robe.

Now, while the boy walked to the camp leading the dun horse, most of the warriors rode back, and one of those that came first to the village went to the old woman and said to her, "Your grandson has killed the spotted calf." And the old woman said, "Why do you come to tell me this? You ought to be ashamed to make fun of my boy, because he is poor." The warrior said, "What I have told you is true," and then he rode away. After a little while another brave rode up to the old woman, and said to her, "Your grandson has killed the spotted calf." Then the old woman began to cry, she felt so badly because every one made fun of her boy, because he was poor.

Pretty soon the boy came along, leading the horse up to the lodge where he and his grandmother lived. It was a little lodge, just big enough for two, and was made of old pieces of skin that the old woman had picked up, and was tied together with strings of rawhide and sinew. It was the meanest and worst lodge in the village. When the old woman saw her boy leading the dun horse with the load of meat and the robes on it, she was very surprised. The boy said to her, "Here, I have brought you plenty of meat to eat, and here is a robe, that you may have for yourself. Take the meat off the horse." Then the old woman laughed, for her heart was glad. But when she went to take the meat from the horse's back, he snorted and jumped about, and acted like a wild horse. The old woman looked at him in wonder, and could hardly believe that it was the same horse. So the boy had to take off the meat, for the horse would not let the old woman come near him.


III

That night the horse spoke again to the boy and said, "Wa-ti-hes Chah'-ra-rat wa-ta. Tomorrow the Sioux are coming -- a large war party. They will attack the village, and you will have a great battle. Now, when the Sioux are all drawn up in line of battle, and are all ready to fight, you jump on to me, and ride as hard as you can, right into the middle of the Sioux, and up to their Head Chief, their greatest warrior, and count coup on him, and kill him, and then ride back. Do this four times, and count coup on four of the bravest Sioux, and kill them, but don't go again. If you go the fifth time, maybe you will be killed, or else you will lose me. La-ku'-ta-chix -- remember." So the boy promised.

The next day it happened as the horse had said, and the Sioux came down and formed in line of battle. Then the boy took his bow and arrows, and jumped on the dun horse, and charged into the midst of them. And when the Sioux saw that he was going to strike their Head Chief, they all shot their arrows at him, and the arrows flew so thickly across each other that they darkened the sky, but none of them hit the boy. And he counted coup on the Chief, and killed him, and then rode back. After that he charged again among the Sioux, where they were gathered thickest, and counted coup on their bravest warrior, and killed him. And then twice more, until he had gone four times as the horse had told him.

But the Sioux and the Pawnees kept on fighting, and the boy stood around and watched the battle. And at last he said to himself, "I have been four times and have killed four Sioux, and I am all right, I am not hurt anywhere; why may I not go again?" So he jumped on the dun horse, and charged again. But when he got among the Sioux, one Sioux warrior drew an arrow and shot. The arrow struck the dun horse behind the forelegs and pierced him through. And the horse fell down dead. But the boy jumped off, and fought his way through the Sioux, and ran away as fast as he could to the Pawnees. Now, as soon as the horse was killed, the Sioux said to each other: "This horse was like a man. He was brave. He was not like a horse." And they took their knives and hatchets, and hacked the dun horse and gashed his flesh, and cut him into small pieces.

The Pawnees and Sioux fought all day long, but toward night the Sioux broke and fled.


IV

The boy felt very badly that he had lost his horse; and, after the fight was over, he went out from the village to where it had taken place, to mourn for his horse. He went to the spot where the horse lay, and gathered up all the pieces of flesh, which the Sioux had cut off, and the legs and the hoofs, and put them all together in a pile. Then he went off to the top of a hill near by, and sat down and drew his robe over his head, and began to mourn for his horse.

As he sat there, he heard a great wind-storm coming up, and it passed over him with a loud rushing sound, and after the wind came a rain. The boy looked down from where he sat to the pile of flesh and bones, which was all that was left of his horse, and he could just see it through the rain. And the rain passed by, and his heart was very heavy, and he kept on mourning.

And pretty soon came another rushing wind, and after it a rain; and as he looked through the driving rain toward the spot where the pieces lay, he thought that they seemed to come together and take shape, and that the pile looked like a horse lying down, but he could not see well for the thick rain.

After this came a third storm like the others; and now when he looked toward the horse he thought he saw its tail move from side to side two or three times, and that it lifted its head from the ground. The boy was afraid, and wanted to run away, but he stayed.

And as he waited, there came another storm. And while the rain fell, looking through the rain, the boy saw the horse raise himself up on his forelegs and look about. Then the dun horse stood up.


V

The boy left the place where he had been sitting on the hilltop, and went down to him. When the boy had come near to him, the horse spoke and said: "You have seen how it has been this day; and from this you may know how it will be after this. But Ti-ra'-wa has been good, and has let me come back to you. After this, do what I tell you; not any more, not any less." Then the horse said: "Now lead me off, far away from the camp, behind that big hill, and leave me there to-night, and in the morning come for me;" and the boy did as he was told.

And when he went for the horse in the morning, he found with him a beautiful white gelding, much more handsome than any horse in the tribe. That night the dun horse told the boy to take him again to the place behind the big hill, and to come for him the next morning; and when the boy went for him again, he found with him a beautiful black gelding. And so for ten nights, he left the horse among the hills, and each morning he found a different coloured horse, a bay, a roan, a gray, a blue, a spotted horse, and all of them finer than any horses that the Pawnees had ever had in their tribe before.

Now the boy was rich, and he married the beautiful daughter of the Head Chief, and when he became older he was made Head Chief himself. He had many children by his beautiful wife, and one day when his oldest boy died, he wrapped him in the spotted calf robe and buried him in it. He always took good care of his old grandmother, and kept her in his own lodge until she died. The dun horse was never ridden except at feasts, and when they were going to have a doctors' dance, but he was always led about with the Chief wherever he went. The horse lived in the village for many years, until he became very old. And at last he died.

Footnotes:

[Footnote 7: From "Pawnee Hero Stories and Folk Tales." Copyright, 1890, by George Bird Grinnell; published by Charles Scribner's Sons.]



XVII

The Greedy Youngster


Once upon a time there were five women who were in a field reaping corn. None of them had any children, but they were all wishing for a child. All at once they found a big goose egg, almost as big as a man's head.

"I saw it first," said one. "I saw it just as soon as you did," shouted another. "But I'll have it," screamed the third, "I saw it first of all."

Thus they kept on quarrelling and fighting about the egg, and they were very near tearing each other's hair. But at last they agreed that it should belong to them all, and that they should sit on it as the geese do and hatch a gosling. The first woman sat on it for eight days, taking it very comfortably and doing nothing at all, while the others had to work hard both for their own and her living. One of the women began to make some insinuations to her about this.

"Well, I suppose you didn't come out of the egg either before you could chirp," said the woman who was on the egg, "But I think there is something in this egg, for I fancy I can hear some one inside grumbling every other moment: 'Herring and soup! Porridge and milk!' You can come and sit for eight days now, and then we will sit and work in turn, all of us."

So when the fifth in turn had sat for eight days, she heard plainly some one inside the egg screeching for "Herring and soup! Porridge and milk!" And so she made a hole in it; but instead of a gosling out came a baby, but it was awfully ugly, and had a big head and a tiny little body. The first thing it screamed out for, as soon as it put its head outside the egg, was "Herring and soup! Porridge and milk!" And so they called it "the greedy youngster."

Ugly as he was, they were fond of him at first; but before long he became so greedy that he ate up all the meat they had. When they boiled a dish of soup or a pot of porridge which they thought would be sufficient for all six, he finished it all by himself. So they would not have him any longer.

"I have not had a decent meal since this changeling crept out of the eggshell," said one of them, and when the youngster heard that they were all of the same opinion, he said he was quite willing to go his way; "if they did not want him, he was sure he did not want them," and with that he left the place.

After a long time he came to a farm where the fields were full of stones, and he went in and asked for a situation. They wanted a labourer on the farm, and the farmer put him to pick up stones from the field. Yes, the youngster went to work and picked up the stones, some of which were so big that they would make many cartloads; but whether they were big or small, he put them all into his pocket. It did not take him long to finish that job, so he wanted to know what he should do next.

"You will have to get all the stones out of the field," said the farmer. "I suppose you can't be ready before you have commenced?"

But the youngster emptied his pockets and threw all the stones in a heap. Then the farmer saw that he had finished the work, and he thought he ought to look well after one who was so strong. He must come in and get something to eat, he said. The youngster thought so too, and he alone ate what was prepared both for master and servants, and still he was only half satisfied.

"He is the right sort of man for a labourer, but he is a terrible eater, to be sure," thought the farmer. "A man like him would eat a poor farmer out of house and home before anybody knew a word about it," he said. He had no more work for him; it was best for him to go to the king's palace.

The youngster set out for the palace, where he got a place at once. There was plenty of food and plenty of work. He was to be errand boy, and to help the girls to carry wood and water and do other odd jobs. So he asked what he was to do first.

"You had better chop some wood in the mean time," they said. Yes, he commenced to chop and cut wood till the splinters flew about him. It was not long before he had chopped up everything in the place, both firewood and timber, both rafters and beams, and when he was ready with it, he came in and asked what he was to do now.

"You can finish chopping the wood," they said.

"There is no more to chop," he answered.

That could not be possible, thought the overlooker, and had a look into the wood-shed. But yes, the youngster had chopped up everything; he had even cut up the timber and planks in the place. This was vexatious, the overlooker said; and then he told the youngster that he should not taste food until he had gone into the forest and cut just as much timber as he had chopped up for firewood.

The youngster went to the smithy and got the smith to help him to make an axe of five hundredweight of iron, and then he set out for the forest and began to make a regular clearance, not only of the pine and the lofty fir trees, but of everything else which was to be found in the king's forests, and in the neighbours' as well. He did not stop to cut the branches or the tops off, but he left them lying there as if a hurricane had blown them down. He put a proper load on the sledge and put all the horses to it, but they could not even move it; so he took the horses by the heads to give the sledge a start, but he pulled so hard that the horses' heads came off. He then turned the horses out of the shafts and drew the load himself.

When he came to the palace, the king and his overlooker were standing in the hall to give him a scolding for having destroyed the forest -- the overlooker had been there and seen what he had been doing. But when the king saw the youngster dragging half the forest after him, he got both angry and afraid; but he thought he had better be a little careful with him, since he was strong.

"Well, you are a wonderful workman, to be sure," said the king; "but how much do you eat at a time, because I suppose you are hungry now?"

Oh, when he was to have a proper meal of porridge, it would take twelve barrels of meal to make it, thought the youngster; but when he had put that away, he could wait awhile, of course, for his next meal.

It took some time to boil such a dish of porridge, and meantime he was to bring in a little firewood for the cook. He put a lot of wood on a sledge, but when he was coming through the door with it he was a little rough and careless again. The house got almost out of shape, and all the joists creaked; he was very near dragging down the whole palace. When the porridge was nearly ready, they sent him out to call the people home from the fields. He shouted so that the mountains and hills around rang with echoes, but the people did not come quick enough for him. He came to blows with them, and killed twelve of them.

"You have killed twelve men," said the king; "and you eat for many times twelve; but how many do you work for?"

"For many times twelve as well," answered the youngster.

When he had finished his porridge, he was to go into the barn to thrash. He took one of the rafters from the roof and made a flail out of it, and when the roof was about to fall in, he took a big pine tree with branches and all and put it up instead of the rafter. So he went on thrashing the grain and the straw and the hay all together. This was doing more damage than good, for the corn and the chaff flew about together, and a cloud of dust arose over the whole palace.

When he had nearly finished thrashing, enemies came into the country, as a war was coming on. So the king told the youngster that he should take men with him to go and meet the enemy and fight them, for the king thought they would surely kill him.

No, he would not have any men with him to be cut to pieces; he would fight by himself, answered the youngster.

"So much the better," thought the king; "the sooner I shall get rid of him; but he must have a proper club."

They sent for the smith; he forged a club which weighed a hundredweight. "A very nice thing to crack nuts with," said the youngster. So the smith made one of three hundredweight. "It would be very well for hammering nails into boots," was the answer. Well, the smith could not make a bigger one with the men he had. So the youngster set out for the smithy himself, and made a club that weighed five tons, and it took a hundred men to turn it on the anvil. "That one might do for lack of a better," thought the youngster. He wanted next a bag with some provisions; they had to make one out of fifteen oxhides, and they filled it with food, and away he went down the hill with the bag on his back and the club on his shoulder.

When he came so far that the enemy saw him, they sent a soldier to ask him if he was going to fight them.

"Yes; but wait a little till I have had something to eat," said the youngster. He threw himself down on the grass and began to eat with the big bag of food in front of him.

But the enemy would not wait, and commenced to fire at him at once, till it rained and hailed around him with bullets.

"I don't mind these crowberries a bit," said the youngster, and went on eating harder than ever. Neither lead nor iron took any effect upon him, and his bag with food in front of him guarded him against the bullets as if it were a rampart.

So they commenced throwing bomb-shells and firing cannons at him. He only grinned a little every time he felt them.

"They don't hurt me a bit," he said. But just then he got a bomb-shell right down his windpipe.

"Fy!" he shouted, and spat it out again; but then a chain-shot made its way into his butter-can, and another carried away the piece of food he held between his fingers.

That made him angry; he got up and took his big club and struck the ground with it, asking them if they wanted to take the food out of his mouth, and what they meant by blowing crowberries at him with those pea-shooters of theirs. He then struck the ground again till the hills and rocks rattled and shook, and sent the enemy flying in the air like chaff. This finished the war.

When he came home again, and asked for more work, the king was taken quite aback, for he thought he should have got rid of him in the war. He knew of nothing else but to send him on a message to the devil.

"You had better go to the devil and ask him for my ground-rent," he said. The youngster took his bag on his back, and started at once. He was not long in getting there, but the devil was gone to court, and there was no one at home but his mother, and she said that she had never heard talk of any ground-rent. He had better call again another time.

"Yes, call again to-morrow is always the cry," he said; but he was not going to be made a fool of, he told her. He was there, and there he would remain till he got the ground-rent. He had plenty of time to wait. But when he had finished all the food in his bag, the time hung heavy on his hands, and then he asked the old lady for the ground-rent again. She had better pay it now, he said.

"No, she was going to do nothing of the sort," she said. Her words were as firm as the old fir tree just outside the gates, which was so big that fifteen men could scarcely span it.

But the youngster climbed right up in the top of it and twisted and turned it as if it was a willow, and then he asked her if she was going to pay the ground-rent now.

Yes, she dared not do anything else, and scraped together as much money as he thought he could carry in his bag. He then set out for home with the ground-rent, but as soon as he was gone the devil came home. When he heard that the youngster had gone off with his bag full of money, he first of all gave his mother a hiding, and then he started after him, thinking he would soon overtake him.

He soon came up to him, for he had nothing to carry, and now and then he used his wings; but the youngster had, of course, to keep to the ground with his heavy bag. Just as the devil was at his heels, he began to jump and run as fast as he could. He kept his club behind him to keep the devil off, and thus they went along, the youngster holding the handle and the devil trying to catch hold of the other end of it, till they came to a deep valley. There the youngster made a jump across from the top of one hill to the other, and the devil was in such a hurry to follow him that he ran his head against the club and fell down into the valley and broke his leg, and there he lay.

"There is the ground-rent," said the youngster when he came to the palace, and threw the bag with the money to the king with such a crash that you could hear it all over the hall.

The king thanked him, and appeared to be well pleased, and promised him good pay and leave of absence if he wished it, but the youngster wanted only more work.

"What shall I do now?" he said.

As soon as the king had had time to consider, he told him that he must go to the hill-troll, who had taken his grandfather's sword. The troll had a castle by the sea, where no one dared to go.

The youngster put some cartloads of food into his bag and set out again. He travelled both long and far, over woods and hills and wild moors, till he came to the big mountains where the troll, who had taken the sword of the king's grandfather, was living.

But the troll seldom came out in the open air, and the mountain was well closed, so the youngster was not man enough to get inside.

So he joined a gang of quarrymen who were living at a farm on top of the hill, and who were quarrying stones in the hills about there. They had never had such help before, for he broke and hammered away at the rocks till the mountain cracked, and big stones of the size of a house rolled down the hill. But when he rested to get his dinner, for which he was going to have one of the cartloads in his bag, he found it was all eaten up.

"I have generally a good appetite myself," said the youngster; "but the one who has been here can do a trifle more than I, for he has eaten all the bones as well."

Thus the first day passed; and he fared no better the second. On the third day he set out to break stones again, taking with him the third load of food, but he lay down behind the bag and pretended to be asleep. All of a sudden, a troll with seven heads came out of the mountain and began to eat his food.

"It's all ready for me here, and I will eat," said the troll.

"We will see about that," said the youngster, and hit the troll with his club, so the heads rolled down the hill.

So he went into the mountain which the troll had come out of, and in there stood a horse eating out of a barrel of glowing cinders, and behind it stood a barrel of oats.

"Why don't you eat out of the barrel of oats?" asked the youngster.

"Because I cannot turn round," said the horse.

"But I will soon turn you round," said the youngster.

"Rather cut my head off," said the horse.

So he cut its head off, and the horse turned into a fine handsome fellow. He said he had been bewitched, and taken into the mountain and turned into a horse by the troll. He then helped the youngster to find the sword, which the troll had hidden at the bottom of the bed, and in the bed lay the old mother of the troll, asleep and snoring hard.

So they set out for home by water, but when they had got some distance out to sea the old mother came after them. As she could not overtake them, she lay down and began to drink the sea, and she drank till the water fell; but she could not drink the sea dry, and so she burst.

When they came to land, the youngster sent word that the king must come and fetch the sword. He sent four horses, but no, they could not move it; he sent eight, and he sent twelve; but the sword remained where it was. They were not able to stir it from the spot. But the youngster took it and carried it up to the palace alone.

The king could not believe his eyes when he saw the youngster back again. He appeared, however, to be pleased to see him, and promised him land and riches. When the youngster wanted more work, the king said he might set out for an enchanted castle he had, where no one dared to live, and he would have to stop there till he had built a bridge over the sound, so that people could get across to the castle.

If he was able to do this he would reward him handsomely, yes, he would even give him his daughter in marriage, said he.

"Well, I think I can do it," said the youngster.

No one had ever got away alive; those who had got as far as the castle, lay there killed and torn to pieces as small as barley, and the king thought he should never see him any more if he would go thither.

But the youngster started on his expedition; he took with him the bag of food, a crooked, twisted block of a fir tree, an axe, a wedge, and some chips of the fir root, and the small pauper boy at the palace.

When he came to the sound, he found the river full of ice, and the current ran as strong as in a waterfall; but he stuck his legs to the bottom of the river and waded until he got safe across.

When he had warmed himself and had something to eat, he wanted to go to sleep; but before long he heard such a terrible noise, as if they were turning the castle upside down. The door burst wide open, and he saw nothing but a gaping jaw extending from the threshold up to the lintel.

"There is a mouthful for you," said the youngster and threw the pauper boy into the swallow: "taste that! But let me see now who you are! Perhaps you are an old acquaintance?"

And so it was; it was the devil who was about again.

They began to play cards, for the devil wanted to try and win back some of the ground-rent which the youngster had got out of his mother by threats, when he was sent by the king to collect it; but the youngster was always the fortunate one, for he put a cross on the back of all the good cards, and when he had won all the money which the devil had upon him, the devil had to pay him out of the gold and silver which was in the castle.

Suddenly the fire went out, so they could not tell the one card from the other.

"We must chop some wood now," said the youngster, who drove the axe into the fir block, and forced the wedge in; but the twisted, knotty block would not split, although the youngster worked as hard as he could with the axe.

"They say you are strong," he said to the devil; "just spit on your hands, stick your claws in, and tear away, and let me see what you are made of."

The devil did so, and put both his fists into the split and pulled as hard as he could, when the youngster suddenly struck the wedge out, and the devil stuck fast in the block and the youngster let him also have a taste of the butt end of his axe on his back. The devil begged and prayed so nicely to be let loose, but the youngster would not listen to anything of the kind unless he promised that he would never come there any more and create any disturbance. He also had to promise that he would build a bridge over the sound, so that people could pass over it at all times of the year, and it should be ready when the ice was gone.

"They are very hard conditions," said the devil; but there was no other way out of it -- if the devil wanted to be set free, he would have to promise it. He bargained, however, that he should have the first soul that went across the bridge. That was to be the toll.

Yes, he should have that, said the youngster. So the devil was let loose, and he started home. But the youngster lay down to sleep, and slept till far into the day.

When the king came to see if he was cut and chopped into small pieces, he had to wade through all the money before he came to his bedside. There was money in heaps and in bags which reached far up the wall, and the youngster lay in bed asleep and snoring hard.

"Lord help me and my daughter," said the king when he saw that the youngster was alive. Well, all was good and well done, that no one could deny; but there was no hurry talking of the wedding before the bridge was ready.

One day the bridge stood ready, and the devil was there waiting for the toll which he had bargained for.

The youngster wanted the king to go with him and try the bridge, but the king had no mind to do it. So he mounted a horse himself, and put the fat dairy-maid in the palace on the pommel in front of him; she looked almost like a big fir block, and so he rode over the bridge, which thundered under the horse's feet.

"Where is the toll? Where have you got the soul?" cried the devil.

"Why, inside this fir block," said the youngster; "if you want it you will have to spit in your hands and take it."

"No, many thanks! If she does not come to me, I am sure I shan't take her," said the devil. "You got me once into a pinch, and I'll take care you don't get me into another," and with that he flew straight home to his old mother, and since that time he has never been heard or seen thereabouts.

The youngster went home to the palace and asked for the reward the king had promised him, and when the king wanted to get out of it, and would not stick to what he had promised, the youngster said it was best he got a good bag of food ready for him and he would take his reward himself.

Yes, the king would see to that, and when the bag was ready the youngster asked the king to come outside the door. The youngster then gave the king such a kick, which sent him flying up in the air. The bag he threw after him that he might not be without food; and if he has not come down again by this he is floating about with his bag between heaven and earth to this very day.



XVIII

Hans, Who Made The Princess Laugh


Once upon a time there was a king, who had a daughter, and she was so lovely that the reports of her beauty went far and wide; but she was so melancholy that she never laughed, and besides she was so grand and proud that she said "No" to all who came to woo her -- she would not have any of them, were they ever so fine, whether they were princes or noblemen.

The king was tired of this whim of hers long ago, and thought she ought to get married like other people; there was nothing she need wait for -- she was old enough and she would not be any richer either, for she was to have half the kingdom, which she inherited after her mother.

So he made known every Sunday after the service, from the steps outside the church, that he that could make his daughter laugh should have both her and half the kingdom. But if there were any one who tried and could not make her laugh, he would have three red stripes cut out of his back and salt rubbed into them -- and, sad to relate, there were many sore backs in that kingdom. Lovers from south and from north, from east and from west, came to try their luck -- they thought it was an easy thing to make a princess laugh. They were a queer lot altogether, but for all their cleverness and for all the tricks and pranks they played, the princess was just as serious and immovable as ever.

But close to the palace lived a man who had three sons, and they had also heard that the king had made known that he who could make the princess laugh should have her and half the kingdom.

The eldest of the brothers wanted to try first, and away he went; and when he came to the palace, he told the king he wouldn't mind trying to make the princess laugh.

"Yes, yes! that's all very well," said the king; "but I am afraid it's of very little use, my man. There have been many here to try their luck, but my daughter is just as sad, and I am afraid it is no good trying. I do not like to see any more suffer on that account."

But the lad thought he would try anyhow. It couldn't be such a difficult thing to make a princess laugh at him, for had not everybody, both grand and simple, laughed so many a time at him when he served as soldier and went through his drill under Sergeant Nils.

So he went out on the terrace outside the princess's windows and began drilling just as if Sergeant Nils himself were there. But all in vain! The princess sat just as serious and immovable as before, and so they took him and cut three broad, red stripes out of his back and sent him home.

He had no sooner arrived home than his second brother wanted to set out and try his luck. He was a schoolmaster, and a funny figure he was altogether. He had one leg shorter than the other, and limped terribly when he walked. One moment he was no bigger than a boy, but the next moment when he raised himself up on his long leg he was as big and tall as a giant -- and besides he was great at preaching.

When he came to the palace, and said that he wanted to make the princess laugh, the king thought that it was not so unlikely that he might; "but I pity you, if you don't succeed," said the king, "for we cut the stripes broader and broader for every one that tries."

So the schoolmaster went out on the terrace, and took his place outside the princess's window, where he began preaching and chanting imitating seven of the parsons, and reading and singing just like seven of the clerks whom they had had in the parish.

The king laughed at the schoolmaster till he was obliged to hold on to the door-post, and the princess was just on the point of smiling, but suddenly she was as sad and immovable as ever, and so it fared no better with Paul the schoolmaster than with Peter the soldier -- for Peter and Paul were their names, you must know!

So they took Paul and cut three red stripes out of his back, put salt into them, and sent him home again.

Well, the youngest brother thought he would have a try next. His name was Hans. But the brothers laughed and made fun of him, and showed him their sore backs. Besides, the father would not give him leave to go, for he said it was no use his trying, who had so little sense; all he could do was to sit in a corner on the hearth, like a cat, rooting about in the ashes and cutting chips. But Hans would not give in -- he begged and prayed so long, till they got tired of his whimpering, and so he got leave to go to the king's palace and try his luck.

When he arrived at the palace he did not say he had come to try to make the princess laugh, but asked if he could get a situation there. No, they had no situation for him; but Hans was not so easily put off -- they might want one to carry wood and water for the kitchenmaid in such a big place as that, he said. Yes, the king thought so too, and to get rid of the lad he gave him leave to remain there and carry wood and water for the kitchenmaid.

One day, when he was going to fetch water from the brook, he saw a big fish in the water just under an old root of a fir-tree, which the current had carried all the soil away from. He put his bucket quietly under the fish and caught it. As he was going home to the palace, he met an old woman leading a golden goose.

"Good day, grandmother!" said Hans. "That's a fine bird you have got there; and such splendid feathers too! he shines a long way off. If one had such feathers, one needn't be chopping firewood."

The woman thought just as much of the fish which Hans had in the bucket, and said if Hans would give her the fish he should have the golden goose; and this goose was such that if any one touched it he would be sticking fast to it if he only said: "If you'll come along, then hang on."

Yes, Hans would willingly exchange on those terms. "A bird is as good as a fish any day," he said to himself. "If it is as you say, I might use it instead of a fish-hook," he said to the woman, and felt greatly pleased with the possession of the goose.

He had not gone far before he met another old woman. When she saw the splendid golden goose, she must go and stroke it. She made herself so friendly and spoke so nicely to Hans, and asked him to let her stroke that lovely golden goose of his.

"Oh, yes!" said Hans, "but you mustn't pluck off any of its feathers!"

Just as she stroked the bird, Hans said: "If you'll come along, then hang on!"

The woman pulled and tore, but she had to hang on, whether she would or no, and Hans walked on, as if he only had the goose with him.

When he had gone some distance, he met a man who had a spite against the woman for a trick she had played upon him. When he saw that she fought so hard to get free and seemed to hang on so fast, he thought he might safely venture to pay her off for the grudge he owed her, and so he gave her a kick.

"If you'll come along, then hang on!" said Hans, and the man had to hang on and limp along on one leg, whether he would or no; and when he tried to tear himself loose, he made it still worse for himself, for he was very nearly falling on his back whenever he struggled to get free.

So on they went till they came in the neighborhood of the palace. There they met the king's smith; he was on his way to the smithy, and had a large pair of tongs in his hand. This smith was a merry fellow, and was always full of mad pranks and tricks, and when he saw this procession coming jumping and limping along, he began laughing till he was bent in two, but suddenly he said:

"This must be a new flock of geese for the princess: but who can tell which is goose and which is gander? I suppose it must be the gander toddling on in front. Goosey, goosey!" he called, and pretended to be strewing corn out of his hands as when feeding geese.

But they did not stop. The woman and the man only looked in great rage at the smith for making game of them. So said the smith: "It would be great fun to see if I could stop the whole flock, many as they are!" -- He was a strong man, and seized the old man with his tongs from behind in his trousers, and the man shouted and struggled hard, but Hans said:

"If you'll come along, then hang on!"

And so the smith had to hang on too. He bent his back and stuck his heels in the ground when they went up a hill and tried to get away, but it was of no use; he stuck on to the other as if he had been screwed fast in the great vise in the smithy, and whether he liked it or not, he had to dance along with the others.

When they came near the palace, the farm-dog ran against them and barked at them, as if they were a gang of tramps, and when the princess came to look out of her window to see what was the matter, and saw this procession, she burst out laughing. But Hans was not satisfied with that. "Just wait a bit, and she will laugh still louder very soon," he said, and made a tour round the palace with his followers.

When they came past the kitchen, the door was open and the cook was just boiling porridge, but when she saw Hans and his train after him, she rushed out of the door with the porridge-stick in one hand and a big ladle full of boiling porridge in the other, and she laughed till her sides shook; but when she saw the smith there as well, she thought she would have burst with laughter. When she had had a regular good laugh, she looked at the golden goose again and thought it was so lovely that she must stroke it.

"Hans, Hans!" she cried, and ran after him with the ladle in her hand; "just let me stroke that lovely bird of yours."

"Rather let her stroke me!" said the smith.

"Very well," said Hans.

But when the cook heard this, she got very angry. "What is it you say!" she cried, and gave the smith a smack with the ladle.

"If you'll come along, then hang on!" said Hans, and so she stuck fast to the others too, and for all her scolding and all her tearing and pulling, she had to limp along with them.

And when they came past the princess's window again, she was still there waiting for them, but when she saw that they had got hold of the cook too, with the ladle and porridge-stick, she laughed till the king had to hold her up. So Hans got the princess and half the kingdom, and they had a wedding which was heard of far and wide.



XIX

The Story Of Tom Tit Tot[8]


Well, once upon a time there were a woman, and she baked five pies. And when they come out of the oven, they was that overbaked the crust were too hard to eat. So she says to her darter:

"Darter," says she, "put you them there pies on the shelf an' leave 'em there a little, an' they'll come agin -- " She meant, you know, the crust 'ud get soft.

But the gal, she says to herself, "Well, if they'll come agin, I'll ate 'em now." And she set to work and ate 'em all, first and last.

Well, come supper time, the woman she said, "Goo you and git one o' them there pies; I daresay they've come agin, now."

The gal, she went an' she looked, and there warn't nothin' but the dishes. So back she come and says she, "Noo, they ain't come agin."

"Not none on 'em?" says the mother.

"Not none on 'em," says she.

"Well, come agin, or not come agin," says the woman, "I'll ha' one for supper."

"But you can't, if they ain't come," says the gal.

"But I can," says she. "Goo you and bring the best of 'em."

"Best or worst," says the gal, "I've ate 'em all, and you can't ha' one till that's come agin."

Well, the woman she were wholly bate, and she took her spinnin' to the door to spin, and as she span she sang:

"My darter ha' ate five, five pies to-day --  My darter ha' ate five, five pies to-day."

The king, he were a comin' down the street and he hard her sing, but what she sang he couldn't hare, so he stopped and said:

"What were that you was a singin of, woman?"

The woman, she were ashamed to let him hare what her darter had been a-doin', so she sang, 'stids o' that:

"My darter ha' spun five, five skeins to-day --  My darter ha' spun five, five skeins to-day."

"S'ars o' mine!" said the king, "I never heerd tell of any one as could do that."

Then he said: "Look you here, I want a wife, and I'll marry your darter. But look you here," says he, "'leven months out o' the year she shall have all the vittles she likes to eat, and all the gownds she likes to git, and all the cumpny she likes to hev; but the last month o' the year she'll ha' to spin five skeins iv'ry day, an' if she doon't, I shall kill her."

"All right," says the woman; for she thowt what a grand marriage that was. And as for them five skeins, when te come tew, there'd be plenty o' ways of gettin' out of it, and likeliest, he'd ha' forgot about it.

Well, so they were married. An' for 'leven months the gal had all the vittles she liked to ate, and all the gownds she liked to git, and all the cumpny she liked to have.

But when the time was gettin' oover, she began to think about them there skeins an' to wonder if he had 'em in mind. But not one word did he say about 'em, an' she whoolly thowt he'd forgot 'em.

Howsivir, the last day o' the last month, he takes her to a room she'd niver set eyes on afore. There worn't nothin' in it but a spinnin' wheel and a stool. An' says he, "Now, me dear, hare you'll be shut in to-morrow with some vittles and some flax, and if you hain't spun five skeins by the night, yar hid'll goo off."

An' awa' he went about his business.

Well, she were that frightened. She'd allus been such a gatless gal, that she didn't se much as know how to spin, an' what were she to dew to-morrer, with no one to come nigh her to help her? She sat down on a stool in the kitchen, and lork! how she did cry!

Howsivir, all on a sudden she hard a sort of a knockin' low down on the door. She upped and oped it, an' what should she see but a small little black thing with a long tail. That looked up at her right kewrious, an' that said:

"What are yew a-cryin' for?"

"Wha's that to yew?" says she.

"Niver yew mind," that said, "but tell me what you're a cryin' for."

"That oon't dew me noo good if I dew," says she.

"Yew doon't know that," that said, an' twirled that's tail round.

"Well," says she, "that oon't dew no harm, if that doon't dew no good," and she upped and told about the pies an' the skeins an' everything.

"This is what I'll dew," says the little black thing: "I'll come to yar winder iv'ry mornin' an' take the flax an' bring it spun at night"

"What's your pay?" says she.

That looked out o' the corners o' that's eyes an' that said: "I'll give you three guesses every night to guess my name, an' if you hain't guessed it afore the month's up, yew shall be mine."

Well, she thowt she'd be sure to guess that's name afore the month was up. "All right," says she, "I agree."

"All right," that says, an' lork! how that twirled that's tail.

Well, the next day, har husband, he took her inter the room, an' there was the flax an' the day's vittles.

"Now, there's the flax," says he, "an' if that ain't spun up this night, off goo yar hid." An' then he went out an' locked the door.

He'd hardly goon, when there was a knockin' agin the winder.

She upped and she oped it, and there sure enough was the little oo'd thing a settin' on the ledge.

"Where's the flax?" says he.

"Here te be," says she. And she gonned it to him.

Well, come the evenin', a knockin' come agin to the winder. She upped an' she oped it, and there were the little oo'd thing, with five skeins of flax on his arm.

"Here te be," says he, an' he gonned it to her.

"Now, what's my name?" says he.

"What, is that Bill?" says she.

"Noo, that ain't," says he. An' he twirled his tail.

"Is that Ned?" says she.

"Noo, that ain't," says he. An' he twirled his tail.

"Well, is that Mark?" says she.

"Noo, that ain't," says he. An' he twirled his tail harder, an' awa' he flew.

Well, when har husban' he come in, there was the five skeins riddy for him.

"I see I shorn't hev for to kill you to-night, me dare," says he. "You'll hev yar vittles and yar flax in the mornin'," says he, an' away he goes.

Well, ivery day the flax an' the vittles, they was browt, an' ivery day that there little black impet used for to come mornin's and evenin's. An' all the day the darter, she set a tryin' fur to think of names to say to it when te come at night. But she niver hot on the right one. An' as that got to-warts the ind o' the month, the impet that began for to look soo maliceful, an' that twirled that's tail faster an' faster each time she gave a guess.

At last te came to the last day but one. The impet that come at night along o' the five skeins, an' that said:

"What, hain't yew got my name yet?"

"Is that Nicodemus?" says she.

"Noo, t'ain't," that says.

"Is that Sammle?" says she.

"Noo, t'ain't," that says.

"A-well, is that Methusalem?" says she.

"Noo, t'ain't that norther," he says.

Then that looks at her with that's eyes like a cool o' fire, an that says, "Woman, there's only to-morrer night, an' then yar'll be mine!" An' away te flew.

Well, she felt that horrud. Howsomediver, she hard the king a-comin' along the passage. In he came, an' when he see the five skeins, he says, says he:

"Well, me dare," says he, "I don't see but what yew'll ha' your skeins ready to-morrer night as well, an' as I reckon I shorn't ha' to kill you, I'll ha' supper in here to-night." So they brought supper an' another stool for him, and down the tew they sot.

Well, he hadn't eat but a mouthful or so, when he stops and begins to laugh.

"What is it?" says she.

"A-why," says he, "I was out a-huntin' to-day, an' I got away to a place in the wood I'd never seen afore. An' there was an old chalk pit. An' I heerd a sort of a hummin', kind o'. So I got off my hobby, an' I went right quiet to the pit, an' I looked down. Well, what should there be but the funniest little black thing yew iver set eyes on. An' what was that a dewin' on, but that had a little spinnin' wheel, an' that were a-spinnin' wonnerful fast, an' a-twirlin' that's tail. An' as that span, that sang:

"Nimmy, nimmy not, My name's Tom Tit Tot."

Well, when the darter heerd this, she fared as if she could ha' jumped outer her skin for joy, but she di'n't say a word.

Next day, that there little thing looked soo maliceful when he come for the flax. An' when night came, she heerd that a-knockin' agin the winder panes. She oped the winder, an' that come right in on the ledge. That were grinnin' from are to are, an' Oo! tha's tail were twirlin' round so fast.

"What's my name?" that says, as that gonned her the skeins.

"Is that Solomon?" she says, pretendin' to be a-feard.

"Noo, tain't," that says, an' that come fudder inter the room.

"Well, is that Zebedee?" says she agin.

"Noo, tain't," says the impet. An' then that laughed an' twirled that's tail till yew cou'n't hardly see it.

"Take time, woman," that says; "next guess, an' you're mine." An' that stretched out that's black hands at her.

Well, she backed a step or two, an' she looked at it, and then she laughed out, an' says she, a pointin' of her finger at it:

"Nimmy, nimmy not, Yar name's Tom Tit Tot."

Well, when that hard her, that shruck awful an' awa' that flew into the dark, an' she niver saw it noo more.

Footnotes:

[Footnote 8: An old Suffolk tale, given in the dialect of East Anglia.]



XX

The Peasant Story Of Napoleon


[Goguelet, an old soldier who fought under Napoleon, tells the story of his wonderful General and Emperor to a group of eager listeners in the country doctor's barn.]

You see, my friends, Napoleon was born in Corsica, a French island, warmed by the sun of Italy, where it is like a furnace, and where the people kill each other, from father to son, all about nothing: that's a way they have. To begin with the marvel of the thing -- his mother, who was the handsomest woman of her time, and a knowing one, bethought herself of dedicating him to God, so that he might escape the dangers of his childhood and future life; for she had dreamed that the world was set on fire the day he was born. And, indeed, it was a prophecy! So she asked God to protect him, on condition that Napoleon should restore His holy religion, which was then cast to the ground. Well, that was agreed upon, and we shall see what came of it.

"Follow me closely, and tell me if what you hear is in the nature or man.

"Sure and certain it is that none but a man who conceived the idea of making a compact with God could have passed unhurt through the enemy's lines, through cannon-balls, and discharges of grape-shot that swept the rest of us off like flies, and always respected his head. I had proof of that -- I myself -- at Eylau. I see him now, as he rode up a height, took his field-glass, looked at the battle, and said, 'All goes well.' One of those plumed busybodies, who plagued him considerably and followed him everywhere, even to his meals, so they said, thought to play the wag, and took the Emperor's place as he rode away. Ho! in a twinkling, head and plume were off! You must understand that Napoleon had promised to keep the secret of his compact all to himself. That's why all those who followed him, even his nearest friends, fell like nuts -- Duroc, Bessières, Lannes -- all strong as steel bars, though he could bend them as he pleased. Besides -- to prove he was the child of God, and made to be the father of soldiers -- was he ever known to be lieutenant or captain? No, no; commander-in-chief from the start. He didn't look to be more than twenty-four years of age when he was an old general at the taking of Toulon, where he first began to show the others that they knew nothing about manoeuvring cannon.

"After that, down came our slip of a general to command the grand army of Italy, which hadn't bread, nor munitions, nor shoes, nor coats -- a poor army, as naked as a worm. 'My friends,' said he, 'here we are together. Get it into your pates that fifteen days from now you will be conquerors -- new clothes, good gaiters, famous shoes, and every man with a great-coat; but, my children, to get these things you must march to Milan, where they are.' And we marched. France, crushed as flat as a bed-bug, straightened up. We were thirty thousand bare-feet against eighty thousand Austrian bullies, all fine men, well set-up. I see 'em now! But Napoleon -- he was then only Bonaparte -- he knew how to put the courage into us! We marched by night, and we marched by day; we slapped their faces at Montenotte, we thrashed them at Rivoli, Lodi, Arcole, Millesimo, and we never let 'em up. A soldier gets the taste of conquest. So Napoleon whirled round those Austrian generals, who didn't know where to poke themselves to get out of his way, and he pelted 'em well -- nipped off ten thousand men at a blow sometimes, by getting round them with fifteen hundred Frenchmen, and then he gleaned as he pleased. He took their cannon, their supplies, their money, their munitions, in short, all they had that was good to take. He fought them and beat them on the mountains, he drove them into the rivers and seas, he bit 'em in the air, he devoured 'em on the ground, and he lashed 'em everywhere. Hey! the grand army feathered itself well; for, d'ye see the Emperor, who was a wit, called up the inhabitants and told them he was there to deliver them. So after that the natives lodged and cherished us; the women too, and very judicious they were. Now here's the end of it. In Ventose, '96 -- in those times that was the month of March of to-day -- we lay cuddled in a corner of Savoie with the marmots; and yet, before that campaign was over, we were masters of Italy, just as Napoleon had predicted; and by the following March -- in a single year and two campaigns -- he had brought us within sight of Vienna. 'Twas a clean sweep. We devoured their armies, one after the other, and made an end of four Austrian generals. One old fellow, with white hair, was roasted like a rat in the straw at Mantua. Kings begged for mercy on their knees! Peace was won.

"Could a man have done that? No; God helped him, to a certainty!

"He divided himself up like the loaves in the Gospel, commanded the battle by day, planned it by night; going and coming, for the sentinels saw him -- never eating, never sleeping. So, seeing these prodigies, the soldiers adopted him for their father. Forward, march! Then those others, the rulers in Paris, seeing this, said to themselves: 'Here's a bold one that seems to get his orders from the skies; he's likely to put his paw on France. We must let him loose on Asia; we will send him to America, perhaps that will satisfy him.' But 't was written above for him, as it was for Jesus Christ. The command went forth that he should go to Egypt. See, again, his resemblance to the Son of God. But that's not all. He called together his best veterans, his fire-eaters, the ones he had particularly put the devil into, and he said to them like this: 'My friends, they have given us Egypt to chew up, just to keep us busy, but we'll swallow it whole in a couple of campaigns, as we did Italy. The common soldiers shall be princes and have the land for their own. Forward, march!' 'Forward, march!' cried the sergeants, and there we were at Toulon, road to Egypt. At that time the English had all their ships in the sea; but when we embarked, Napoleon said: 'They won't see us. It is just as well that you should know from this time forth that your general has got his star in the sky, which guides and protects us.' What was said was done. Passing over the sea, we took Malta like an orange, just to quench his thirst for victory; for he was a man who couldn't live and do nothing.

"So here we are in Egypt. Good. Once here, other orders. The Egyptians, d'ye see, are men who, ever since the earth was, have had giants for sovereigns, and armies as numerous as ants; for, you must understand, that's the land of genii and crocodiles, where they've built pyramids as big as our mountains, and buried their kings under them to keep them fresh -- an idea that pleased 'em mightily. So then, after we disembarked, the Little Corporal said to us: 'My children, the country you are going to conquer has a lot of gods that you must respect; because Frenchmen ought to be friends with everybody, and fight the nations without vexing the inhabitants. Get it into your skulls that you are not to touch anything at first, for it is all going to be yours soon. Forward, march!' So far, so good. But all those people of Africa, to whom Napoleon was foretold under the name of Kébir-Bonaberdis -- a word of their lingo that means 'the sultan fires' -- were afraid as the devil of him. So the Grand Turk, and Asia, and Africa had recourse to magic. They sent us a demon, named the Mahdi, supposed to have descended from heaven on a white horse, which, like its master, was bullet-proof; and both of them lived on air, without food to support them. There are some that say they saw them; but I can't give you any reasons to make you certain about that. The rulers of Arabia and the Mamelukes tried to make their troopers believe that the Mahdi could keep them from perishing in battle; and they pretended he was an angel sent from heaven to fight Napoleon and get back Solomon's seal. Solomon's seal was part of their paraphernalia which they vowed our general had stolen. You must understand that we'd given 'em a good many wry faces, in spite of what he had said to us.

"Now, tell me how they knew that Napoleon had a pact with God? Was that natural, d'ye think?

"They held to it in their minds that Napoleon commanded the genii, and could pass hither and thither in the twinkling of an eye, like a bird. The fact is, he was everywhere. At last, it came to his carrying off a queen beautiful as the dawn, for whom he had offered all his treasure, and diamonds as big as pigeon's eggs -- a bargain which the Mameluke to whom she particularly belonged positively refused, although he had several others. Such matters when they come to that pass, can't be settled without a great many battles; and, indeed, there was no scarcity of battles; there was fighting enough to please everybody. We were in line at Alexandria, at Gizeh, and before the Pyramids; we marched in the sun and through the sand, where some, who had the dazzles, saw water that they couldn't drink, and shade where their flesh was roasted. But we made short work of the Mamelukes; and everybody else yielded at the voice of Napoleon, who took possession of Upper and Lower Egypt, Arabia, and even the capitals of kingdoms that were no more, where there were thousands of statues and all the plagues of Egypt, more particularly lizards -- a mammoth of a country where everybody could take his acres of land for as little as he pleased. Well, while Napoleon was busy with his affairs inland -- where he had it in his head to do fine things -- the English burned his fleet at Aboukir; for they were always looking about them to annoy us. But Napoleon, who had the respect of the East and of the West, whom the Pope called his son, and the cousin of Mohammed called 'his dear father,' resolved to punish England, and get hold of India in exchange for his fleet. He was just about to take us across the Red Sea into Asia, a country where there are diamonds and gold to pay the soldiers and palaces for bivouacs, when the Mahdi made a treaty with the plague, and sent it down to hinder our victories. Halt! The army to a man defiled at that parade; and few they were who came back on their feet. Dying soldiers couldn't take Saint-Jean d'Acre, though they rushed at it three times with generous and martial obstinacy. The Plague was the strongest. No saying to that enemy, 'My good friend.' Every soldier lay ill. Napoleon alone was fresh as a rose, and the whole army saw him drinking in pestilence without its doing him a bit of harm.

"Ha! my friends! will you tell me that that's in the nature of a mere man?

"The Mamelukes, knowing we were all in the ambulances, thought they could stop the way; but that sort of joke wouldn't do with Napoleon. So he said to his demons, his veterans, those that had the toughest hide, 'Go, clear me the way.' Junot, a sabre of the first cut, and his particular friend, took a thousand men, no more, and ripped up the army of the pacha who had had the presumption to put himself in the way. After that, we came back to headquarters at Cairo. Now, here's another side of the story. Napoleon absent, France was letting herself be ruined by the rulers in Paris, who kept back the pay of the soldiers of the other armies, and their clothing, and their rations; left them to die of hunger, and expected them to lay down the law to the universe without taking any trouble to help them. Idiots! who amused themselves by chattering, instead of putting their own hands in the dough. Well, that's how it happened that our armies were beaten, and the frontiers of France were encroached upon: THE MAN was nor there. Now observe, I say man because that's what they called him; but 'twas nonsense, for he had a star and all its belongings; it was we who were only men. He taught history to France after his famous battle of Aboukir, where, without losing more than three hundred men, and with a single division, he vanquished the grand army of the Turk, seventy-five thousand strong, and hustled more than half of it into the sea, r-r-rah!

"That was his last thunder-clap in Egypt. He said to himself, seeing the way things were going in Paris, 'I am the saviour of France; I know it, and I must go.' But, understand me, the army didn't know he was going, or they'd have kept him by force and made him Emperor of the East. So now we were sad; for He was gone who was all our joy. He left the command to Kléber, a big mastiff, who came off duty at Cairo, assassinated by an Egyptian, whom they put to death by empaling him on a bayonet; that's the way they guillotine people down there. But it makes 'em suffer so much that a soldier had pity on the criminal and gave him his canteen; and then, as soon as the Egyptian had drunk his fill, he gave up the ghost with all the pleasure in life. But that's a trifle we couldn't laugh at then. Napoleon embarked in a cockleshell, a little skiff that was nothing at all, though 'twas called 'Fortune;' and in a twinkling, under the nose of England, who was blockading him with ships of the line, frigates, and anything that could hoist a sail, he crossed over, and there he was in France. For he always had the power, mind you, of crossing the seas at one straddle.

"Was that a human man? Bah!

"So, one minute he is at Fréjus, the next in Paris. There, they all adore him; but he summons the government. 'What have you done with my children, the soldiers?' he says to the lawyers. 'You're a mob of rascally scribblers; you are making France a mess of pottage, and snapping your fingers at what people think of you. It won't do; and I speak the opinion of everybody.' So, on that, they wanted to battle with him and kill him -- click! he had 'em locked up in barracks, or flying out of windows, or drafted among his followers, where they were as mute as fishes and as pliable as a quid of tobacco. After that stroke -- consul! And then, as it was not for him to doubt the Supreme Being, he fulfilled his promise to the good God, who, you see, had kept His word to him. He gave Him back His churches, and reestablished His religion; the bells rang for God and for him: and lo! everybody was pleased; primo, the priests, whom he saved from being harassed; secundo, the bourgeois, who thought only of their trade, and no longer had to fear the rapiamus of the law, which had got to be unjust; tertio, the nobles, for he forbade they should be killed, as, unfortunately, the people had got the habit of doing.

"But he still had the Enemy to wipe out; and he wasn't the man to go to sleep at a mess-table, because, d'ye see, his eye looked over the whole earth as if it were no bigger than a man's head. So then he appeared in Italy, like as though he had stuck his head through the window. One glance was enough. The Austrians were swallowed up at Marengo like so many gudgeons by a whale! Ouf! The French eagles sang their peans so loud that all the world heard them -- and it sufficed! 'We won't play that game any more,' said the German. 'Enough, enough!' said all the rest. To sum up: Europe backed down, England knocked under. General peace; and the kings and the peoples made believe kiss each other. That's the time when the Emperor invented the Legion of Honour -- and a fine thing, too. 'In France' -- this is what he said at Boulogne before the whole army -- 'every man is brave. So the citizen who does a fine action shall be sister to the soldier, and the soldier shall be his brother, and the two shall be one under the flag of honour.'

"We, who were down in Egypt, now came home. All was changed! He left us general, and hey! in a twinkling we found him EMPEROR. France gave herself to him, like a fine girl to a lancer. When it was done -- to the satisfaction of all, as you may say -- a sacred ceremony took place, the like of which was never seen under the canopy of the skies. The Pope and the cardinals, in their red and gold vestments, crossed the Alps expressly to crown him before the army and the people, who clapped their hands. There is one thing that I should do very wrong not to tell you. In Egypt, in the desert close to Syria, the RED MAN came to him on the Mount of Moses, and said, 'All is well.' Then, at Marengo, the night before the victory, the same Red Man appeared before him for the second time, standing erect and saying: 'Thou shalt see the world at thy feet; thou shalt be Emperor of France, King of Italy, master of Holland, sovereign of Spain, Portugal, and the Illyrian provinces, protector of Germany, saviour of Poland, first eagle of the Legion of Honour -- all.' This Red Man, you understand, was his genius, his spirit -- a sort of satellite who served him, as some say, to communicate with his star. I never really believed that. But the Red Man himself is a true fact. Napoleon spoke of him, and said he came to him in troubled moments, and lived in the palace of the Tuileries under the roof. So, on the day of the coronation, Napoleon saw him for the third time; and they were in consultation over many things.

"After that, Napoleon went to Milan to be crowned king of Italy, and there the grand triumph of the soldier began. Every man who could write was made an officer. Down came pensions; it rained duchies; treasures poured in for the staff which didn't cost France a penny; and the Legion of Honour provided incomes for the private soldiers -- of which I receive mine to this day. So here were the armies maintained as never before on this earth. But besides that, the Emperor, knowing that he was to be the emperor of the whole world, bethought him of the bourgeois, and to please them he built fairy monuments, after their own ideas, in places where you'd never think to find any. For instance, suppose you were coming back from Spain and going to Berlin -- well, you'd find triumphal arches along the way, with common soldiers sculptured on the stone, every bit the same as generals. In two or three years, and without imposing taxes on any of you, Napoleon filled his vaults with gold, built palaces, made bridges, roads, scholars, fêtes, laws, vessels, harbours, and spent millions upon millions -- such enormous sums that he could, so they tell me, have paved France from end to end with five-franc pieces, if he had had a mind to.

"Now, when he sat at ease on his throne, and was master of all, so that Europe waited his permission to do his bidding, he remembered his four brothers and his three sisters, and he said to us, as it might be in conversation, in an order of the day, 'My children, is it right that the blood relations of your Emperor should be begging their bread? No. I wish to see them in splendour like myself. It becomes, therefore, absolutely necessary to conquer a kingdom for each of them -- to the end that Frenchmen may be masters over all lands, that the soldiers of the Guard shall make the whole earth tremble, that France may spit where she likes, and that all the nations shall say to her, as it is written on my copper coins, 'God protects you!' 'Agreed!' cried the army. 'We'll go fish for thy kingdoms with our bayonets.' Ha! there was no backing down, don't you see! If he had taken it into his head to conquer the moon, we should have made ready, packed knapsacks, and clambered up; happily, he didn't think of it. The kings of the countries, who liked their comfortable thrones, were, naturally, loath to budge, and had to have their ears pulled; so then -- Forward, march! We did march; we got there; and the earth once more trembled to its centre. Hey! the men and the shoes he used up in those days! The enemy dealt us such blows that none but the grand army could have borne the fatigue of it. But you are not ignorant that a Frenchman is born a philosopher, and knows that a little sooner, or a little later, he has got to die. So we were ready to die without a word, for we liked to see the Emperor doing that on the geographies."

Here the narrator nimbly described a circle with his foot on the floor of the barn.

"And Napoleon said, 'There, that's to be a kingdom.' And a kingdom it was. Ha! the good times! The colonels were generals; the generals, marshals; and the marshals, kings. There's one of 'em still on his throne, to prove it to Europe; but he's a Gascon and a traitor to France for keeping that crown; and he doesn't blush for shame as he ought to do, because crowns, don't you see, are made of gold. I who am speaking to you, I have seen, in Paris, eleven kings and a mob of princes surrounding Napoleon like the rays of the sun. You understand, of course, that every soldier had the chance to mount a throne, provided always he had the merit; so a corporal of the Guard was a sight to be looked at as he walked along, for each man had his share in the victory, and 'twas plainly set forth in the bulletin. What victories they were! Austerlitz, where the army manoeuvred as if on parade; Eylau, where we drowned the Russians in a lake, as though Napoleon had blown them into it with the breath of his mouth; Wagram, where the army fought for three days without grumbling. We won as many battles as there are saints in the calendar. It was proved then, beyond a doubt, that Napoleon had the sword of God in his scabbard. The soldiers were his friends; he made them his children; he looked after us, he saw that we had shoes, and shirts, and great-coats, and bread, and cartridges; but he always kept up his majesty; for, don't you see, 'twas his business to reign. No matter for that, however; a sergeant, and even a common soldier, could say to him, 'my Emperor,' just as you say to me sometimes, 'my good friend.' He gave us an answer if we appealed to him; he slept in the snow like the rest of us; and, indeed, he had almost the air of a human man. I who speak to you, I have seen him with his feet among the grape-shot, and no more uneasy than you are now -- standing steady, looking through his field-glass, and minding his business. 'Twas that kept the rest of us quiet. I don't know how he did it, but when he spoke he made our hearts burn within us; and to show him we were his children, incapable of balking, didn't we rush at the mouths of the rascally cannon, that belched and vomited shot and shell, without so much as saying, 'Look out!' Why! the dying must needs raise their heads to salute him and cry, 'LONG LIVE THE EMPEROR!'

"I ask you, was that natural? would they have done that for a human man?

"Well, after he had settled the world, the Empress Josephine, his wife, a good woman all the same, managed matters so that she did not bear him any children, and he was obliged to give her up, though he loved her considerably. But, you see, he had to have little ones for reasons of state. Hearing of this, all the sovereigns of Europe quarrelled as to which of them should give him a wife. And he married, so they told us, an Austrian archduchess, daughter of Cesar, an ancient man about whom people talk a good deal, and not in France only -- where any one will tell you what he did -- but in Europe. It is all true, for I myself who address you at this moment, I have been on the Danube, and have seen the remains of a bridge built by that man, who, it seems, was a relation of Napoleon in Rome, and that's how the Emperor got the inheritance of that city for his son. So after the marriage, which was a fête for the whole world, and in honour of which he released the people of ten years' taxes -- which they had to pay all the same, however, because the assessors didn't take account of what he said -- his wife had a little one, who was King of Rome. Now, there's a thing that had never been seen on this earth; never before was a child born a king with his father living. On that day a balloon went up in Paris to tell the news to Rome, and that balloon made the journey in one day.

"Now, is there any man among you who will stand up here and declare to me that all that was human? No; it was written above; and may the scurvy seize 'em who deny that he was sent by God himself for the triumph of France!

"Well, here's the Emperor of Russia, that used to be his friend, he gets angry because Napoleon didn't marry a Russian; so he joins with the English, our enemies -- to whom our Emperor always wanted to say a couple of words in their burrows, only he was prevented. Napoleon gets angry too; an end had to be put to such doings; so he says to us: 'Soldiers! you have been masters of every capital in Europe, except Moscow, which is now the ally of England. To conquer England, and India which belongs to the English, it becomes our peremptory duty to go to Moscow,' Then he assembled the greatest army that ever trailed its gaiters over the globe; and so marvellously in hand it was that he reviewed a million of men in one day. 'Hourra!'[9] cried the Russians. Down came all Russia and those animals of Cossacks in a flock. 'Twas nation against nation, a general hurly-burly, and beware who could; 'Asia against Europe,' as the Red Man had foretold to Napoleon. 'Enough,' cried the Emperor, 'I'll be ready.'

"So now, sure enough, came all the kings, as the Red Man had said, to lick Napoleon's hand! Austria, Prussia, Bavaria, Saxony, Poland, Italy, every one of them were with us, flattering us; ah, it was fine! The eagles never cawed so loud as at those parades, perched high above the banners of all Europe. The Poles were bursting with joy, because Napoleon was going to release them; and that's why France and Poland are brothers to this day. 'Russia is ours,' cried the army. We plunged into it well-supplied; we marched and we marched -- no Russians. At last we found the brutes entrenched on the banks of the Moskva. That's where I won my cross, and I've got the right to say it was a damnable battle. This was how it came about. The Emperor was anxious. He had seen the Red Man, who said to him 'My son, you are going too fast for your feet; you will lack men; friends will betray you.' So the Emperor offered peace. But before signing, 'Let us drub those Russians!' he said to us. 'Done!' cried the army. 'Forward, march!' said the sergeants. My clothes were in rags, my shoes worn out, from trudging along those roads, which are very uncomfortable ones; but no matter! I said to myself, 'As it's the last of our earthquakings, I'll go into it, tooth and nail!' We were drawn up in line before the great ravine -- front seats, as 'twere. Signal given; and seven hundred pieces of artillery began a conversation that would bring the blood from your ears. Then -- must do justice to one's enemies -- the Russians let themselves be killed like Frenchmen; they wouldn't give way; we couldn't advance. 'Forward!' some one cried, 'here comes the Emperor!' True enough; he passed at a gallop, waving his hand to let us know we must take the redoubt. He inspired us; on we ran; I was the first in the ravine. Ha! my God! how the lieutenants fell, and the colonels, and the soldiers! No matter! all the more shoes for those that had none, and epaulets for the clever ones who knew how to read. 'Victory!' cried the whole line; 'Victory!' -- and, would you believe it? a thing never seen before, there lay twenty-five thousand Frenchmen on the ground. 'Twas like mowing down a wheat-field; only in place of the ears of wheat put the heads of men! We were sobered by this time -- those who were left alive. The MAN rode up; we made the circle round him. Ha! he knew how to cajole his children; he could be amiable when he liked, and feed 'em with words when their stomachs were ravenous with the hunger of wolves. Flatterer! he distributed the crosses himself, he uncovered to the dead, and then he cried to us, 'On! to Moscow!' 'To Moscow!' answered the army.

"We took Moscow. Would you believe it? the Russians burned their own city! 'Twas a haystack six miles square, and it blazed for two days. The buildings crashed like slates, and showers of melted iron and lead rained down upon us, which was naturally horrible. I may say to you plainly, it was like a flash of lightning on our disasters. The Emperor said, 'We have done enough; my soldiers shall rest here.' So we rested awhile, just to get the breath into our bodies and the flesh on our bones, for we were really tired. We took possession of the golden cross that was on the Kremlin; and every soldier brought away with him a small fortune. But out there the winter sets in a month earlier -- a thing those fools of science didn't properly explain. So, coming back, the cold nipped us. No longer an army -- do you hear me? -- no longer any generals, no longer any sergeants even. 'Twas the reign of wretchedness and hunger -- a reign of equality at last. No one thought of anything but to see France once more; no one stooped to pick up his gun or his money if he dropped them; each man followed his nose, and went as he pleased without caring for glory. The weather was so bad the Emperor couldn't see his star; there was something between him and the skies. Poor man! it made him ill to see his eagles flying away from victory. Ah! 'twas a mortal blow, you may believe me.

"Well, we got to the Beresina, My friends, I can affirm to you by all that is most sacred, by my honour, that since mankind came into the world, never, never was there seen such a fricassee of any army -- guns, carriages, artillery-waggons -- in the midst of such snows, under such relentless skies! The muzzles of the muskets burned our hands if we touched them, the iron was so cold. It was there that the army was saved by the pontoniers, who were firm at their post; and there that Gondrin -- sole survivor of the men who were bold enough to go into the water and build the bridges by which the army crossed -- that Gondrin, here present, admirably conducted himself, and saved us from the Russians, who, I must tell you, still respected the grand army, remembering its victories. And," he added, pointing to Gondrin, who was gazing at him with the peculiar attention of a deaf man, "Gondrin is a finished soldier, a soldier who is honour itself, and he merits your highest esteem.

"I saw the Emperor," he resumed, "standing by the bridge, motionless, not feeling the cold -- was that human? He looked at the destruction of his treasure, his friends, his old Egyptians. Bah! all that passed him, women, army-waggons, artillery, all were shattered, destroyed, ruined. The bravest carried the eagles; for the eagles, d'ye see, were France, the nation, all of you! they were the civil and the military honour that must be kept pure; could their heads be lowered because of the cold? It was only near the Emperor that we warmed ourselves, because when he was in danger we ran, frozen as we were -- we, who wouldn't have stretched a hand to save a friend. They told us he wept at night over his poor family of soldiers. Ah! none but he and Frenchmen could have got themselves out of that business. We did get out, but with losses, great losses, as I tell you. The Allies captured our provisions. Men began to betray him, as the Red Man predicted. Those chatterers in Paris, who had held their tongues after the Imperial Guard was formed, now thought he was dead; so they hoodwinked the prefect of police, and hatched a conspiracy to overthrow the empire. He heard of it; it worried him. He left us, saying: 'Adieu, my children; guard the outposts; I shall return to you,' Bah! without him nothing went right; the generals lost their heads, the marshals talked nonsense and committed follies; but that was not surprising, for Napoleon, who was kind, had fed 'em on gold; they had got as fat as lard, and wouldn't stir; some stayed in camp when they ought to have been warming the backs of the enemy who was between us and France.

"But the Emperor came back, and he brought recruits, famous recruits; he changed their backbone and made 'em dogs of war, fit to set their teeth into anything; and he brought a guard of honour, a fine body indeed! -- all bourgeois, who melted away like butter on a gridiron.

"Well, spite of our stern bearing, here's everything going against us; and yet the army did prodigies of valour. Then came battles on the mountains, nations against nations -- Dresden, Lützen, Bautzen. Remember these days, all of you, for 'twas then that Frenchmen were so particularly heroic that a good grenadier only lasted six months. We triumphed always; yet there were those English, in our rear, rousing revolts against us with their lies! No matter, we cut our way home through the whole pack of the nations. Wherever the Emperor showed himself we followed him; for if, by sea or land, he gave us the word 'Go!' we went. At last, we were in France; and many a poor foot-soldier felt the air of his own country restore his soul to satisfaction, spite of the wintry weather. I can say for myself that it refreshed my life. Well, next, our business was to defend France, our country, our beautiful France, against, all Europe, which resented our having laid down the law to the Russians, and pushed them back into their dens so that they couldn't eat us up alive, as northern nations, who are dainty and like southern flesh, have a habit of doing -- at least, so I've heard some generals say. Then the Emperor saw his own father-in-law, his friends whom he had made kings, and the scoundrels to whom he had given back their thrones, all against him. Even Frenchmen, and allies in our own ranks, turned against us under secret orders, as at the battle of Leipsic. Would common soldiers have been capable of such wickedness? Three times a day men were false to their word -- and they called themselves princes!

"So, then, France was invaded. Wherever the Emperor showed his lion face, the enemy retreated; and he did more prodigies in defending France than ever he had done in conquering Italy, the East, Spain, Europe, and Russia. He meant to bury every invader under the sod, and teach 'em to respect the soil of France. So he let them get to Paris, that he might swallow them at a mouthful, and rise to the height of his genius in a battle greater than all the rest -- a mother-battle, as 'twere. But there, there! the Parisians were afraid for their twopenny skins, and their trumpery shops; they opened the gates. Then the Ragusades began, and happiness ended. The Empress was fooled, and the white banner flaunted from the windows. The generals whom he had made his nearest friends abandoned him for the Bourbons -- a set of people no one had heard tell of. The Emperor bade us farewell at Fontainebleau: 'Soldiers!' -- I can hear him now; we wept like children; the flags and the eagles were lowered as if for a funeral: it was, I may well say it to you, it was the funeral of the Empire; her dapper armies were nothing now but skeletons. So he said to us, standing there on the portico of his palace: 'My soldiers! we are vanquished by treachery; but we shall meet in heaven, the country of the brave. Defend my child, whom I commit to you. Long live Napoleon II!' He meant to die, that no man should look upon Napoleon vanquished; he took poison, enough to have killed a regiment, because, like Jesus Christ before his Passion, he thought himself abandoned of God and his talisman. But the poison did not hurt him.

"See again! he found he was immortal.

"Sure of himself, knowing he must ever be THE EMPEROR, he went for a while to an island to study out the nature of these others, who, you may be sure, committed follies without end. Whilst he bided his time down there, the Chinese, and the wild men on the coast of Africa, and the Barbary States, and others who are not at all accommodating, know so well he was more than man that they respected his tent, saying to touch it would be to offend God. Thus, d'ye see, when these others turned him from the doors of his own France, he still reigned over the whole world. Before long he embarked in the same little cockleshell of a boat he had had in Egypt, sailed round the beard of the English, set foot in France, and France acclaimed him. The sacred cuckoo flew from spire to spire; all France cried out with one voice, 'LONG LIVE THE EMPEROR!' In this region, here, the enthusiasm for that wonder of the ages was, I may say, solid. Dauphine behaved well; and I am particularly pleased to know that her people wept when they saw, once more, the gray top-coat. March first it was, when Napoleon landed with two hundred men to conquer that kingdom of France and of Navarre, which, on the twentieth of the same month was again the French Empire. On that day our MAN was in Paris; he had made a clean sweep, recovered his dear France, and gathered his veterans together by saying no more than three words, 'I am here.'

"'Twas the greatest miracle God had yet done! Before him, did ever man recover an empire by showing his hat? And these others, who thought they had subdued France! Not they! At sight of the eagles, a national army sprang up, and we marched to Waterloo. There, the Guard died at one blow. Napoleon, in despair, threw himself three times before the cannon of the enemy without obtaining death. We saw that. The battle was lost. That night the Emperor called his old soldiers to him; on the field soaked with our blood he burned his banners and his eagles -- his poor eagles, ever victorious, who cried 'Forward' in the battles, and had flown the length and breadth of Europe, they were saved the infamy of belonging to the enemy: all the treasures of England couldn't get her a tail-feather of them. No more eagles -- the rest is well known. The Red Man went over to the Bourbons, like the scoundrel that he is. France is crushed; the soldier is nothing; they deprive him of his dues; they discharge him to make room for broken-down nobles -- ah, 'tis pitiable! They seized Napoleon by treachery; the English nailed him on a desert island in mid-ocean on a rock raised ten thousand feet above the earth; and there he is, and will be, till the Red Man gives him back his power for the happiness of France. These others say he's dead. Ha, dead! 'Tis easy to see they don't know Him. They tell that fib to catch the people, and feel safe in their hovel of a government. Listen! the truth at the bottom of it all is that his friends have left him alone on the desert isle to fulfil a prophecy, for I forgot to say that his name, Napoleon, means 'lion of the desert.' Now this that I tell you is true as the Gospel. All other tales that you hear about the Emperor are follies without common-sense; because, d'ye see, God never gave to child of woman born the right to stamp his name in red as he did, on the earth, which forever shall remember him! Long live Napoleon, the father of his people and of the soldier!"

<eob>

Little Meg's Children

By

Hesba Stretton



Chapter I

Motherless

In the East End of London, more than a mile from St Paul's Cathedral, and lying near to the docks, there is a tangled knot of narrow streets and lanes, crossing and running into one another, with blind alleys and courts leading out of them, and low arched passages, and dark gullies, and unsuspected slums, hiding away at the back of the narrowest streets; forming altogether such a labyrinth of roads and dwellings, that one needs a guide to thread a way among them, as upon pathless solitudes or deserts of shifting sands.  In the wider streets it is possible for two conveyances to pass each other; for in some of them, towards the middle of their length, a sweeping curve is taken out of the causeway on either side to allow of this being done; but in the smaller and closer streets there is room spared only for the passage to and fro of single carts, while here and there may be found an alley so narrow that the neighbours can shake hands, if they would, from opposite windows.  Many of the houses are of three or four stories, with walls, inside and out, dingy and grimed with smoke, and with windows that scarcely admit even the gloomy light which finds a way through the thick atmosphere, and down between the high, close buildings.

A few years ago in one of these dismal streets there stood a still more dismal yard, bearing the name of Angel Court, as if there yet lingered among those grimy homes and their squalid occupants some memories of a brighter place and of happier creatures.  Angel Court was about nine feet wide, and contained ten or twelve houses on each side, with one dwelling at the further end, blocking up the thoroughfare, and commanding a view down the close, stone-paved yard, with its interlacing rows of clothes-lines stretched from window to window, upon which hung the yellow, half-washed rags of the inhabitants.  This end house was three stories high, without counting a raised roof of red tiles, forming two attics; the number of rooms in all being eight, each one of which was held by a separate family, as were most of the other rooms in the court.  To possess two apartments was almost an undreamed-of luxury.

There was certainly an advantage in living in the attics of the end house in Angel Court, for the air was a trifle purer there and the light clearer than in the stories below.  From the small windows might be seen the prospect, not only of the narrow court, but of a vast extent of roofs, with a church spire here and there, and the glow of the sky behind them, when the sun was setting in a thick purplish cloud of smoke and fog.  There was greater quiet also, and more privacy up in the attics than beneath, where all day long people were trampling up and down the stairs, and past the doors of their neighbours' rooms. The steep staircase ended in a steeper ladder leading up to the attics, and very few cared to climb up and down it.  It was perhaps for these reasons that the wife of a sailor, who had gone to sea eight months before, had chosen to leave a room lower down, for which he had paid the rent in advance, in order to mount into higher and quieter quarters with her three children.

Whatever may have been her reason, it is certain that the sailor's wife, who had been ailing before her husband's departure, had, for some weeks past, been unable to descend the steep ladder into the maze of busy streets, to buy the articles necessary for her little household, and that she had steadily refused all aid from her neighbours, who soon left off pressing it upon her.  The only nurse she had, and the only person to whom she would entrust her errands, was her eldest child, a small, spare, stunted girl of London growth, whose age could not be more than ten years, though she wore the shrewd, anxious air of a woman upon her face, with deep lines wrinkling her forehead and puckering about her keen eyes.  Her small bony hands were hard with work; and when she trod to and fro about the crowded room, from the bedside to the fireplace, or from the crazy window to the creaking door, which let the cold draughts blow in upon the ailing mother, her step was slow and silent, less like that of a child than of a woman who was already weary with much labour.  The room itself was not large enough to cause a great deal of work; but little Meg had had many nights of watching lately, and her eyes were heavy for want of sleep, with the dark circles underneath them growing darker every day.

The evening had drawn in, but Meg's mother, her head propped up with anything that could be made into a pillow, had watched the last glow of the light behind the chimneys and the church spires, and then she turned herself feebly towards the glimmer of a handful of coals burning in the grate, beside which her little daughter was undressing a baby twelve months old, and hushing it to sleep in her arms.  Another child had been put to bed already, upon a rude mattress in a corner of the room, where she could not see him; but she watched Meg intently, with a strange light in her dim eyes.  When the baby was asleep at last, and laid down on the mattress upon the floor, the girl went softly back to the fire, and stood for a minute or two looking thoughtfully at the red embers.

'Little Meg!' said her mother, in a low, yet shrill voice.

Meg stole across with a quiet step to the bedside, and fastened her eyes earnestly upon her mother's face.

'Do you know I'm going to die soon?' asked the mother.

'Yes,' said Meg, and said no more.

'Father'll be home soon,' continued her mother, 'and I want you to take care of the children till he comes.  I've settled with Mr Grigg downstairs as nobody shall meddle with you till father comes back. But, Meg, you've got to take care of that your own self.  You've nothing to do with nobody, and let nobody have nothing to do with you. They're a bad crew downstairs, a very bad crew.  Don't you ever let any one of 'em come across the door-step.  Meg, could you keep a secret?'

'Yes, I could,' said Meg.

'I think you could,' answered her mother, 'and I'll tell you why you mustn't have nothing to do with the crew downstairs.  Meg, pull the big box from under the bed.'

The box lay far back, where it was well hidden by the bed; but by dint of hard pulling Meg dragged it out, and the sailor's wife gave her the key from under her pillow.  When the lid was open, the eyes of the dying woman rested with interest and longing upon the faded finery it contained -- the bright-coloured shawl, and showy dress, and velvet bonnet, which she used to put on when she went to meet her husband on his return from sea.  Meg lifted them out carefully one by one, and laid them on the bed, smoothing out the creases fondly.  There were her own best clothes, too, and the children's; the baby's nankeen coat, and Robin's blue cap, which never saw the light except when father was at home.  She had nearly emptied the box, when she came upon a small but heavy packet.

'That's the secret, Meg,' said her mother in a cautious whisper. 'That's forty gold sovereigns, as doesn't belong to me, nor father neither, but to one of his mates as left it with him for safety.  I couldn't die easy if I thought it wouldn't be safe.  They'd go rooting about everywhere; but, Meg, you must never, never, never let anybody come into the room till father's at home.'

'I never will, mother,' said little Meg.

'That's partly why I moved up here,' she continued.  'Why, they'd murder you all if they couldn't get the money without.  Always keep the door locked, whether you're in or out; and, Meg dear, I've made you a little bag to wear round your neck, to keep the key of the box in, and all the money I've got left; it'll be enough till father comes.  And if anybody meddles, and asks you when he's coming, be sure say you expect him home to-day or to-morrow.  He'll be here in four weeks, on Robin's birthday, may be.  Do you know all you've got to do, little Meg?'

'Yes,' she answered.  'I'm to take care of the children, and the money as belongs to one of father's mates; and I must wear the little bag round my neck, and always keep the door locked, and tell folks I expect father home to-day or to-morrow, and never let nobody come into our room.'

'That's right,' murmured the dying woman.  'Meg, I've settled all about my burial with the undertaker and Mr Grigg downstairs; and you'll have nothing to do but stay here till they take me away.  If you like, you and Robin and baby may walk after me; but be sure see everybody out, and lock the door safe afore you start.'

She lay silent for some minutes, touching one after another the clothes spread upon the bed as Meg replaced them in the box, and then, locking it, put the key into the bag, and hung it round her neck.

'Little Meg,' said her mother, 'do you remember one Sunday evening us hearing a sermon preached in the streets?'

'Yes, mother,' answered Meg promptly.

'What was it he said so often?' she whispered.  'You learnt the verse once at school.'

'I know it still,' said Meg.  '"If ye then, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children: how much more shall your Father which is in heaven give good things to them that ask Him?"'

'Ay, that's it,' she said faintly; 'and he said we needn't wait to be God's children, but we were to ask Him for good things at once, because He had sent His own Son to be our Saviour, and to die for us.  "Them that ask Him, them that ask Him"; he said it over and over again.  Eh! but I've asked Him a hundred times to let me live till father comes home, or to let me take baby along with me.'

'May be that isn't a good thing,' said Meg.  'God knows what are good things.'

The dying mother pondered over these words for some time, until a feeble smile played upon her wan face.

'It 'ud be a good thing anyhow,' she said, 'to ask Him to forgive me my sins, and take me to heaven when I die -- wouldn't it, Meg?'

Yes, that's sure to be a good thing,' answered Meg thoughtfully.

'Then I'll ask Him for that all night,' said her mother, 'and to be sure take care of you all till father comes back.  That 'ud be another good thing.'

She turned her face round to the wall with a deep sigh, and closed her eyelids, but her lips kept moving silently from time to time.  Meg cried softly to herself in her chair before the fire, but presently she dozed a little for very heaviness of heart, and dreamed that her father's ship was come into dock, and she, and her mother, and the children were going down the dingy streets to meet him.  She awoke with a start; and creeping gently to her mother's side, laid her warm little hand upon hers.  It was deadly cold, with a chill such as little Meg had never before felt; and when her mother neither moved nor spoke in answer to her repeated cries, she knew that she was dead.




Chapter II

Little Meg as a Mourner

For the next day, and the night following, the corpse of the mother lay silent and motionless in the room where her three children were living. Meg cried bitterly at first; but there was Robin to be comforted, and the baby to be played with when it laughed and crowed in her face. Robin was nearly six years old, and had gained a vague, dim knowledge of death by having followed, with a troop of other curious children, many a funeral that had gone out from the dense and dirty dwellings to the distant cemetery, where he had crept forward to the edge of the grave, and peeped down into what seemed to him a very dark and dreadful depth.  When little Meg told him mother was dead, and lifted him up to kneel on the bedside and kiss her icy lips for the last time, his childish heart was filled with an awe which almost made him shrink from the sight of that familiar face, scarcely whiter or more sunken now than it had been for many a day past.  But the baby stroked the quiet cheeks, whilst chuckling and kicking in Meg's arms, and shouted, 'Mam! mam! mam!' until she caught it away, and pressing it tightly to her bosom, sat down on the floor by the bed, weeping.

'You've got no mam but me now, baby,' cried little Meg.  She sat still for a while, with Robin lying on the ground beside her, his face hidden in her ragged frock; but the baby set up a pitiful little wail, and she put aside her own grief to soothe it.

'Hush! hush!' sang Meg, getting up, and walking with baby about the room.  'Hush, hush, my baby dear!  By-by, my baby, by-by!'

Meg's sorrowful voice sank into a low, soft, sleepy tone, and presently the baby fell fast asleep, when she laid it upon Robin's little mattress, and covered it up gently with an old shawl.  Robin was standing at the foot of the bed, gazing at his mother with wide-open, tearless eyes; and little Meg softly drew the sheet again over the pale and rigid face.

'Robbie,' she said, 'let's sit in the window a bit.'

They had to climb up to the narrow window-sill by a broken chair which stood under it; but when they were there, and Meg had her arm round Robin, to hold him safe, they could see down into Angel Court, and into the street beyond, with its swarms of busy and squalid people.  Upon the stone pavement far below them a number of children of every age and size, but all ill-clothed and ill-fed, were crawling about, in and out of the houses, and their cries and shrieks came up to them in their lofty seat; but of late their mother had not let them run out to play in the streets, and they were mostly strangers to them except by sight. Now and then Meg and Robin cast a glance inwards at the quiet and still form of their mother, lying as if silently watching them with her half-closed eyes, and when they spoke to one another they spoke in whispers.

'Mother is going to live with the angels,' said Meg.

'What are angels?' asked Robin, his glittering black eyes glancing at the bed where she lay in her deep sleep.

'Oh, I'm not quite sure,' answered Meg.  'Only they're beautiful people, who are always white and clean, and shining, like that big white cloud up in the sky.  They live somewhere up in the sky, where it's always sunny, and bright, and blue.'

'How 'll mother get up there?' inquired Robin.

'Well, I suppose,' replied Meg, after some reflection, 'after they've put her in the ground, the angels 'll come and take her away.  I read once of a poor beggar, oh such a poor beggar! full of sores, and he died, and the angels carried him away somewhere.  I thought, may be, they'd come for mother in the night; but I suppose they let people be buried first now, and fetch 'em away after.'

'I should like to see some angels,' said Robin.

They were silent again after that, looking down upon the quarrelling children, and the drunken men and women staggering about the yard below.  Now and then a sharper scream rang through the court, as some angry mother darted out to cuff one or another of the brawling groups, or to yell some shrill reproach at the drunken men.  No sound came to the ears of the listening children except the din and jarring tumult of the crowded city; but they could see the white clouds floating slowly across the sky over their heads, which seemed to little Meg like the wings of the waiting angels, hovering over the place where her mother lay dead.

'Meg,' said Robin, 'why do they call this Angel Court?  Did the angels use to live here?'

'I don't think they ever could,' she answered sadly, 'or it must have been a long, long time ago.  Perhaps they can't come here now, so they're waiting for mother to be taken out to the burying-ground afore they can carry her up to the sky.  May be that's it.'

'Meg,' whispered Robin, pressing closer to her side, 'what's the devil?'

'Oh, I don't know,' cried Meg; 'only he's dreadfully, dreadfully wicked.'

'As wicked as father is when he's drunk?' asked Robin.

'Oh, a hundred million times wickeder,' answered Meg eagerly.  'Father doesn't get drunk often; and you mustn't be a naughty boy and talk about it.'

It was already a point of honour with little Meg to throw a cloak over her father's faults; and she spoke so earnestly that Robin was strongly impressed by it.  He asked no more questions for some time.

'Meg,' he said at last, 'does the devil ever come here?'

'I don't think he does,' answered Meg, with a shrewd shake of her small head; 'I never see him, never.  Folks are bad enough without him, I guess.  No, no; you needn't be frightened of seeing him, Robbie.'

'I wish there wasn't any devil,' said Robin.

'I wish everybody in London was good,' said Meg.

They sat a while longer on the window-sill, watching the sparrows, all fluffy and black, fluttering and chattering upon the house-tops, and the night fog rising from the unseen river, and hiding the tall masts, which towered above the buildings.  It was dark already in the court below; and here and there a candle had been lit and placed in a window, casting a faint twinkle of light upon the gloom.  The baby stirred, and cried a little; and Meg lifted Robin down from his dangerous seat, and put two or three small bits of coal upon the fire, to boil up the kettle for their tea.  She had done it often before, at the bidding of her mother; but it seemed different now.  Mother's voice was silent, and Meg had to think of everything herself.  Soon after tea was over she undressed Robin and the baby, who soon fell asleep again; and when all her work was over, and the fire put out, little Meg crept in beside them on the scanty mattress, with her face turned towards the bed, that she might see the angels if they came to carry her mother away.  But before long her eyelids drooped over her drowsy eyes, and, with her arm stretched lightly across both her children, she slept soundly till daybreak.

No angels had come in the night; but early in the morning a neighbouring undertaker, with two other men, and Mr Grigg, the landlord, who lived on the ground-floor, carried away the light burden of the coffin which contained Meg's mother.  She waited until all were gone, and then she locked the door carefully, and with baby in her arms, and Robin holding by her frock, she followed the funeral at a distance, and with difficulty, through the busy streets.  The brief burial service was ended before they reached the cemetery, but Meg was in time to show Robin the plate upon the coffin before the grave-digger shovelled down great spadefuls of earth upon it.  They stood watching, with sad but childish curiosity, till all was finished; and then Meg, with a heavy and troubled heart, took them home again to their lonely attic in Angel Court.




Chapter III

Little Meg's Cleaning Day

For a few days Meg kept up closely in her solitary attic, playing with Robin and tending baby; only leaving them for a few necessary minutes, to run to the nearest shop for bread or oatmeal.  Two or three of the neighbours took the trouble to climb the ladder, and try the latch of the door, but they always found it locked; and if Meg answered at all, she did so only with the door between them, saying she was getting on very well, and she expected father home to-day or to-morrow.  When she went in and out on her errands, Mr Grigg, a gruff, surly man, who kept everybody about him in terror, did not break his promise to her mother, that he would let no one meddle with her; and very quickly the brief interest of Angel Court in the three motherless children of the absent sailor died away into complete indifference, unmingled with curiosity: for everybody knew the full extent of their neighbours' possessions; and the poor furniture of Meg's room, where the box lay well hidden and unsuspected under the bedstead, excited no covetous desires.  The tenant of the back attic, a girl whom Meg herself had seen no oftener than once or twice, was away on a visit of six weeks, having been committed to a House of Correction for being drunk and disorderly in the streets; so that by the close of the week in which the sailor's wife died no foot ascended or descended the ladder, except that of little Meg.

There were two things Meg set her heart upon doing before father came home: to teach Robin his letters, and baby to walk alone.  Robin was a quick, bright boy, and was soon filled with the desire to surprise his father by his new accomplishment; and Meg and he laboured diligently together over the Testament, which had been given to her at a night school, where she had herself learned to read a little.  But with the baby it was quite another thing.  There were babies in the court, not to be compared with Meg's baby in other respects, who, though no older, could already crawl about the dirty pavement and down into the gutter, and who could even toddle unsteadily, upon their little bare feet, over the stone flags.  Meg felt it as a sort of reproach upon her, as a nurse, to have her baby so backward.  But the utmost she could prevail upon it to do was to hold hard and fast by a chair, or by Robin's fist, and gaze across the great gulf which separated her from Meg and the piece of bread and treacle stretched out temptingly towards her.  It was a wan, sickly baby with an old face, closely resembling Meg's own, and meagre limbs, which looked as though they would never gain strength enough to bear the weight of the puny body; but from time to time a smile kindled suddenly upon the thin face, and shone out of the serious eyes -- a smile so sweet, and unexpected, and fleeting, that Meg could only rush at her, and catch her in her arms, thinking there was not such another baby in the world.  This was the general conclusion to Meg's efforts to teach her to walk, but none the less she put her through the same course of training a dozen times a day.

Sometimes, when her two children were asleep, little Meg climbed up to the window-sill and sat there alone, watching the stars come out in that sky where her mother was gone to live.  There were nights when the fog was too thick for her to see either them or the many glittering specks made by the lamps in the maze of streets around her; and then she seemed to herself to be dwelling quite alone with Robin and baby, in some place cut off both from the sky above and the earth beneath. But by-and-by, as she taught Robin out of the Testament, and read in it herself two or three times a day, new thoughts of God and His life came to her mind, upon which she pondered, after her childish fashion, as she sat in the dark, looking out over the great vast city with its myriads of fellow-beings all about her, none of whom had any knowledge of her loneliness, or any sympathy with her difficulties.

After a week was past, Meg and her children made a daily expedition down to the docks, lingering about in any out-of-the-way corner till they could catch sight of some good-natured face, which threatened no unkind rebuff, and then Meg asked when her father's ship would come in. Very often she could get no satisfactory answer, but whenever she came across any one who knew the Ocean King, she heard that it would most likely be in dock by the end of October.  Robin's birthday was the last day in October, so her mother's reckoning had been correct.  Father would be home on Robbie's birthday; yet none the less was Meg's anxious face to be seen day after day about the docks, seeking someone to tell her over again the good news.

The last day but one arrived, and Meg set about the scrubbing and the cleaning of the room heartily, as she had seen her mother do before her father's return.  Robin was set upon the highest chair, with baby on his lap, to look on at Meg's exertions, out of the way of the wet flooring, upon which she bestowed so much water that the occupant of the room below burst out upon the landing, with such a storm of threats and curses as made her light heart beat with terror.  When the cleaning of the room was done, she trotted up and down the three flights of stairs with a small can, until she had filled, as full as it would hold, a broken tub, which was to serve as a bath for Robin and baby. It was late in the evening when all was accomplished, and Meg looked around her with a glow of triumph on the clean room and the fresh faces of the children.  Very weary she felt, but she opened her Testament, in which she had not had time to give Robin a lesson that day, and she read a verse half aloud to herself.

'Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.'

'I wish I could go to Jesus,' sighed little Meg, 'for I've worked very hard all day; and He says He'd give me rest.  Only I don't know where to go.'

She laid her head down on the pillow beside the baby's slumbering face, and almost before it rested there a deep sleep had come.  Perhaps Meg's sigh had gone to Jesus, and it was He who gave her rest; 'for so He giveth His beloved sleep.'




Chapter IV

Little Meg's Treat to Her Children

Robin's birthday dawned brightly, even into the dark deep shadows of Angel Court, and Meg was awakened by the baby's two hands beating upon her still drowsy face, and trying to lift up her closed eyelids with its tiny fingers.  She sprang up with a light heart, for father was coming home to-day.  For the first time since her mother's death she dragged the box from under the bed, and with eager hands unlocked the lid.  She knew that she dare not cross the court, she and the children, arrayed in the festive finery, without her father to take care of them; for she had seen other children stripped of all their new and showy clothes before they could reach the shelter of the larger streets.

But Meg was resolved that Robin and baby at least should not meet their father in rags.  She took out the baby's coat and hood, too small now even for the little head it was to cover, and Robin's blue cap and brown holland pinafore.  These things she made up into a bundle, looking longingly at her own red frock, and her bonnet with green ribbons: but Meg shook her head at herself admonishingly.  It never would do to risk an appearance in such gorgeous attire.  The very utmost she could venture upon was to put some half-worn shoes on her own feet and Robin's; for shoes were not in fashion for the children of Angel Court, and the unusual sound of their tread would attract quite as much attention as little Meg dare risk.  She dressed her children and set them on the bed, while she put her own rough hair as smooth as she could by a little glass in the lid of the trunk.  Her bonnet, which had originally belonged to her mother, had been once of black silk, but it was now brown with years, and the old shawl she pinned over the ragged bodice of her frock was very thin and torn at the edges; but Meg's heart was full of hope, and nothing could drive away the smile from her careworn face this morning.  With the baby in her arms she carefully descended the ladder, having put the door-key into the bag round her neck along with the key of the box and her last half-crown. Then with stealthy steps she stole along under the houses, hushing Robin, who was inclined to make an unnecessary clatter in his shoes; but fortunately the inhabitants of Angel Court were not early risers, and Meg was off in good time, so they reached the outer streets safely, without notice or attack.  Before going down to the docks Meg drew Robin into an empty archway, and there exchanged his ragged cap and pinafore for those she had put up into her bundle.  Having dressed the baby also, she sat and looked at them both for a minute in mute admiration and delight.  There could not be a prettier boy than Robin in all London, she was sure, with his bright black eyes and curly hair, that twisted so tightly round her fingers.  As for the baby with her shrewd old-womanish face, and the sweet smile which spoke a good deal plainer than words, Meg could scarcely keep from kissing her all the time.  How pleased and proud father would be!  But when she remembered how she should have to tell him that mother was dead and buried, and none of them would ever see her again, Meg's eyes were blinded with tears, and hiding her face in the baby's neck, she cried, whether for joy or sorrow she could hardly tell; until Robin broke out into a loud wail of distress and terror, which echoed noisily under the low vault of the archway.

Little Meg roused herself at the sound of Robin's cry, and taking his hand in hers, with the baby upon her arm, she loitered about the entrance to the dockyard, till a good-tempered looking burly man came near to them.  Meg planted herself bravely in his way, and looked up wistfully into his red face.

'Please, sir,' she said, 'could you tell me if father's ship's come in yet?'

'Father's ship!' repeated the man in a kindly voice.  'Why, what's the name of father's ship?'

'The Ocean King,' said Meg, trembling.

'It's in the river, my little lass,' he said, 'but it won't be in dock till night.  Father can't be at home afore to-morrow morning at the soonest.'

'Thank you kindly, sir,' answered Meg, her voice faltering with her great joy.  Her task was ended, then.  To-morrow she would give up the key of the box with its secret treasure, which she hardly dared to think about, and then she could feel like a child once more.  She did feel almost as gay as Robin who was pattering and stamping proudly along in his shoes, and in the consciousness that it was his birthday. Nobody else had such a thing as a birthday, so far as he knew; certainly none of his acquaintances in Angel Court, not even Meg herself, for Meg's birthday was lost in the depth of the ten years which had passed over her head.  He scarcely knew what it was, for he could neither see it nor touch it; but he had it, for Meg told him so, and it made him feel glad and proud.  It was a bright, warm, sunny autumn day, with enough freshness in the breeze coming off the unseen river to make the air sweet and reviving; for Meg was skirting about the more open streets, without venturing to pass through the closer and dirtier alleys.

'Robbie,' she said after a time, when they had come to a halt upon the steps of a dwelling-house, 'Robbie, I'll give you a treat to-day, because it's your birthday.  We'll not go home till it's dark; and I'll take you to see Temple Gardens.'

'What are Temple Gardens?' demanded Robin, his eyes eager for an answer.

'Oh, you'll see,' said Meg, not quite able to explain herself.  'I went there once, ever so many years ago, when I was a little girl.  You'll like 'em ever so!'

'Do we know the road?' asked Robin doubtfully.

'I should think so!' replied Meg; 'and if we didn't, there's the police.  What's the police good for, if they couldn't tell a person like me the road to Temple Gardens?  We'll have such a nice day!'

The children trotted along briskly till they reached the broad thoroughfares and handsome shops of the main streets which traverse London, where a constant rush of foot passengers upon the pavement, and of conveyances in the roadway, hurry to and fro from morning to midnight.  Poor little Meg stood for a few minutes aghast and stunned, almost fearful of committing herself and her children to the mighty stream; but Robin pulled her on impatiently.  He had been once as far as the Mansion House, before the time when their mother's long illness had made them almost prisoners in their lonely attic; and Meg herself had wandered several times as far as the great church of St Paul. After the first dread was over, she found a trembling, anxious enjoyment in the sight of the shops, and of the well-dressed people in the streets.  At one of the windows she was arrested by a full-size vision of herself, and Robin, and the baby, reflected in a great glass, a hundred times larger than the little square in the box-lid at home. She could not quite keep down a sigh after her own red frock and best bonnet; but she comforted herself quickly with the thought that people would look upon her as the nurse of Robin and baby, sent out to take them a walk.

They did not make very rapid progress, for they stopped to look in at many shop windows, especially where there were baby-clothes for sale, or where there were waxen figures of little boys, life-size, dressed in the newest fashions, with large eyes of glass beads, not unlike Robin's own black ones.  The passage of the crossings was also long and perilous.  Meg ran first with the baby, and put her down safely on the other side in some corner of a doorway; then with a sinking and troubled heart, least any evil person should pick her up, and run away with her as a priceless treasure, she returned for Robin.  In this way she got over several crossings, until they reached the bottom of Ludgate Hill, where she stood shivering and doubting for a long time, till she fairly made up her mind to speak to the majestic policeman looking on calmly at the tumult about him.

'Oh, if you please, Mr Police,' said Meg, in a plaintive voice, 'I want to get these two little children over to the other side, and I don't know how to do it, except you'd please to hold baby while I take Robbie across.'

The policeman looked down from his great height, without bending his stiff neck, upon the childish creature who spoke to him, and Meg's spirit sank with the fear of being ordered back again.  But he picked up Robin under his arm, and bidding her keep close beside him, he threaded his way through the throng of carriages.  This was the last danger; and now with restored gaiety Meg travelled on with her two children.

By-and-by they turned from the busy Fleet Street under a low archway, and in a minute they were out of the thunder of the streets which had almost drowned their voices, and found themselves in a place so quiet and so calm, with a sort of grave hush in the very air, that Robin pressed close to Meg's side, with something of the silent and subdued awe with which he might have entered a church.  There were houses here, and courts, but not houses and courts like those from which they had come.  Here and there they came upon a long corridor, where the sun shone between the shadows of the pillars supporting the roof; and they looked along them with wondering eyes, not knowing where they could lead to, and too timid to try to find out.  It was not a deserted place, but the number of people passing to and fro were few enough to make it seem almost a solitude to these poor children, who had travelled hither from the over-crowded slums of the East End.  They could hear their own voices, when they spoke, ring out in such clear, echoing tones, that Meg hushed Robin, lest some of the grave, stern, thoughtful gentlemen who passed them should bid them begone, and leave the Temple to its usual stillness.  The houses seemed to them so large and grand, that Meg, who had heard once of the Queen, and had a dim notion of her as a lady of extraordinary greatness and grandeur, whispered to Robin confidentially that she thought the Queen must live here.

They came upon a fountain in the centre of a small plot of grass and flowers, enclosed within high railings; and Robin uttered a shrill cry of delight, which rang noisily through the quiet court where its waters played in the sunshine.  But at last they discovered, with hearts as eagerly throbbing as those of the explorers of some new country, the gardens, the real Temple Gardens!  The chrysanthemums were in full blossom, with all their varied tints, delicate and rich, glowing under the brightness of the noontide sun; and Robin and Meg stood still, transfixed and silent, too full of an excess of happiness to speak.

'Oh, Meg, what is it? what is it?' cried Robin at last, with outstretched hands, as if he would fain gather them all into his arms. 'Is it gardens, Meg?  Is this Temple Gardens?'

Meg could not answer at first, but she held Robin back from the flowers.  She did not feel quite at home in this strange, sweet, sunny place; and she peeped in cautiously through the half-open iron gate before entering.  There were a few other children there, with their nursemaids, but she felt there was some untold difference between her and them.  But Robin's delight had given him courage, and he rushed in tumultuously, running along the smooth walks in an ecstasy of joy; and Meg could do nothing else but follow.  Presently, as nobody took any notice of her, she gave herself up to the gladness of the hour, and toiled up and down, under the weight of the baby, wherever Robin wished to go, until he consented to rest a little while upon a seat which faced the river, where they could see the boats pass by.  This was the happiest moment to Meg.  She thought of her father's ship coming up the river, bringing him home to her and the children; and she had almost lost the recollection of where she was, when Robin, who had been very quiet for some time, pulled her by the shawl.

'Look, Meg,' he whispered.

He pointed to a seat not far from them, where sat a lady, in a bright silk dress, and a velvet bonnet with a long rich feather across it. There were two children with her, a girl of Meg's age, and a boy about as big as Robin, dressed like a little Highlander, with a kilt of many colours, and a silver-mounted pouch, and a dirk, which he was brandishing about before his mother, who looked on, laughing fondly and proudly at her boy.  Meg gazed, too, until she heard Robin sob, and turning quickly to him, she saw the tears rolling quickly down his sorrowful face.  'Nobody laughs to me, Meg,' said Robin.

'Oh yes, Robbie, I laugh to you,' cried Meg; 'and father 'll laugh when he comes home to-morrow; and maybe God laughs to us, only we can't see His face.'

'I'd like to go home,' sobbed Robin; and Meg took her baby upon her tired arm, and turned her steps eastward once more.  As they left Temple Gardens, languid and weary, Meg saw the friendly man who had spoken kindly to them that morning at the docks passing by in an empty dray, and meeting her wistful eyes, he pulled up for a minute.

'Hullo, little woman!' he shouted.  'Are you going my way?'

He pointed his whip towards St Paul's, and Meg nodded, for her voice could not have reached him through the din.

'Hoist them children up here, that's a good fellow,' he said to a man who was standing by idle; and in a few seconds more they were riding triumphantly along Fleet Street in such a thrill and flutter of delight as Meg's heart had never felt before, while Robin forgot his sorrows, and cheered on the horses with all the power of his shrill voice.  The dray put them down at about half a mile from Angel Court, while it was still broad daylight, and Robin was no longer tired.  Meg changed her last half-crown, and spent sixpence of it lavishly in the purchase of some meat pies, upon which they feasted sumptuously, in the shelter of a doorway leading to the back of a house.




Chapter V

Little Meg's Neighbour

When their feast was over, the children sauntered on slowly, not wishing to enter Angel Court till it was dark enough for Robin's and baby's finery to pass by unseen; but as soon as it was dark they turned out of the main thoroughfare into the dingy streets more familiar to them.  As they entered the house Meg heard the deep gruff voice of Mr Grigg calling to her, and she went into his room, trembling, and holding the baby very tightly in her arms.  It was a small room, the same size as their own attic, and the litter and confusion throughout made it impossible to go in more than a step or two.  Mr Grigg was seated at a stained wooden table, upon which stood two large cups and a black bottle of gin, with a letter lying near to Mr Grigg's large and shaking hand.  Coming in from the fresh air of the night, Meg coughed a little with the mingled fumes of gin and tobacco; but she coughed softly for fear of giving offence.

'Here's a letter come for your mother, little Meg,' said Mr Grigg, seizing it eagerly, 'I'll read it to you if you like.'

'Oh no, thank you, sir,' answered Meg quickly; 'father's coming home, and he'll read it to-morrow morning.  His ship's in the river, and it'll be in dock to-night for certain.  So he'll be home to-morrow.'

Upon hearing this news Mr Grigg thought it best to deliver up the letter to Meg, but he did it so reluctantly that she hurried away lest he should reclaim it.  Robin was already halfway upstairs, but she soon overtook him, and a minute afterwards reached their own door.  She was about to put the baby down to take out the key, when, almost without believing her own eyes, she saw that it was in the lock, and that a gleam of firelight shone through the chinks of the door.  Meg lifted the latch with a beating heart, and looked in before venturing to enter.  The fire was lighted, but there seemed to be no other disturbance or change in the attic since the morning, except that in her mother's low chair upon the hearth there sat a thin slight woman, like her mother, with the head bowed down, and the face hidden in the hands.  Meg paused, wonder-stricken and speechless, on the door-sill; but Robin ran forward quickly, with a glad shout of 'Mother! mother!'

At the sound of Robin's step and cry the woman lifted up her face.  It was a white, thin face, but younger than their mother's, though the eyes were red and sunken, as if with many tears, and there was a gloom upon it, as if it had never smiled a happy smile.  Meg knew it in an instant as the face of the tenant of the back attic, who had been in jail for six weeks, and her eye searched anxiously the dark corner under the bed, where the box was hidden.  It seemed quite safe and untouched, but still Meg's voice was troubled as she spoke.

'I thought I'd locked up all right,' she said, stepping into the room, while Robin took refuge behind her, and regarded the stranger closely from his place of safety.

'Ay, it was all right,' answered the girl, 'only you see my key 'd unlock it; and I felt cold and low coming out of jail to-day; and I'd no coal, nor bread, nor nothing.  So I came in here, and made myself comfortable.  Don't you be crusty, little Meg.  You'd be the same if you'd been locked up for six weeks.  I wish I were dead, I do.'

The girl spoke sadly, and dropped her head again upon her hands, while Meg stood in the middle of the floor, not knowing what to do or say. She sat down after a while upon the bedstead, and began taking off the baby's things, pondering deeply all the time what course of action she ought to follow.  She could place herself so as to conceal completely the box under the bed; but if the girl's key would unlock her attic door, how was she ever to leave it for a moment in safety?  Then the thought flashed across her that father would be at home to-morrow, and she would no longer have to take care of the hidden treasure.  In the meantime Robin had stolen up to the stranger's side, and after closely considering her for some moments, he stroked her hand with his own small fingers.

'I thought you were mother, I did,' he said.  'It's my birthday to-day.'

For one instant the girl looked at him with a smile in her sunken eyes, and then she lifted him on to her lap, and laid her face upon his curly head, sobbing bitterly.

'Little Meg,' she said, 'your mother spoke kind to me once, and now she's dead and gone.  I wonder why I wasn't took instead o' her?'

Meg's tender heart closed itself no longer against the stranger.  She got up from her seat, and crossing the floor to the fireside, she put the baby down by Robin on her lap.

'You didn't ought to go into a person's room without asking leave,' she said; 'but if you'll hold baby for me, I'll soon get tea.  I've got a little real tea left, and father 'll buy some more to-morrow.  You mind the children till it's ready.'

It was soon ready, and they drank and ate together, with few words. Meg was intent upon getting her weary children to bed as soon as possible, and after it was over she undressed them at once.  Before Robin got into bed she addressed the girl hesitatingly.

'Robbie always says his prayers aloud to me,' she said; 'you won't mind, will you?'

'Go on,' answered the girl, with a sob.

'Robbie,' said Meg, as he knelt at her knee, with his hands held up between both her hands, 'Robbie, it's your birthday to-day; and if I was you I'd ask God for something more than other days.  I'd ask Him to bless everybody as well as us if I was you.  If everybody was good, it'd be so nice.'

'Yes, Meg,' replied Robin promptly, closing his black eyes before he began his prayer.  'Pray God, bless father on the big sea, and bless me, and Meg, and baby, and take care of us all.  Pray God, bless everybody, 'cept the devil.  Amen.'

But Robin did not get up from his knees.  He dropped his head upon Meg's lap, and when she moved he cried, 'Stop a minute!'  Meg waited patiently until he lifted up his face again, and shutting his eyes very tightly, said, 'Pray God, bless everybody, and the devil, and make him a good man.  Amen.'

'Robbie,' said Meg mournfully, 'I don't think the devil can be made good.  He doesn't want to be good.  If anybody wants to be good, God can make 'em good, anybody in all the world; but He won't if they don't want to.'

Robin was already half asleep, and gave little heed to Meg's words. She tucked him snugly into his place beside baby, and stooping over them, kissed both their drowsy faces with a loving and lingering tenderness.  Then she turned to the fire, and saw the strange girl there upon her knees before her mother's chair, weeping again in a passion of tears.




Chapter VI

Little Meg's Last Money

'What's the matter with you?' asked Meg, laying her small rough hand upon the girl's head.

'Oh, Meg, Meg!' she cried, 'I do want to be good, and I can't.  You don't know how wicked I am; but once I was a good little girl like you. And now I can never, never be good again.'

'Yes, you can,' answered little Meg, 'if you ask God.'

'You don't know anything about it,' she said, pushing away Meg's hand.

'I don't know much,' replied Meg meekly; 'but Jesus says in the Bible, that if our fathers 'll give us good things, God 'll much more give good things to anybody as asks for 'em.'

'But I'm too bad to ask Him,' said the girl.

'I don't know what's to be done, then,' answered Meg.  'The Bible says, "Those that ask Him"; and if you are too bad to ask Him, I suppose He won't give you any good things.'

The girl made no reply, but crouching down upon the hearth at Meg's feet, she sat looking into the fire with the expression of one who is thinking deeply.  Meg too was silent for a time, smiling now and then as she recollected that father would be at home to-morrow.

'I don't know what you're called,' said Meg, after a very long silence.

'Oh, they call me Kitty, and Puss, and Madcap, and all sorts o' names,' answered the girl, with a deep sigh.

'But that's not your christen name?' said Meg.

'No,' she replied.

'What does your mother call you?' asked Meg.

For a moment little Meg was terrified, for the girl seized her hands in a strong and painful grasp, and her red eyes flamed with anger; but she loosed her hold gradually, and then, in a choking voice, she said, 'Don't you never speak to me about my mother!'

'Have you got any money, Kitty?' inquired Meg, by way of turning the conversation.

'Not a rap,' said Kitty, laughing hoarsely.

'I've got two shillings left,' continued Meg, 'and I'll give you one; only, if you please, you mustn't come into my room again, at least till father's at home.  I promised mother not to let anybody at all come here.  You'll not be angry, will you?'

'No, I'm not angry,' said Kitty gently, 'and you must always do what your mother told you, little Meg.  She spoke kind to me once, she did. So I'll go away now, dear, and never come in again: but you wouldn't mind me listening at the door when Robbie's saying his prayers sometimes?'

'No,' answered Meg; 'and you may listen when I read up loud, if you like.  I always read something afore I go to bed, and I'll speak up loud enough for you to hear.'

'I'll listen,' said Kitty, standing up to go to her own dark, cold attic, and looking round sadly at Meg's tidy room, all ready as it was for her father's arrival.  'I suppose you'd not mind me kissing the children afore I go?'

'Oh no,' said Meg, going with her to the bedside, and looking down fondly upon the children's sleeping faces.  The baby's pale small face wore a smile upon it, as did Robin's also, for he was dreaming of the gardens he had visited on his birthday.  The girl bent over them, but she drew back without kissing them, and with a sharp painful tone in her voice she said, 'I wish I was dead, I do.'




Chapter VII

Little Meg's Disappointment

If Meg had been up early on Robin's birthday, she was out of bed and about her preparations still earlier the next morning.  She had time to go over again most of her brushing and rubbing of the scanty furniture before the children awoke.  She reached out all their best clothes, and her own as well, for she did not intend to go down to the docks to meet her father, but thought it would be best to wait at home for his arrival.  Her hands were full, and her thoughts also, for some time; and it was not till the nearest clock struck eleven that she could consider all her preparations completed.

When all her work was done, Meg helped Robin up to the window-sill, and climbed after him herself to the perilous seat, with the baby held fast upon her lap.  It was the first time the baby had been allowed to occupy this dangerous place, and for the first few minutes Meg was not without her fears; but it was weary and languid this morning, and sat quite still upon her lap, with its little head resting upon her shoulder, and its grave eyes looking out inquiringly upon the strange world in which it found itself.  Meg and Robin watched every man who entered the court; and every now and then Robin would clap his hands, and shout loudly, 'Father, father!' making Meg's arms tremble, and her heart beat fast with expectation.  But it was nine months since he had gone away, and Robin had almost forgotten him, so that it always proved not to be her father.  Hour after hour passed by, and Meg cut up the last piece of bread for the children and herself, and yet he never came; though they stayed faithfully at their post, and would not give up looking for him as long as the daylight lasted.  But the night drew near at last, an early night, for it was the first day in November, and London fogs grow thick then; and Meg kindled the fire again, and sat down by it, unwilling to undress the children before he came.  So she sat watching and waiting, until the baby fell into a broken, sobbing slumber on her lap, and Robin lay upon the floor fast asleep.

At length Meg resolved to lay the children in bed, dressed as they were, and steal down herself to the docks, under the shelter of the fog, to see if she could learn any news of the Ocean King.  She drew the old shawl over her head, which well covered her red frock, and taking off her shoes and stockings -- for father would not miss them in the night -- she crept unseen and unheard down the dark staircase, and across the swarming, noisy court.  The fog was growing thicker every minute, yet she was at no loss to find her way, so familiar it was to her.  But when she reached the docks, the darkness of the night, as well as that of the fog, hid from her the presence of her good-natured friend, if indeed he was there.  There were strange noises and rough voices to be heard, and from time to time the huge figure of some tall man appeared to her for an instant in the gloom, and vanished again before little Meg could find courage to speak to him.  She drew back into a corner, and peered eagerly, with wistful eyes, into the thick yellow mist which hid everything from them, while she listened to the clank of iron cables, and the loud sing-song of the invisible sailors as they righted their vessels.  If she could only hear her father's voice among them!  She felt sure she should know it among a hundred others, and she was ready to cry aloud the moment it reached her ears -- to call 'Father!' and he would be with her in an instant, and she in his arms, with her own clasped fast about his neck.  Oh, if he would but speak out of the darkness!  Meg's keen eyes grew dim with tears, and her ears seemed to become dull of hearing, from the very longing to see and hear more clearly.  But she rubbed away the tears with her shawl, and pushed the tangled hair away behind her small ears, and with her hands pressed against her heart, to deaden its throbbing, she leaned forward to pierce, if possible, through the thick dark veil which separated her from her father.

She had been there a long time when the thought crossed her, that perhaps after all he had been knocking at the door at home, and trying to open it; waking up the children, and making them cry and scream with terror at finding themselves quite alone.  She started up to hurry away; but at that moment a man came close by, and in the extremity of her anxiety Meg stopped him.

'Please,' she said earnestly, 'is the Ocean King come in yet?'

'Ay,' was the answer.  'Came in last night, all right and tight.'

'Father must be come home, then,' thought Meg, speeding away swiftly and noiselessly with her bare feet along the streets to Angel Court. She glanced up anxiously to her attic window, which was all in darkness, while the lower windows glimmered with a faint light from within.  The landlord's room was full of a clamorous, quarrelling crew of drunkards; and Meg's spirit sank as she thought -- suppose father had been up to their attic, and finding it impossible to get in at once, had come down, and begun to drink with them!  She climbed the stairs quickly, but all was quiet there; and she descended again to hang about the door, and listen, and wait; either to discover if he was there, or to prevent him turning in when he did come.  Little Meg's heart was full of a woman's heaviest care and anxiety, as she kept watch in the damp and the gloom of the November night, till even the noisy party within broke up, and went their way, leaving Angel Court to a brief season of quietness.

Meg slept late in the morning, but she was not disturbed by any knock at the door.  Robin had crept out of bed and climbed up alone to the window-sill, where fortunately the window was shut and fastened; and the first thing Meg's eyes opened upon was Robin sitting there, in the tumbled clothes in which he had slept all night.  The morning passed slowly away in mingled hope and fear; but no step came up the ladder to their door, and Kitty had gone out early in the morning, before Meg was awake.  She spent her last shilling in buying some coal and oatmeal; and then, because it was raining heavily, she stationed herself on the topmost step of the stairs, with Robin and baby, waiting with ever-growing dread for the long-delayed coming of her father.

It was growing dark again before any footstep came further than the landing below, and then it was a soft, stealthy, slipshod step, not like the strong and measured tread of a man.  It was a woman who climbed the steep ladder, and Meg knew it could be no one else but Kitty.  The girl sat down on the top step beside them, and took Robin upon her lap.

'What are you all doing out here, little Meg?' she said, in a low, gentle voice, which Meg could scarcely believe to be the same as that which had sometimes frightened her by its shrill shrieks of drunken merriment.

'We're looking for father,' she answered weariedly.  'He's never come yet, and I've spent all my money, and we've got no candles.'

'Meg,' said Kitty, 'I can pay you back the shilling you gave me on Tuesday night.'

'But you mustn't come into our room, if you do,' answered Meg.

'No, no, I'll not come in,' said she, pressing a shilling into Meg's hand.  'But why hasn't father come home?'

'I don't know,' sobbed Meg.  'His ship came in the night of Robbie's birthday, that's two days ago; and he's never come yet.'

'The ship come in!' repeated Kitty, in a tone of surprise.  'What's the name o' the ship, Meg?'

'Father's ship's the Ocean King,' said Robin proudly.

'I'll hunt him up,' cried Kitty, rising in haste.  'I'll find him, if he's anywhere in London.  I know their ways, and where they go to, when they come ashore, little Meg.  Oh!  I'll hunt him out.  You put the children to bed, dear; and then you sit up till I come back, if it's past twelve o'clock, I'll bring him home, alive or dead.  Don't cry no more, little Meg.'

She called softly up the stairs to say these last words, for she had started off immediately.  Meg did as she had told her, and then waited with renewed hope for her return.  It was past midnight before Kitty tapped quietly at the door, and she went out to her on the landing. But Kitty was alone, and Meg could hardly stand for the trembling which came upon her.

'Haven't you found father?' she asked.

'I've found out where he is,' answered Kitty.  'He's at the other end of the world, in hospital.  He was took bad a-coming home -- so bad, they was forced to leave him behind them; and he'll work his way back when he's well enough, so Jack says, one of his mates.  He says he may come back soon, or come back late, and that's all he knows about him.  What shall you do, little Meg?'

'Mother said I was to be sure to take care of the children till father comes home,' she answered, steadying her voice; 'and I'll do it, please God.  I can ask Him to help me, and He will.  He'll take care of us.'

'He hasn't took care o' me,' said Kitty bitterly.

'May be you haven't asked Him,' said Meg.

Kitty was silent for a minute, and then she spoke in a voice half choked with sobs.

'It's too late now,' she said, 'but He'll take care of you, never fear; and oh!  I wish He'd let me help Him.  I wish I could do something for you, little Meg; for your mother spoke kind to me once, and made me think of my own mother.  There, just leave me alone, will you?  I'm off to bed now, and you go to bed too.  I'll help you all I can.'

She pushed Meg back gently into her attic, and closed the door upon her; but Meg heard her crying and moaning aloud in her own room, until she herself fell asleep.




Chapter VIII

Little Meg's Red Frock in Pawn

Meg felt very forlorn when she opened her heavy eyelids the next morning.  It was certain now that her father could not be home for some time, it might be a long time; and how was she to buy bread for her children and herself?  She took down her mother's letter from the end of a shelf which supplied the place of a chimney-piece, and looked at it anxiously; but she dared not ask anybody to read it for her, lest it should contain some mention of the money hidden in the box; and that must be taken care of in every way, because it did not belong to her, or father even, but to one of his mates.  She had no friend to go to in all the great city.  Once she might have gone to the teacher at the school where she had learned to read a little; but that had been in quite a different part of London, on the other side of the river, and they had moved from it before her father had started on his last voyage.  Meg sat thinking and pondering sadly enough, until suddenly, how she did not know, her fears were all taken away, and her childish heart lightened.  She called Robin, and bade him kneel down beside her, and folding baby's hands together, she closed her own eyes, and bowed her head, while she asked God for the help He had promised to give.

'Pray God,' said little Meg, 'You've let mother die, and father be took bad at the other side of the world, and there's nobody to take care of us 'cept You, and Jesus says, if we ask You, You'll give us bread and everything we want, just like father and mother.  Pray God, do!  I'm not a grown-up person yet, and Robin's a very little boy, and baby can't talk or walk at all; but there's nobody else to do anythink for us, and we'll try as hard as we can to be good.  Pray God, bless father at the other side of the world, and Robbie, and baby, and me; and bless everybody, for Jesus Christ's sake.  Amen.'

Meg rose from her knees joyfully, feeling sure that her prayer was heard and would be answered.  She went out with her children to lay out the shilling Kitty had returned to her the day before; and when they come in she and Robin sat down to a lesson in reading.  The baby was making a pilgrimage of the room from chair to chair, and along the bedstead; but all of a sudden she balanced herself steadily upon her tiny feet, and with a scream of mingled dread and delight, which made Meg and Robin look up quickly, she tottered across the open floor to the place where they were sitting, and hid her face in Meg's lap, quivering with joy and wonder.  Meg's gladness was full, except that there was a little feeling of sorrow that neither father nor mother was there to see it.

'Did God see baby walk?' inquired Robin.

'I should think He did!' said Meg confidently; and her slight sorrow fled away.  God could not help loving baby, she felt sure of that, nor Robin; and if He loved them, would He not take care of them Himself, and show her how to take care of them, till father was at home?  The day passed almost as happily as Robin's birthday; though the rain came down in torrents, and pattered through the roof, falling splash, splash into the broken tub, with a sound something like the fountain in Temple Gardens.

But when Kitty's shilling was gone to the last farthing, and not a spoonful of meal remained in the bag, it was not easy to be happy. Robin and baby were both crying for food; and there was no coal to make a fire, nor any candle to give them light during the long dark evenings of November.  Kitty was out all day now, and did not get home till late, so Meg had not seen her since the night she had brought the news about her father.  But a bright thought came to her, and she wondered at herself for not having thought of it before.  She must pawn her best clothes; her red frock and bonnet with green ribbons.  There was a natural pang at parting with them, even for a time; but she comforted herself with the idea that father would get them back for her as soon as he returned.  She reached them out of the box, feeling carefully lest she should take any of Robin's or the baby's by mistake in the dark; and then she set off with her valuable bundle, wondering how many shillings she would get for them, and whether she could make the money last till her father came.  The pawnbroker's shop was a small, dingy place in Rosemary Lane; and it, and the rooms above it, were as full as they could be with bundles such as poor Meg carried under her old shawl.  A single gas-light was flaring away in the window, and a hard-featured, sharp-eyed man was reading a newspaper behind the counter.  Meg laid down her bundle timidly, and waited till he had finished reading his paragraph; after which he opened it, spread out the half-worn frock, and held up the bonnet on his fist, regarding them both with a critical and contemptuous eye.  Some one else had entered the shop, but Meg was too absorbed and too anxious to take any heed of it  The pawnbroker rolled the frock up scornfully, and gave it a push towards her.

'Tenpence for the two,' he said, looking back at his newspaper.

'Oh! if you please,' cried little Meg, in an agony of distress, 'you must give me more than tenpence.  I've got two little children, and no bread, nor coals, nor candles.  I couldn't buy scarcely anythink with only tenpence.  Indeed, indeed, my red frock's worth a great deal more; it's worth I don't know how many shillings.'

'You go home, little Meg,' said Kitty's voice behind her, 'and I'll bring you three shillings for the frock, and one for the bonnet; four for the two.  Mr Sloman's an old friend o' mine, he is; and he'll oblige you for my sake.  There, you run away, and I'll manage this little bit o' business for you.'

Meg ran away as she was told, glad enough to leave her business with Kitty.  By-and-by she heard her coming upstairs, and went out to meet her.  Kitty placed four shillings in her hand.

'Meg,' she said, 'you let me do that sort o' work for you always. They'll cheat you ever so; but I wouldn't, not to save my life, if you'll only trust me.  You ask me another time.  Is that the way God takes care of you?'

'He does take care of me,' answered Meg, with a smile; 'or may be you wouldn't have come into the shop just now, and I should have got only tenpence.  I suppose that's taking care of me, isn't it?'

'I don't know,' said Kitty.  'Only let me do that for you when you want it done again.'

It was not very long before it wanted to be done again; and then Meg by daylight went through the contents of the box, choosing out those things which could best be spared, but leaving Robin's and baby's fine clothes to the last.  She clung to these with a strong desire to save them, lest it should happen that her father came home too poor to redeem them.  The packet of money, tied up and sealed, fell at last to the bottom of the almost empty box, and rolled noisily about whenever it was moved, but no thought of taking any of it entered into Meg's head.  She was almost afraid of looking at it herself, lest the secret of it being there should get known in Angel Court; and whenever she mentioned it in her prayers, which she did every night, asking God to take care of it, she did not even whisper the words, much less speak them aloud, as she did her other requests, but she spoke inwardly only, for fear lest the very walls themselves should hear her.  No one came near her attic, except Kitty, and she kept her promise faithfully. Since the four bearers had carried away her mother's coffin, and since the night Kitty came out of jail, the night of Robin's birthday, no stranger's foot had crossed the door-sill.

But November passed, and part of December, and Meg's stock of clothes, such as were of any value at the pawn-shop, was almost exhausted.  At the end of the year the term for which her father had paid rent in advance would be over, and Mr Grigg might turn her and her children out into the streets.  What was to be done?  How was she to take care of Robin, and baby, and the money belonging to one of father's mates?




Chapter IX

Little Meg's Friends in Need

These were hard times for little Meg.  The weather was not severely cold yet, or the children would have been bitterly starved up in their cold attic, where Meg was obliged to be very careful of the coal.  All her mother's clothes were in pledge now, as well as her own and Robin's; and it seemed as if it would soon come to pawning their poor bed and their scanty furniture.  Yet Meg kept up a brave spirit, and, as often as the day was fine enough, took her children out into the streets, loitering about the cook-shops, where the heat from the cellar kitchens lent a soothing warmth to their shivering bodies.

About the middle of December the first sharp frost set in, and Meg felt herself driven back from this last relief.  She had taken the children out as usual, but she had no shoes to put on their feet, and nothing but their thin old rags to clothe them with.  Robin's feet were red and blue with cold, like her own; but Meg could not see her own, and did not feel the cold as much for them as for Robin's.  His face had lost a little of its roundness and freshness, and his black eyes some of their brightness since his birthday; and poor Meg's heart bled at the sight of him as he trudged along the icy pavement of the streets at her side. There was one cook-shop from which warm air and pleasant odours came up through an iron grating, and Meg hurried on to it to feel its grateful warmth; but the shutters of the shop were not taken down, and the cellar window was unclosed.  Little Meg turned away sadly, and bent her bare and aching feet homewards again, hushing baby, who wailed a pitiful low wail in her ears.  Robin, too, dragged himself painfully along, for he had struck his numbed foot against a piece of iron, and the wound was bleeding a little.  They had turned down a short street which they had often passed through before, at the end of which was a small shop, displaying in its window a few loaves of bread, and some bottles containing different kinds of sweetmeats, such as they had indulged in sometimes in the palmy days when father was at home.  The door was divided in the middle, and the lower half was closed, while the upper stood open, giving a full view of the shop within.  Meg's old brown bonnet just rose above the top of the closed half, and her wistful face turned for a moment towards the tempting sight of a whole shelf full of loaves; but she was going on slowly, when a kindly voice hailed her from the dark interior.

'Hollo, little woman!' it shouted, 'I haven't set eyes on you this many a day.  How's Robbie and baby.'

'They're here, sir, thank you,' answered Meg, in a more womanly way than ever, for she felt very low to-day.  'We're only doing middling, thank you, sir.'

'Why, father's ship's come in,' said her good-natured friend from the docks, coming forward and wiping his lips, as if he had just finished a good meal.  'What makes you be doing only middling?'

'Father didn't come home in the ship,' replied Meg, her voice faltering a little.

'Come in and tell us all about it,' he said.  'Hollo, Mrs Blossom! just step this way, if you please.'

There was a little kitchen at the back of the shop, from which came a very savoury smell of cooking, as the door opened, and a round, fat, rosy-cheeked woman, of about fifty years of age, looked out inquiringly.  She came a step or two nearer the door, as Meg's friend beckoned to her with a clasp-knife he held in his hand.

'These little 'uns look cold and hungry, don't they, Mrs Blossom?' he said.  'You smell something as smells uncommon good, don't you?' he asked of Meg, who had sniffed a little, unconsciously.

'Yes, please, sir,' answered Meg.

'I've ate as much as ever I can eat for to-day,' said her friend, 'so you give 'em the rest, Mrs Blossom, and I'll be off.  Only just tell me why father's not come home in his ship.'

'He was took bad on the other side of the world,' replied Meg, looking up tearfully into his good-tempered face, 'and they was forced to leave him behind in a hospital.  That's why.'

'And what's mother doing?' he asked.

'Mother's dead,' she answered.

'Dead!' echoed her friend.  'And who's taking care of you young 'uns?'

'There's nobody to take care of us but God,' said Meg, simply and softly.

'Well, I never!' cried Mrs Blossom, seizing the baby out of Meg's, and clasping it in her own arms.  'I never heard anything like that.'

'Nor me,' said the man, catching up Robin, and bearing him off into the warm little kitchen, where a saucepan of hot tripe was simmering on the hob, and a round table, with two plates upon it, was drawn up close to the fire.  He put Robin down on Mrs Blossom's seat, and lifted Meg into a large arm-chair he had just quitted.

'I guess you could eat a morsel of tripe,' he said, ladling it out in overflowing spoonfuls upon the plates.  'Mrs Blossom, some potatoes, if you please, and some bread; and do you feed the baby whilst the little woman gets her dinner.  Now, I'm off.  Mrs Blossom, you settle about 'em coming here again.'

He was off, as he said, in an instant.  Meg sat in her large arm-chair, grasping a big knife and fork in her small hands, but she could not swallow a morsel at first for watching Robin and the baby, who was sucking in greedily spoonfuls of potatoes, soaked in the gravy.  Mrs Blossom urged her to fall to, and she tried to obey; but her pale face quivered all over, and letting fall her knife and fork, she hid it in her trembling hands.

'If you please, ma'am, I'm only so glad,' said little Meg as soon as she could command her voice.  'Robbie and baby were so hungry, and I hadn't got anythink to give 'em.'

'I suppose you aint hungry yourself neither,' observed Mrs Blossom, a tear rolling down a little channel between her round cheeks and her nose.

'Oh, but ain't I!' said Meg, recovering herself still more.  'I've had nothink since last night, and then it were only a crust as Kitty give me.'

'Well, dear, fall to, and welcome,' answered Mrs Blossom.  'And who's Kitty?'

'It's a grown-up person as lives in the back attic,' answered Meg, after eating her first mouthful.  'She helps me all she can.  She's took all my things to the pawn-shop for me, because she can get more money than me.  She's as good as can be to us.'

'Are all your things gone to pawn?' inquired Mrs Blossom.

'I've got baby's cloak and hood left,' she replied mournfully.  'He wouldn't give more than a shilling for 'em, and I thought it wasn't worth while parting with 'em for that.  I tried to keep Robbie's cap and pinafore, that were as good as new, but I were forced to let 'em go.  And our shoes, ma'am,' added Meg, taking Robin's bare and bleeding foot into her hand: 'see what poor Robbie's done to himself.'

'Poor little dear!' said Mrs Blossom pityingly.  'I'll wash his poor little feet for him when he's finished his dinner.  You get on with yours likewise, my love.'

Meg was silent for some minutes, busily feasting on the hot tripe, and basking in the agreeable warmth of the cosy room.  It was a wonderfully bright little spot for that quarter of London, but the brightness was all inside.  Outside, at about three feet from the window, rose a wall so high as to shut out every glimpse of the sky; but within everything was so clean and shining, even to the quarried floor, that it was difficult to believe in the mud and dirt of the streets without.  Mrs Blossom herself looked fresh and comely, like a countrywoman; but there was a sad expression on her round face, plain enough to be seen when she was not talking.

'My dear,' she said when Meg laid down her knife and fork, and assured her earnestly that she could eat no more, 'what may you be thinking of doing?'

'I don't hardly know,' she answered.  'I expect father home every day. If I could only get enough for the children, and a crust or two for me, we could get along.  But we can't do nothink more, I know.'

'You'll be forced to go into the house,' said Mrs Blossom.

'Oh, no, no, no!' cried little Meg, drawing Robin to her, and with a great effort lifting him on to her lap, where he almost eclipsed her. 'I couldn't ever do that.  We'll get along somehow till father comes home.'

'Where is it you live?' inquired Mrs Blossom.

'Oh, it's not a nice place at all,' said Meg, who dreaded having any visitor.  'It's along Rosemary Lane, and down a street, and then down another smaller street, and up a court.  That's where it is.'

Mrs Blossom sat meditating a few minutes, with the baby on her lap, stretching itself lazily and contentedly before the fire; while Meg, from behind Robin, watched her new friend's face anxiously.

'Well,' she said, 'you come here again to-morrow, and I'll ask Mr George what's to be done.  That was Mr George as was here, and he's my lodger.  He took you in, and maybe he'll agree to do something.'

'Thank you, ma'am,' said Meg gratefully.  'Please, have you any little children of your own?'

The tears ran faster now down Mrs Blossom's cheeks, and she was obliged to wipe them away before she could answer.

'I'd a little girl like you,' she said, 'ten years ago.  Such a pretty little girl, so rosy, and bright, and merry, as all the folks round took notice of.  She was like the apple of my eye, she was.'

'What was she called?' asked Meg, with an eager interest.

'Why, the neighbours called her Posy because her name was Blossom,' said Mrs Blossom, smiling amidst her tears.  'We lived out in the country, and I'd a little shop, and a garden, and kept fowls, and pigs, and eggs; fresh eggs, such as the like are never seen in this part o' London.  Posy they called her, and a real posy she was.'

Mrs Blossom paused, and looked sadly down upon the happy baby, shaking her head as if she was sorely grieved at heart.

'And Posy died?' said Meg softly.

'No, no!' cried Mrs Blossom.  'It 'ud been a hundred times better if she'd died.  She grew up bad.  I hope you'll never live to grow up bad, little girl.  And she ran away from home; and I lost her, her own mother that had nursed her when she was a little baby like this.  I'd ha' been thankful to ha' seen her lying dead afore my eyes in her coffin.'

'That's bad,' said little Meg, in a tone of trouble and tender pity.

'It's nigh upon three years ago,' continued Mrs Blossom, looking down still upon the baby, as if she were telling her; 'and I gave up my shop to my son's wife, and come here, thinking maybe she'd step in some day or other to buy a loaf of bread or something, because I knew she'd come up to London.  But she's never so much as passed by the window -- leastways when I've been watching, and I'm always watching.  I can't do my duty by Mr George for staring out o' the window.'

'Watching for Posy?' said little Meg.

'Ay, watching for Posy,' repeated Mrs Blossom, 'and she never goes by.'

'Have you asked God to let her go by?' asked Meg.

'Ay, my dear,' said Mrs Blossom.  'I ask Him every blessed day o' my life.'

'Then she's sure to come some day,' said Meg joyfully.  'There's no mistake about that, because Jesus says it in the Bible, and He knows all about God.  You've asked Him, and He'll do it.  It's like father coming.  I don't know whether he'll come to-day or to-morrow, or when it'll be; but he will come.'

'God bless and love you!' cried Mrs Blossom, suddenly putting baby down in Meg's lap, and clasping all three of them in her arms.  'I'll believe it, I will.  He's sent you to give me more heart.  God love you all!'

It was some while before Mrs Blossom regained her composure; but when she did, and it was time for Meg and the children to go home before it was quite dark, she bound up Robin's foot in some rags, and gave Meg a loaf to carry home with her, bidding her be sure to come again the next day.  Meg looked back to the shop many times before turning the corner of the street, and saw Mrs Blossom's round face, with its white cap border, still leaning over the door, looking after them, and nodding pleasantly each time she caught Meg's backward glance.  At the corner they all three turned round, Meg holding up baby as high as her arms could reach, and after this last farewell they lost sight of their new friend.




Chapter X

Little Meg as Charwoman

Meg and her children did not fail to make their appearance the next morning at Mrs Blossom's shop, where she welcomed them heartily, and made them comfortable again by the kitchen fire.  When they were well warmed, and had finished some bread, and some coffee which had been kept hot for them, Mrs Blossom put on a serious business air.

'Mr George and me have talked you over,' she said, 'and he's agreed to something.  I can't do my duty by him as I should wish, you know why; and I want a little maid to help me.'

'Oh, if you please,' faltered little Meg, 'I couldn't leave our attic. I promised mother I wouldn't go away till father comes home.  Don't be angry, please.'

'I'm not angry, child,' continued Mrs Blossom.  'I only want a little maid to come mornings, and go away nights, like a char-woman.'

'Mother used to go charing sometimes,' remarked Meg.

'I'm not a rich woman,' resumed Mrs Blossom, 'and Mr George has his old father to keep, as lives down in my own village, and I know him well; so we can't give great wages.  I'd give you a half-quartern loaf a day, and Mr George threepence for the present, while it's winter.  Would that suit your views?'

'What could I do with Robbie and baby?' asked Meg, with an air of perplexed thought.

'Couldn't you leave 'em with a neighbour?' suggested Mrs Blossom.

Meg pondered deeply for a while.  Kitty had told her the night before that she had got some sailors' shirts to sew, and would stay at home to make them.  She could trust Robin and the baby with Kitty, and instead of lighting a fire in her own attic she could give her the coals, and so save her fuel, as part payment for taking charge of the children. Yet Meg felt a little sad at the idea of leaving them for so long a time, and seeing so little of them each day, and she knew they would miss her sorely.  But nothing else could be done, and she accepted Mrs Blossom's offer thankfully.

'You needn't be here afore nine o' the morning,' said Mrs Blossom; 'it's too early for Posy to be passing by; and you can go away again as soon as it's dark in the evening.  You mustn't get any breakfast, you know, because that's in our bargain; and I'd never grudge you a meal's meat for the children either, bless 'em!  They shall come and have a good tea with us sometimes, they shall -- specially on Sundays, when Mr George is at home; and if you'd only got your clothes out o' pawn, we'd all go to church together.  But we'll see, we'll see.'

Meg entered upon her new duties the next morning, after committing the children, with many lingering kisses and last good-byes, into Kitty's charge, who promised faithfully to be as kind to them as Meg herself. If it had not been for her anxiety with regard to them, she would have enjoyed nothing better than being Mrs Blossom's little maid.  The good woman was so kindly and motherly that she won Meg's whole heart; and to see her sit by the shop window, knitting a very large long stocking for Mr George, but with her eyes scanning every woman's face that went by, made her feel full of an intense and childish interest.  She began herself to watch for Posy, as her mother described her; and whenever the form of a grown-up girl darkened the doorway, she held her breath to listen if Mrs Blossom called her by that pet name.  Mr George also was very good to Meg in his bluff way, and bought her a pair of nearly new shoes with his first week's wages, over and above the threepence a day which he paid her.  With Mrs Blossom she held many a conversation about the lost girl, who had grown up wicked, and was therefore worse than dead; and before long Mr George observed that Meg had done her a world of good.

Christmas Day was a great treat to Meg; for though Mr George went down into the country to see his old father, Mrs Blossom invited her and the children to come to dinner, and to stay with her till it was the little ones' bedtime.  When they sat round the fire in the afternoon she told them wonderful stories about the country -- of its fields, and gardens, and lanes.

'I like gardens,' said Robin, 'but I don't like lanes.'

'Why don't you like lanes?' asked Mrs Blossom.

'I know lots of lanes,' he answered.  'There's Rosemary Lane, and it's not nice, nor none of 'em.  They ain't nice like Temple Gardens.'

'Rosemary Lane!' repeated Mrs Blossom.  'Why, the lanes in the country are nothing like the lanes in London.  They're beautiful roads, with tall trees growing all along 'em, and meeting one another overhead; and there are roses and honeysuckles all about the hedges, and birds singing, and the sun shining.  Only you don't know anything about roses, and honeysuckles, and birds.'

'Are there any angels there?' asked Robin, fastening his glistening eyes upon her intently.

'Well, no,' said Mrs Blossom, 'not as I know of.'

'Is the devil in the country?' pursued Robin.

'Yes,' answered Mrs Blossom, 'I suppose he's there pretty much the same as here.  Folks can be wicked anywhere, or else my Posy wouldn't have grown up bad.'

Robin asked no more questions, and Mrs Blossom was glad to talk of something else.  It was a very happy day altogether, but it came too quickly to an end.  Meg wrapped up her children well before turning out into the cold streets, and Mrs Blossom gave them a farewell kiss each, with two to Meg because she was such a comfort to her.

When they reached their own attic they heard Kitty call to them, and Meg opened her door.  She was sitting without any fire, stitching away as for her life at a coarse striped shirt, lighted only by a small farthing candle; but she laid down her task for a minute, and raised her thin pale face, and her eyes half blinded with tears and hard work.

'Where have you been all day, little Meg?' she asked.

'Me and the children have been at Mrs Blossom's, answered Meg, 'because it's Christmas Day: and I wish you'd been there as well, Kitty.  We'd such a good dinner and tea.  She gave me a bit of cake to bring home, and you shall have some of it.'

'No, no,' said Kitty, 'it 'ud choke me.'

'Oh, it couldn't; it's as nice as nice can be,' said Meg.  'You must just have a taste of it.'

'Did you go talking about that Posy again?' asked Kitty, bending diligently over her work.

'We always talk about her,' answered Meg, 'every day.  Mrs Blossom's watching for her to go by all day long, you know.'

'She'll never go by,' said Kitty shortly.

'Oh, she's certain sure to go by some day,' cried Meg.  'Mrs Blossom asks God to let her go by, every day of her life; and He's positive to do it.'

'If she's grown up so wicked,' argued Kitty, 'she didn't ought to go back to her mother, and her such a good woman.  God won't send her back to her mother, you'll see.'

'But if God sent her back, her mother 'ud never think of her being wicked, she loves her so,' said little Meg.  'If Robbie were ever so naughty, I'd keep on loving him till he was good again.'

'Well, Posy'll never go home no more,' said Kitty; and hot tears fell fast upon her work.

'She will, she will,' cried Meg.  'I expect her every day, like father. Perhaps they'll both come home to-morrow.  I wish you'd ask God to let Posy and father come home to-morrow.'

'I'm too bad to ask God for anything,' sobbed Kitty.

'Well, I don't know,' said Meg sorrowfully.  'You're not bad to me or the children.  But I must go to bed now.  Let us kiss you afore we go. Mrs Blossom kissed me twice, and said I was a comfort to her.'

Kitty threw down her work, and clasped Meg strongly in her arms, pressing down Meg's head upon her breast, and crying, 'Oh, my dear little Meg!  My good little Meg!'  Then she put them all three gently out of her room, and bade them good-night and God bless them, in a husky and tremulous voice.




Chapter XI

Little Meg's Baby

The new year came, but Meg's father had not arrived.  Kitty was having a mad outburst, as if she had so long controlled herself that now it was necessary to break out into extra wickedness.  She came home late every night, very drunk, and shouting loud snatches of songs, which wakened up the inmates of the lower stories, and drew upon her a storm of oaths.  But she continued always good-natured and kind to Meg, and insisted upon having the daily charge of Robin and the baby, though Meg left them in her care with a very troubled and anxious spirit.  Things were looking very dark to the poor little woman; but she kept up as brave a heart as she could, waiting from day to day for that long-deferred coming of her father, in which she believed so firmly.

It was a little later than usual one evening, for the days were creeping out since the new year, when Meg climbed wearily upstairs to Kitty's attic, in search of her children, but found that they were not there.  Mr Grigg told her that he had seen Kitty take them out with her in the afternoon; and even while he was speaking, Meg saw her staggering and rolling into the court, with the baby fast asleep in her drunken arms.  Meg took it from her without a word, and led Robin away upstairs.  Robin's face was flushed, and his hand was very hot; but the baby lay in her arms heavily, without any movement or sign of life, except that the breath came through her parted lips, and her eyelids stirred a little.  Meg locked the door of her attic, and laid her baby on the bed, while she lighted the fire and got their tea ready.  Robin looked strange, but he chattered away without ceasing, while he watched her set the things in readiness.  But the baby would not awake.  It lay quite still on Meg's lap, and she poured a little warm tea into its mouth, but it did not swallow it, only slept there with heavy eyelids, and moving neither finger nor foot, in a strange, profound slumber.  It was smaller and thinner than when mother died, thought Meg; and she lifted up the lifeless little hand to her lips, half hoping that its eyes would unclose a little more, and that sweet, loving smile, with which it always welcomed her return, would brighten its languid face. But baby was too soundly asleep to smile.

Little Meg sat up all night, with the baby lying on her lap, moaning a little now and then as its slumbers grew more broken, but never lifting up its eyelids to look into her face and know it.  When the morning dawned it was still the same.  Could the baby be ill? asked Meg of herself.  It did not seem to be in any pain; yet she carried it to the door, and called softly for Kitty to come and look at it; but there was no reply, only from below came up harsh sounds of children screaming and angry women quarrelling.  Oaths and threats and shrieks were all the answer Meg's feeble cry received.  She sat down again on her mother's low chair before the fire, and made the baby comfortable on her lap; while Robin stood at her knee, looking down pitifully at the tiny, haggard, sleeping face, which Meg's little hand could almost cover.  What was she to do?  There was no one in Angel Court whom she dare call to her help.  Baby might even die, like the greater number of the babies born in that place, whose brief lives ended quickly, as if existence was too terrible a thing in the midst of such din and squalor.  At the thought that perhaps baby was going to die, two or three tears of extreme anguish rolled down little Meg's cheeks, and fell upon baby's face; but she could not cry aloud, or weep many tears. She felt herself falling into a stupor of grief and despair, when Robin laid his hand upon her arm.

'Why don't you ask God to waken baby?' he asked.

'I don't know whether it 'ud be a good thing,' she answered.  'Mother said she'd ask Him over and over again to let her take baby along with her, and that 'ud be better than staying here.  I wish we could all go to heaven; only I don't know whatever father 'ud do if he come home and found us all dead.'

'Maybe God'll take me and baby,' said Robbie thoughtfully, 'and leave you to watch for father.'

'I only wish baby had called me Meg once afore she went,' cried little Meg.

The baby stirred a little upon her knees, and stretched out its feeble limbs, opening its blue eyes wide and looking up into her face with its sweet smile of welcome.  Then the eyelids closed again slowly, and the small features put on a look of heavenly calm and rest.  Meg and Robin gazed at the change wonderingly without speaking; but when after a few minutes Meg laid her hand gently upon the smooth little forehead, the same chill struck to her heart as when she had touched her mother's dead face.

It did not seem possible to little Meg that baby could really be dead. She chafed its puny limbs, as she had seen her mother do, and walked up and down the room singing to it, now loudly, now softly; but no change came upon it, no warmth returned to its death-cold frame, no life to its calm face.  She laid it down at length upon the bed, and crossed its thin wee arms upon its breast, and then stretching herself beside it, with her face hidden from the light, little Meg gave herself up to a passion of sorrow.

'If I'd only asked God, for Christ's sake,' she cried to herself, 'maybe He'd have let baby wake, though I don't know whether it's a good thing.  But now she's gone to mother, and father'll come home, and he'll find nobody but me and Robbie, and the money safe.  Oh!  I wish I'd asked God.'

'Meg,' said Robin, after she had worn herself out with sobs and tears, and was lying silently beside baby, 'I'm very poorly.  I think I'll go to live with the angels, where mother and baby are gone.'

Meg started up, and gazed anxiously at Robin.  His bright eyes were dimmed, and his face was flushed and heavy; he was stretched on the floor near the fire, in a listless attitude, and did not care to move, when she knelt down beside him, and put her arm under his head.  It ached, he said; and it felt burning hot to her touch.  Meg's heart stood still for a moment, and then she dropped her tear-stained sorrowful face upon her hands.

'Pray God,' she cried, 'don't take Robbie away as well as baby.  Maybe it wasn't a good thing for baby to stay, now mother's dead, though I've done everythink I could, and there's been nobody to take care of us but You.  But, pray God, do let Robbie stay with me till father comes home; for Jesus Christ's sake.  Amen.'

Meg rose from her knees, and lifted up Robin as gently as she could, soothing him, and talking fondly to him as she took off his clothes. When that was finished she laid him on the same bed where the baby was sleeping its last long sleep, with its tiny face still wearing an unspeakable calm; for Robin's little mattress had been sold some time ago.  The day was just at an end, that sorrowful day, and a lingering light from the west entered through the attic window, and lit up the white, peaceful features with the flushed and drowsy face of Robin beside it.  Meg felt as if her heart would surely break as she stooped over them, and kissed them both, her lips growing cold as they touched baby's smiling mouth.  Then drawing her old shawl over her head, she locked the attic door securely behind her, and ran as fast as her feet could carry her to Mrs Blossom's house.

'Robbie's very ill,' gasped Meg, breathlessly, as she burst into the shop, the shutters of which were already put up, though it was still early in the night, 'and I want a doctor for him.  Where shall I find a doctor?'

Mrs Blossom had her bonnet and cloak on, and looked very pale and flurried.  When she answered Meg she kept her hand pressed against her heart.

'I'm just a-going to one,' she said, 'the best at this end o' London, Dr Christie, and you'd better come along with me.  He knows me well. Meg, I've seen somebody go by to-day as was like Posy, only pale and thin; but when I ran out, she was gone like a shadow.  I'm a-going to tell Dr Christie; he knows all about Posy and me.'

But Meg scarcely heard what Mrs Blossom said.  All her thoughts and interest centred in Robin, and she felt impatient of the slow progress of her companion.  They seemed to her to be going a long, long way, until they came to better streets and larger houses; and by-and-by they saw a carriage standing before a door, and a gentleman came out and got into it hurriedly.

'Why, bless me!' exclaimed Mrs Blossom, 'there's Dr Christie.  Stop him, Meg, stop him!'

Meg needed no urging, but rushed blindly across the street.  There was all at once a strange confusion about her, a trampling of horses' feet, and a rattling of wheels, with a sudden terror and pain in herself; and then she knew no more.  All was as nothing to her -- baby and Robin alone in the attic, and Mrs Blossom and Posy -- all were gone out of her mind and memory.  She had thrown herself before the horses' heads, and they had trampled her down under their feet.

When little Meg came to herself again it was broad daylight, and she was lying in a room so bright and cheerful that she could neither imagine where she was nor how she came there.  There was a good fire crackling noisily in the low grate, with a brass guard before it, and over the chimney-piece was a pretty picture of angels flying upwards with a child in their arms.  All round the walls there hung other pictures of birds and flowers, coloured gaily, and glittering in gilded frames.  Another little bed like the one she lay in stood in the opposite corner, but there was nobody in it, and the place was very quiet.  She lay quite still, with a dreamy thought that she was somehow in heaven, until she heard a pleasant voice speaking in the next room, the door of which was open, so that the words came readily to her ears.

'I only wish we knew where the poor little thing comes from,' said the voice.

'I'm vexed I don't,' answered Mrs Blossom.  'I've asked her more than once, and she's always said it's down a street off Rosemary Lane, and along another street, and up a court.  But there's a girl called Kitty living in the back attic, as takes care of the children when Meg's away.  She's sure to be taking care o' them now.'

In an instant memory came back to little Meg.  She recollected bending over Robin and the baby to kiss them before she came away, and locking the door safely upon them.  Oh! what had become of Robbie in the night? She raised herself up in bed, and uttered a very bitter cry, which brought to her quickly Mrs Blossom and a strange lady.

'I want Robbie,' she cried.  'I must get up and go to him directly. It's my Robbie that's ill, and baby's dead.  I'm not ill, but Robbie's ill, if he isn't dead, like baby, afore now.  Please to let me get up.'

'Tell me all about it,' said Mrs Blossom, sitting down on the bed and taking Meg into her arms.  'We're in Dr Christie's house, and he'll go and see Robbie in a minute, he says.'

'Baby died yesterday morning,' answered Meg, with tearless eyes, for her trouble was too great for tears; 'and then Robbie was took ill, and I put them both in bed, and kissed them, and locked the door, and came away for a doctor, and there's been nobody to take care of 'em all night, only God.'

Meg's eyes burned no longer, but filled with tears as she thought of God, and she laid her head upon Mrs Blossom's shoulder, and wept aloud.

'God has taken care of them,' said Mrs Christie, but she could say no more.

'Where is it you live, deary?' asked Mrs Blossom.

'It's at Angel Court,' answered Meg.  'But there mustn't nobody go without me.  Please to let me get up.  I'm not ill.'

'You're very much bruised and hurt, my poor child,' said Mrs Christie.

'I must go,' pleaded Meg urgently, 'I must get up, I promised mother I'd never let anybody go into our room, and they mustn't go without me. They're my children, please.  If your little children were ill, you'd go to 'em wouldn't you?  Let me get up this minute.'

It was impossible to withstand little Meg's earnestness.  Mrs Blossom dressed her tenderly, though Meg could not quite keep back the groan which rose to her quivering lips when her bruised arm was moved.  A cab was called, and then Mrs Blossom and Meg, with Dr Christie, got into it, and drove away quickly to Angel Court.




Chapter XII

The End of Little Meg's Trouble

It was early in the evening after Meg had gone in search of a doctor, that Kitty came home, more sober than she had been for several nights, and very much ashamed of her last outbreak.  She sat down on the top of the stairs, listening for little Meg to read aloud, but she heard only the sobs and moanings of Robin, who called incessantly for Meg, without getting any answer.  Kitty waited for some time, hearkening for her voice, but after a while she knocked gently at the door.  There was no reply, but after knocking again and again she heard Robin call out in a frightened tone.

'What's that?' he cried.

'It's me, your own Kitty,' she said; 'where's little Meg?'

'I don't know,' said Robin, 'she's gone away, and there's nobody but me and baby; and baby's asleep, and so cold.'

'What are you crying for, Robbie?' asked Kitty.

'I'm crying for everything,' said Robin.

'Don't you be frightened, Robbie,' she said soothingly; 'Kitty'll stay outside the door, and sing pretty songs to you, till Meg comes home.'

She waited a long time, till the clocks struck twelve, and still Meg did not come.  From time to time Kitty spoke some reassuring words to Robin, or sang him some little songs she remembered from her own childhood; but his cries grew more and more distressing, and at length Kitty resolved to break her promise, and unlock Meg's door once again to move the children into her own attic.

She lit a candle, and entered the dark room.  The fire was gone out, and Robin sat up on the pillow, his face wet with tears and his black eyes large with terror.  The baby, which lay beside him, seemed very still, with its wasted puny hands crossed upon its breast; so quiet and still that Kitty looked more closely, and held the light nearer to its slumbering face.  What could ail it?  What had brought that awful smile upon its tiny face?  Kitty touched it fearfully with the tip of her finger; and then she stood dumb and motionless before the terrible little corpse.

She partly knew, and partly guessed, what had done this thing.  She recollected, but vaguely enough, that one of her companions, who had grown weary of the little creature's pitiful cry, had promised to quiet it for her, and how speedily it had fallen off into a profound, unbroken slumber.  And there it lay, in the same slumber perhaps.  She touched it again; but no, the sleep it slept now was even deeper than that -- a sleep so sound that its eyelids would never open again to this world's light, nor its sealed lips ever utter a word of this world's speech.  Kitty could scarcely believe it; but she could not bear to stay in that mute, gentle, uncomplaining presence; and she lifted up Robin to carry him into her own room.  Oh that God had but called her away when she was an innocent baby like that!

Robin's feverishness was almost gone; and now, wrapped in Kitty's gown and rocked to sleep on her lap, he lay contented and restful, while she sat thinking in the dark, for the candle soon burned itself out, until the solemn grey light of the morning dawned slowly in the east.  She had made up her mind now what she would do.  There was only one more sin lying before her.  She had grown up bad, and broken her mother's heart, and now she had brought this great overwhelming sorrow upon poor little Meg.  There was but one end to a sinful life like hers, and the sooner it came the better.  She would wait till Meg came home and give up Robin to her, for she would not hurry on to that last crime before Meg was there to take care of him.  Then she saw herself stealing along the streets, down to an old pier she knew of, where boats had ceased to ply, and where no policeman would be near to hinder her, or any one about to rescue her; and then she would fling herself, worthless and wretched as she was, into the rapid river, which had borne so many worthless wretches like her upon its strong current into the land of darkness and death, of which she did not dare to think.  That was what she would do, saying nothing to any one; and if she could ask anything of God, it would be that her mother might never find out what had become of her.

So Kitty sat with her dark thoughts long after Angel Court had awakened to its ordinary life, its groans, and curses, and sobs; until the sun looked in cheerily upon her and Robin, as it did upon Meg in Mrs Christie's nursery.  She did not care to put him down, for he looked very pretty, and happy, and peaceful in his soft sleep, and whenever she moved he stirred a little, and pouted his lips as if to reproach her.  Besides, it was the last time she would hold a child in her arms; and though they ached somewhat, they folded round him fondly.  At last she heard a man's step upon the ladder mounting to the attics, and Meg's voice speaking faintly.  Could it be that her father was come home at last?  Oh! what would their eyes see when they opened that door?  Kitty held her breath to listen for the first sound of anguish and amazement; but it was poor little Meg's voice which reached her before any other.

'Robbie! oh, Robbie!' she cried, in a tone of piercing terror, 'what has become of my little Robbie?'

'He's safe, he's here, Meg,' answered Kitty, starting to her feet, and rushing with him to Meg's attic.

It was no rough, weather-beaten seaman, who was just placing Meg on a chair, as if he had carried her upstairs; but some strange, well-clad gentleman, and behind him stood an elderly woman, who turned sharply round as she heard Kitty's voice.

'Posy!' cried Mrs Blossom.

No one but her own mother could have known again the bright, merry, rosy girl, whom the neighbours called Posy, in the thin, withered, pallid woman who stood motionless in the middle of the room.  Even Meg forgot for a moment her fears for Robin.  Dr Christie had only time to catch him from her failing arms, before she fell down senseless upon the floor at her mother's feet.

'Let me do everything for her,' exclaimed Mrs Blossom, pushing away Dr Christie; 'she's my Posy, I tell you.  You wouldn't know her again, but I know her.  I'll do everything for her; she's my girl, my little one; she's the apple of my eye.'

But it was a very long time before Mrs Blossom, with Dr Christie's help, could bring Posy to life again; and then they lifted her into her poor bed, and Dr Christie left her mother alone with her, and went back to Meg.  Robin was ailing very little, he said: but the baby?  Yes, the baby must have died even if little Meg had fetched him at once. Nothing could have saved it, and it had suffered no pain, he added tenderly.

'I think I must take you two away from this place,' said Dr Christie.

'Oh, no, no,' answered Meg earnestly; 'I must stay till father comes, and I expect him to-day or to-morrow.  Please, sir, leave me and Robbie here till he comes.'

'Then you must have somebody to take care of you,' said Dr Christie.

'No, please, sir,' answered Meg, in a low and cautious voice, 'mother gave me a secret to keep that I can't tell to nobody, and I promised her I'd never let nobody come into my room till father comes home.  I couldn't help you, and Mrs Blossom, and Kitty coming in this time; but nobody mustn't come in again.'

'My little girl,' said Dr Christie kindly, 'I dare say your mother never thought of her secret becoming a great trouble to you.  Could you not tell it to me?'

'No,' replied Meg, 'it's a very great secret; and please, when baby's buried like mother, me and Robbie must go on living here alone till father comes.'

'Poor child!' said Dr Christie, rubbing his eyes, 'did you know baby was quite dead?'

'Yes,' she answered, 'but I didn't ask God to let baby live, because mother said she'd like to take her with her.  But I did ask Him to make Robin well, and bring back Posy; and now there's nothing for Him to do but let father come home.  I knew it was all true; it's in the Bible, and if I'm not one of God's own children, it says, "Them that ask Him." So I asked Him.'

Meg's voice sank, and her head dropped; for now that she was at home again, and Robin was found to be all right, her spirit failed her.  Dr Christie went out upon the landing, and held a consultation with Mrs Blossom, in which they agreed that for the present, until Meg was well enough to take care of herself, she should be nursed in Kitty's attic, with her own door kept locked, and the key left in her possession.  So Dr Christie carried Meg into the back attic, and laid her upon Kitty's mattress.  Kitty was cowering down on the hearth, with her face buried on her knees, and did not look up once through all the noise of Meg's removal; though when her mother told her what they were doing she made a gesture of assent to it.  Dr Christie went away; and Mrs Blossom, who wanted to buy many things which were sorely needed in the poor attic, put her arm fondly round Kitty's neck.

'Posy,' she said, 'you wouldn't think to go and leave little Meg alone if I went out to buy some things, and took Robin with me?'

'No, I'll stop,' said Kitty, but without lifting her head.  When they were alone together, Meg raised herself as well as she could on the arm that was not hurt, and looked wistfully at Kitty's bowed-down head and crouching form.

'Are you really Posy?' she asked.

'I used to be Posy,' answered Kitty, in a mournful voice.

'Didn't I tell you God would let your mother find you?' said Meg; 'it's all come true, every bit of it.'

'But God hasn't let baby live,' muttered Kitty.

'I never asked Him for that,' she said falteringly; 'I didn't know as baby was near going to die, and maybe it's a better thing for her to go to mother and God.  Angel Court ain't a nice place to live in, and she might have growed up bad.  But if people do grow up bad,' added Meg, in a very tender tone, 'God can make 'em good again if they'd only ask Him.'

As little Meg spoke, and during the silence which followed, strange memories began to stir in the poor girl's heart, recalled there by some mysterious and Divine power.  Words and scenes, forgotten since childhood, came back with wonderful freshness and force.  She thought of a poor, guilty, outcast woman, reviled and despised by all save One, who had compassion even for her, forgave all her sins, stilled the clamour of her accusers, and said, 'Thy faith hath saved thee; go in peace.'  She remembered the time when the records of His infinite love had been repeated by her innocent young lips and pondered in her maiden heart.  Like some echo from the distant past she seemed to hear the words, 'By Thine agony and bloody sweat; by Thy cross and passion; by Thy precious death and burial, good Lord deliver us.  O Lamb of God, that takest away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us.'

'Oh!  Meg!  Meg!' cried Kitty, almost crawling to the corner where she lay, and falling down beside her on the floor, with her poor pale face still hidden from sight, 'ask God for me to be made good again.'

Little Meg stretched out her unbruised arm, and laid her hand upon Kitty's bended head.

'You must ask Him for yourself,' she said, after thinking for a minute or two: 'I don't know as it 'ud do for me to ask God, if you didn't as well.'

'What shall I say, Meg?' asked Kitty.

'If I was you,' said Meg, 'and had grow'd up wicked, and run away from mother, I'd say, "Pray God, make me a good girl again, and let me be a comfort to mother till she dies; for Jesus Christ's sake.  Amen."'

There was a dead silence in the back attic, except for the near noise and distant din which came from the court below, and the great labyrinth of streets around.  Little Meg's eyes shone lovingly and pityingly upon Kitty, who looked up for an instant, and caught their light.  Then she dropped her head down upon the mattress, and gave way to a storm of tears and sobs.

'O God,' she cried, 'do have mercy upon me, and make me good again, if it's possible.  Help me to be a good girl to mother.  God forgive me for Jesus Christ's sake!'

She sobbed out this prayer over and over again, until her voice fell into a low whisper which even Meg could not hear; and so she lay upon the floor beside the mattress until her mother came back.  Mrs Blossom's face was pale, but radiant with gladness, and Posy looked at it for the first time fully.  Then she gave a great cry of mingled joy and sorrow, and running to her threw her arms round her neck, and laid her face upon her shoulder.

'God'll hear me and have mercy upon me,' she cried.  'I'm going to be your Posy again, mother!'




Chapter XIII

Little Meg's Father

The baby was buried the next morning, after Meg had looked upon it for the last time lying very peacefully and smilingly in its little coffin, and had shed some tears that were full of sorrow yet had no bitterness upon its dead face.  Mrs Blossom took Robin to follow it to the grave, leaving Kitty in charge of little Meg.  The front attic door was locked, and the key was under Meg's pillow, not to be used again until she was well enough to turn it herself in the lock.  The bag containing the small key of the box, with the unopened letter which had come for her mother, hung always round her neck, and her hand often clasped it tightly as she slept.

Meg was lying very still, with her face turned from the light, following in her thoughts the little coffin that was being carried in turns by Mrs Blossom and another woman whom she knew, through the noisy streets, when Kitty heard the tread of a man's foot coming up the ladder.  It could be no one else but Dr Christie, she thought; but why then did he stop at the front attic door, and rattle the latch in trying to open it?  Kitty looked out and saw a seafaring man, in worn and shabby sailor's clothing, as if he had just come off a long voyage. His face was brown and weather-beaten; and his eyes, black and bright, were set deep in his head, and looked as if they were used to take long, keen surveys over the glittering sea.  He turned sharply round as Kitty opened her door.

'Young woman,' he said, 'do you know aught of my wife, Peggy Fleming, and her children, who used to live here?  Peggy wrote me word she'd moved into the front attic.'

'It's father,' called little Meg from her mattress on the floor; 'I'm here, father!  Robin and me's left; but mother's dead, and baby.  Oh! father, father!  You've come home at last!'

Meg's father brushed past Kitty into the room where Meg sat up in bed, her face quivering, and her poor bruised arms stretched out to welcome him.  He sat down on the mattress and took her in his own strong arms, while for a minute or two Meg lay still in them, almost like one dead.

'Oh!' she said at last, with a sigh as if her heart had well-nigh broken, 'I've took care of Robin and the money, and they're safe.  Only baby's dead.  But don't you mind much, father; it wasn't a nice place for baby to grow up in.'

'Tell me all about it,' said Robert Fleming, looking at Kitty, but still holding his little daughter in his arms; and Kitty told him all she knew of her lonely life and troubles up in the solitary attic, which no one had been allowed to enter; and from time to time Meg's father groaned aloud, and kissed Meg's pale and wrinkled forehead fondly.  But he asked how it was she never let any of the neighbours, Kitty herself, for instance, stay with her, and help her sometimes.

'I promised mother,' whispered Meg in his ear, 'never to let nobody come in, for fear they'd find out the box under the bed, and get into it somehow.  We was afraid for the money, you know, but it's all safe for your mate, father; and here's the key, and a letter as came for mother after she was dead.'

'But this letter's from me to Peggy,' said her father, turning it over and over; 'leastways it was wrote by the chaplain at the hospital, to tell her what she must do.  The money in the box was mine, Meg, no mate's; and I sent her word to take some of it for herself and the children.'

'Mother thought it belonged to a mate of yours,' said Meg, 'and we was the more afeared of it being stole.'

'It's my fault,' replied Robert Fleming.  'I told that to mother for fear she'd waste it if she knew it were mine.  But if I'd only known --  -- '

He could not finish his sentence, but stroked Meg's hair with his large hand, and she felt some hot tears fall from his eyes upon her forehead.

'Don't cry, father,' she said, lifting her small feeble hand to his face.  'God took care of us, and baby too, though she's dead.  There's nothink now that He hasn't done.  He's done everythink I asked Him.'

'Did you ask Him to make me a good father?' said Fleming.

'Why, you're always good to us, father,' answered Meg, in a tone of loving surprise.  'You never beat us much when you get drunk.  But Robin and me always say, "Pray God, bless father."  I don't quite know what bless means, but it's something good.'

'Ah!' said Fleming, with a deep sigh, 'He has blessed me.  When I was ill He showed me what a poor sinner I was, and how Jesus Christ came into the world to save sinners, "of whom I am chief."  Sure I can say that if anybody can.  But it says in the Bible, "He loved me, and gave Himself for me."  Yes, little Meg, He died to save me.  I felt it.  I believed it.  I came to see that I'd nobody to fly to but Jesus if I wanted to be aught else but a poor, wicked, lost rascal, as got drunk, and was no better than a brute.  And so I turned it over and over in my mind, lying abed; and now, please God, I'm a bit more like being a Christian than I was.  I reckon that's what bless means, little Meg.'

As he spoke the door opened, and Mrs Blossom came in with Robin.  It was twelve months since Robin had seen his father, and now he was shy, and hung back a little behind Mrs Blossom; but Meg called to him in a joyful voice.

'Come here, little Robbie,' she said; 'it's father, as we've watched for so long. -- He's a little bit afeared at first, father, but you'll love him ever so when he knows you.'

It was not long before Robin knew his father sufficiently to accept of a seat on his knee, when Meg was put back into bed at Mrs Blossom's entreaties.  Fleming nursed his boy in silence for some time, while now and then a tear glistened in his deep eyes as he thought over the history of little Meg's sorrows.

'I'm thinking,' said Mrs Blossom cheerfully, 'as this isn't the sort o' place for a widow man and his children to stop in.  I'm just frightened to death o' going up and down the court.  I suppose you're not thinking o' settling here, Mr Fleming?'

'No, no,' said Fleming, shaking his head: 'a decent man couldn't stop here, let alone a Christian.'

'Well, then, come home to us till you can turn yourself round,' continued Mrs Blossom heartily; 'me and Mr George have talked it over, and he says, "When little Meg's father do come, let 'em all come here: Posy, and the little 'uns, and all.  You'll have Posy and the little 'uns in your room, and I'll have him in mine.  We'll give him some sort o' a shakedown, and sailors don't use to lie soft." So if you've no objections to raise, it's settled; and if you have, please to raise 'em at once.'

Robert Fleming had no objections to raise, but he accepted the cordial invitation thankfully, for he was in haste to get out of the miserable life of Angel Court.  He brought the hidden box into the back attic, and opened it before little Meg, taking out of it the packet of forty pounds, and a number of pawn-tickets, which he looked at very sorrowfully.  After securing these he locked up the attic again, and carrying Meg in his arms, he led the way down the stairs, and through the court, followed closely by Mrs Blossom, Posy, and Robin.  The sound of brawling and quarrelling was loud as usual, and the children crawling about the pavement were dirty and squalid as ever; they gathered about Meg and her father, forming themselves into a dirty and ragged procession to accompany them down to the street.  Little Meg looked up to the high window of the attic, where she had watched so often and so long for her father's coming; and then she looked round, with eyes full of pity, upon the wretched group about her; and closing her eyelids, her lips moving a little, but without any words which even her father could hear, she said in her heart, 'Pray God, bless everybody, and make them good.'




Chapter XIV

Little Meg's Farewell

About a month after Robert Fleming's return Dr Christie paid a visit to Mrs Blossom's little house.  He had been there before, but this was a special visit; and it was evident some important plan had to be decided upon.  Dr Christie came to hear what Mrs Blossom had to say about it.

'Well, sir,' said Mrs Blossom, 'a woman of my years, as always lived in one village all her life till I came to London, it do seem a great move to go across the sea.  But as you all think as it 'ud be a good thing for Posy, and as Mr Fleming do wish little Meg and Robin to go along with us, which are like my own children, and as he's to be in the same ship, I'm not the woman to say No.  I'm a good hand at washing and ironing, and sewing, and keeping a little shop, or anything else as turns up; and there's ten years' good work in me yet; by which time little Meg'll be a stout, grown-up young woman; to say nothing of Posy, who's old enough to get her own living now.  I can't say as I like the sea, quite the contrairy; but I can put up with it; and Mr Fleming'll be there to see as the ship goes all right, and doesn't lose hisself. So I'll be ready by the time the ship's ready.'

They were all ready in time as Mrs Blossom had promised, for there were not many preparations to be made.  Little Meg's red frock was taken out of pawn, with all the other things, and Mrs Blossom went down to her native village to visit it for the last time; but Posy shrank from being seen there by the neighbours again.  She, and Meg, and Robin went once more for a farewell look at Temple Gardens.  It was the first time she had been in the streets since she had gone back to her mother, and she seemed ashamed and alarmed at every eye that met hers.  When they stood looking at the river, with its swift, cruel current, Posy shivered and trembled until she was obliged to turn away and sit down on a bench.  She was glad, she said, to get home again, and she would go out no more till the day came when Mr George drove them all down to the docks, with the few boxes which contained their worldly goods.

Dr Christie and his wife were down at the ship to see them off, and they kissed Meg tenderly as they bade her farewell.  When the last minute was nearly come, Mr George took little Meg's small hand in his large one, and laid the other upon her head.

'Little woman, tell us that verse again,' he said, 'that verse as you've always gone and believed in, and acted on.'

'That as mother and me heard preached from the streets?' asked Meg.

Mr George nodded silently.

'It's quite true,' said little Meg, in a tone of perfect confidence, 'because it's in the Bible, and Jesus said it.  Besides, God did everythink I asked Him.  "If ye then, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children: how much more shall your Father which is in heaven give good things to them that ask Him?"'

<eob>

Little Mr. Thimblefinger And His Queer Country: What The Children Saw And Heard There

By

Joel Chandler Harris



I.

The Grandmother Of The Dolls.


Once upon a time there lived on a plantation, in the very middle of Middle Georgia, a little girl and a little boy and their negro nurse. The little girl's name was Sweetest Susan. That was the name her mother gave her when she was a baby, and she was so good-tempered that everybody continued to call her Sweetest Susan when she grew older. She was seven years old. The little boy's name was Buster John. That was the name his father had given him. Buster John was eight. The nurse's name was Drusilla, and she was twelve. Drusilla was called a nurse, but that was just a habit people had. She was more of a child than either Sweetest Susan or Buster John, but she was very much larger. She was their playmate -- their companion, and a capital one she made.

Sweetest Susan had black hair and dark eyes like her father, while Buster John had golden hair and brown eyes like his mother. As for Drusilla, she was as black as the old black cat, and always in a good humor, except when she pretended to be angry. Sweetest Susan had wonderful dark eyes that made her face very serious except when she laughed, but she was as full of fun as Buster John, who was always in some sort of mischief that did nobody any harm.

These children were not afraid of anything. They scorned to run from horses, or cows, or dogs. They were born on the big plantation, and they spent the greater part of the day out of doors, save when the weather was very cold or very wet. They had no desire to stay in the house, except when they were compelled to go to bed, and a great many times they fretted a little because they thought bedtime came too soon.

Sweetest Susan had a great many dolls, and she was very fond of them. She had a China Doll, a Jip-jap Doll, a Rag Doll, a Rubber Doll, a White Doll, a Brown Doll, and a Black Doll. Sometimes she and Drusilla would play with the Dolls out in the yard, and sometimes Buster John would join them when he had nothing better to do. But every evening Sweetest Susan and Drusilla would carry the Dolls into the bedroom and place them side by side against the wall. Sweetest Susan wanted them placed there, she said, so she could see her children the last thing at night and the first thing in the morning.

But one night Sweetest Susan went to bed crying, and this was so unusual that Drusilla forgot to put the Dolls in their places. Sweetest Susan's feelings were hurt. She had not been very good, and her mother had called her Naughty Susan instead of Sweetest Susan. Buster John, in the next room, wanted to know what the matter was, but Sweetest Susan wouldn't tell him, and neither would she tell Drusilla. After a while Sweetest Susan's mother came in and kissed her. That helped her some, but she lay awake ever so long sobbing a little and thinking how she must do so as not to be called Naughty Susan.

Drusilla lay on a pallet near Sweetest Susan's bed, but, for a wonder, Drusilla lay awake too. She said nothing, but she was not snoring, and Sweetest Susan could see the whites of her eyes shining. The fire that had been kindled on the hearth so as to give a light (for the weather was not cold) flickered and flared, and little blue flames crept about over the sputtering pine-knot, jumping off into the air and then jumping back. The blue flames flickered and danced and crept about so, and caused such a commotion among the shadows that were running about the room and trying to hide themselves behind the chairs and in the corners, that the big brass andirons seemed to be alive.

While Sweetest Susan was lying there watching the shadows and wondering when Drusilla would go to sleep, she heard a voice call out, -- 

"Oh, dear! I believe I've got smut all over my frock again!"

It was the queerest little voice that ever was heard. It had a tinkling sound, such as Susan had often made when she tied her mother's gold thimble to a string and struck it with a knitting-needle. Just as she was wondering where it came from, a little old woman stepped from behind one of the andirons and shook the ashes from her dress.

"I think I'd better stay at home," said the little old woman, "if I can't come down the chimney without getting smut all over my frock. I wonder where Mr. Thimblefinger is?"

"Oh, I'm here," exclaimed another tinkling voice from the fireplace, "but I'm not coming in. They are not asleep, and, even if they were, I see the big Black Cat in that chair there."

"Much I care!" cried the little old woman snappishly. "I'll call you when I want you."

Then she went around the room where Sweetest Susan's Dolls were scattered, and looked at each one as it lay asleep. Then she shook her head and sighed.

"They look as if they were tired, poor things!" she said. "And no wonder! I expect they have been pulled and hauled about and dragged around from pillar to post since I was here last."

Then the little old woman touched the Dolls with her cane, one by one. Each Doll called out as it was touched, -- 

"Is that you, Granny?"

And to each one she replied: -- 

"Reser, roser, rise! And rib and rub your eyes!"

Sweetest Susan was not at all alarmed. She felt as if she had been expecting something of the kind. The Dolls arose and ranged themselves in front of the fireplace -- all except the Rag Doll.

"Where's Rag-Tag?" inquired the little old woman anxiously.

"Here I am, Granny!" replied the Rag Doll. "I'm lame in one leg and I can't walk with the other, and my arm's out of joint."

"Tut! tut!" said the little old woman. "How can you be lame in your legs when there's no bone in them? How can your arm be out of joint when there's no joint? Get up!"

Rag-Tag rolled out of the corner and tumbled across the floor, heels over head.

"Now, then," said the little old woman, opening her satchel, "what can I do for you?"

"She's pulled all my hair out!" whispered the China Doll.

"She's mashed my nose flat!" cried the Jip-jap Doll.

"She's put one of my eyes out!" whined the Brown Doll.

"She's put chalk all over me!" blubbered the Black Doll.

"She hasn't hurt me!" exclaimed the Rubber Doll.

"She's made a hole in my back, and the sawdust is all running out!" whined Rag-Tag.

"I'll attend to you first, before you bleed to death," said the little old woman, frowning. Then she rapped on the floor with her cane and cried out: -- 

"Long-Legged Spinner, Come earn your dinner!"

While Sweetest Susan was wondering what this meant, she saw a big Black Spider swing down from the ceiling and hang, dangling close to the little old woman's face. Its little eyes sparkled like coals of fire, and its hairy mouth worked as if it were chewing something. Sweetest Susan shivered as she looked at it, but she didn't scream.

"A thimbleful of fresh cobwebs, Long-Legged Spinner!" said the little old woman, in a businesslike way.

Then the big Black Spider moved his legs faster than a cat can wink her eyes, and in a few seconds the fresh cobwebs were spun.

"That is very nice," said the little old woman. "Here's a fat Bluebottle for you."

The big Black Spider seized the Fly and ran nimbly to the ceiling again. The Fly buzzed and buzzed in a pitiful way, and Sweetest Susan thought to herself, "Oh, what should I do if that was poor me!"

Then the little old woman hunted in her satchel until she found a piece of mutton suet, and with this and the fresh cobwebs she quickly stopped the hole in Rag-Tag's back. This done, she went around and doctored each one. She glued more hair on the China Doll. She fixed the nose of the Jip-jap Doll. She gave a new blue eye to the Brown Doll.

"There!" she exclaimed when she had finished, "I think you look a little more like yourself now. But you would look a great deal better if you had any clothes fit to wear. Now pay attention! What is the name of this horrible giantess that drags you about and beats you so?"

"It's no giantess, Granny," replied Rag-Tag. "It's a little girl, and sometimes she's very, very good."

"Hush!" cried the little old woman. "Speak when you are spoken to."

"She is a giantess, Granny," said the Brown Doll. "She's taller than that chair yonder."

"Where is she now?" the little old woman asked fiercely.

"She's asleep in the bed, Granny," said the Brown Doll.

"Pinch her good, Granny!" cried the Wax Doll. "Put out her eyes!"

"Scratch her, Granny! Pull out her hair!" pleaded the Brown Doll.

"Bump her head against the wall, Granny! Mash her nose!" exclaimed the Jip-jap Doll.

The Rag-Tag Doll said not a word.

All this time the little old woman was searching in her satchel for something, and Sweetest Susan began to get frightened.

"I've come off without my specs," said the little old woman, "and I can't see a stiver with such a light as this."

Just then the big Black Cat that had been sleeping quietly in a chair rose and stretched himself and gaped, showing his long white teeth. He jumped to the floor and walked back and forth purring and rubbing against the little old woman in a friendly way.

"Get out! You'll push me over," she cried. "Oh, will you go away? I'll stick you with my needle! I certainly will! Keep your long tail out of my face! Oh, how can I see to do anything? Will you go away? I'll hit you as sure as I am standing here!"

"Don't," said the big Black Cat, stopping and looking straight at the little old woman. "Don't you know it brings bad luck to hit a black cat?"

"If I hit you, you'll feel it," cried the little old woman.

"Stop," exclaimed the big Black Cat. "I know what you are here for. Do you see my eyes? They are as green as grass. Do you see my teeth? They are as strong as iron. Do you see my claws? They are as sharp as needles. If I look at you hard you'll shiver; if I bite you you'll squall; if I scratch you you'll bleed."

The Grandmother of the Dolls looked at the big Black Cat long and hard.

"Do I know you?" she asked.

"I know you," replied the Black Cat.

"What is your name?" she asked.

"Billy-Billy Blackfoot."

"It is time for you to go hunting," she said. She wanted to get him out of the room.

"I have found what I was hunting for," said Billy-Billy Blackfoot.

"There's a rat gnawing in the pantry."

"He'll be fatter when I catch him."

"There's a piece of cheese in the dining-room."

"It won't spoil until I eat it."

"There's a pan of milk in the kitchen."

"It won't turn sour till I drink it."

"There's catnip in the garden."

"It will grow till I want it."

The Grandmother of the Dolls then made a cross-mark on the carpet and waved her cane in the air. This was done to put a spell on Billy-Billy Blackfoot, but before the spell could work Billy-Billy made a circle by chasing his tail around. Then he glared at the little old woman and slowly closed one eye. This was too much. The Grandmother of the Dolls seized her cane and made a furious attack on Billy-Billy Blackfoot, but he leaped nimbly out of the way and the cane fell with a whack on the bald head of the Brown Doll.

At this there was a tremendous uproar. The Brown Doll screamed: "Murder!" Billy-Billy Blackfoot's tail swelled to twice its natural size; the hair-brush fell on the floor; the dustpan rattled; the shovel and tongs staggered out from the chimney-corner and rolled over on the hearth; the Dolls scrambled and scurried under the bed, and the little old woman whisked up the chimney like a spark from a burning log.

When Sweetest Susan raised up in bed to look around she saw Drusilla sitting on her pallet rubbing her eyes, but Billy-Billy Blackfoot was sitting by the fireplace washing his face as quietly as if nothing had happened. At first it seemed to Sweetest Susan that it had all been a dream, but presently she heard a small voice that came down the chimney:

"Mr. Thimblefinger! Mr. Thimblefinger! It is nine minutes after twelve." There was a pause, and then the small voice sounded farther away, like an echo, "Nine minutes and two seconds after twelve!"



II.

Mr. Thimblefinger's Queer Country.


The next morning Sweetest Susan was awake early. She wanted very much to turn over and go to sleep again, for her eyes were heavy and her body was tired. But the moment she remembered the wonderful events of the night before, she sat up in bed and looked around. Drusilla was still asleep and snoring very loudly, but Sweetest Susan jumped out of bed and shook her by the shoulder.

"Drusilla! Drusilla! wake up!" cried Sweetest Susan. Drusilla stopped short in her snoring and turned over with a groan. She kept her eyes closed, and in a moment she would have been snoring again, but Sweetest Susan continued to shake her and called her until she squalled out: -- 

"Who dat? What you want? Oh, Lordy!"

"Wake up, Drusilla," said Sweetest Susan, "I want to ask you something."

"Ain't I 'wake? How kin I be any 'waker when I'm 'wake? Oh, is dat you, honey? I wuz skeer'd 't was dat lil' bit er ol' 'oman. Whar she gone? Las' time I seed her she wuz des walkin' 'roun' here like she wuz gwine ter tromple on me. I laid low, I did."

Sweetest Susan clasped her hands together and cried: "Oh, wasn't it a dream, Drusilla? Did it all happen sure enough?"

Drusilla shook her head wildly. "How kin we bofe have de same kind er dream? I seed de 'oman gwine on, en you seed 'er gwine on. Uh-uh! Don't talk ter me 'bout no dreams."

The whole matter was settled when Buster John cried out from the next room: "What fuss was that you were making in there last night, squealing and squeaking?"

The matter was soon explained to Buster John, and after breakfast the children went out and sat on the big wood-pile and talked it all over. The boy asked a hundred questions, but still his curiosity was not satisfied.

All this time the birds were singing in the trees and the wood-sawyers sawing in the pine logs. Jo-reeter, jo-reeter, jo-ree! sang the birds. Craik, craik, craik, went the wood-sawyers.

"There are fifty dozen of them," said Buster John.

"Fifty-five thousand you'd better say," replied Sweetest Susan. "Just listen!"

"No needs ter listen," cried Drusilla. "You'd hear 'em ef you plugged up yo' years."

Buster John put his knife-blade under a thick piece of pine bark and pried it up to find one of the busy sawyers. The bark was strong, but presently it seemed to come up of its own accord, and out jumped the queerest little man they had ever seen or even heard of except in make-believe story-books. Buster John dropped his knife, and down it went into the wood-pile. He could hear it go rattling from log to log nearly to the bottom. Sweetest Susan gave a little screech. Drusilla sat bolt upright and exclaimed: -- 

"You all better come en go see yo' ma. I want ter see 'er myse'f."

But there was nothing to be frightened at. The tiny man had brushed the dust and trash from his clothes, and then turned to the children with a good-humored smile. He was not above four inches high. He had on a dress-coat. Drusilla afterward described it as a claw-hammer coat, velveteen knickerbockers, and silver buckles on his shoes. His hat was shaped like a thimble, and he had a tiny feather stuck in the side of it.

"I'm much obliged to you for getting me out of that scrape," he said with a bow to all the children. "It was a pretty tight place. I stayed out last night just one second and a half too late, and when I went to go home I found the door shut. So I just crawled under the bark there for a nap. The log must have turned in some way, for when I woke up and tried to crawl out I found I couldn't manage it. I wouldn't have minded that so much, but just then I saw one of those terrible flat-headed creatures making his way toward me. Why, his head was a sawmill! He was gnawing the wood out of his way and clearing a road to me. I tried to draw my sword, but I couldn't get it from under me. Then I felt the bark rising. I pushed as hard as I could, and here I am."

"Ax 'im his name," said Drusilla in an awe-stricken tone.

"Ah, I forgot," responded the little man. "I know you, but you don't know me. My name is Mr. Thimblefinger, and I shall be happy to serve you. Whenever you want me just tap three times on the head of your bed."

"Thank goodness! I don't sleep in no bed," exclaimed Drusilla.

"That makes no difference," said Mr. Thimblefinger. "If you sleep on a pallet just tap on the floor."

"Please, Mister, don't talk dat a-way," pleaded Drusilla, "kase I'll be constant a-projeckin' wid dat tappin', an' de fus' time you come I'll holler fire."

"Don't notice her," said Buster John, "she talks to hear herself talk."

"I see," replied Mr. Thimblefinger, tapping his forehead significantly and nodding his head.

"You kin nod," said Drusilla defiantly, "but my head got mo' in it dan you kin comb out."

"I believe you!" exclaimed Mr. Thimblefinger, "I believe you!" He spoke so earnestly that Sweetest Susan and Buster John laughed, and Drusilla laughed with them.

"You dropped your knife," said Mr. Thimblefinger. "I'm sorry of it. I can't bring it up to you, but I'll see if I can't crawl under and get it out."

With that he leaped nimbly from log to log and disappeared under the wood-pile. The children went down to see what he would do. They were so astonished at his droll appearance that they forgot their curiosity.

"Is that a fairy, brother?" asked Sweetest Susan in a low voice.

"No!" exclaimed Buster John with a lofty air, but not loudly. "Don't you see he's not a bit like the fairies we read about in books? Why, he was afraid of a wood-sawyer."

"That's so," Sweetest Susan rejoined.

"He's a witch, dat what he is," said Drusilla.

"Shucks!" whispered Buster John. He heard the voice of Mr. Thimblefinger under the wood-pile.

"I've found it, I've found it!" he cried. And presently he made his appearance, dragging the knife after him. He tugged at it until he got it out, and then he sat down on a chip, wiped the perspiration from his eyes, and fanned himself with a thin flake of pine bark no bigger than a bee's wing.

"Pick me up and let's go on top of the wood-pile," said Mr. Thimblefinger after a while. "It's suffocating down here. Ouch! don't tickle me, if you do I shall have a fit." Buster John had lifted him by placing a thumb and forefinger under his arms. "And don't squeeze me, neither," the little man went on. "I was cramped under that bark until I'm as sore as a boil all over. Goodness! I wish I was at home!"

"Where do you live?" asked Sweetest Susan when they were once more seated on the wood-pile.

"Not far from here, not very far," replied Mr. Thimblefinger, shaking his head sagely, "but it is a different country -- oh, entirely different."

Sweetest Susan edged away from the little man at this, and Drusilla stretched her eyes.

"What is it like?" asked Buster John boldly.

Mr. Thimblefinger reflected a while, and then shook his head. "I can show it to you," he said, "but I can't describe it."

"Pick 'im up an' show 'im to your ma!" exclaimed Drusilla suddenly.

"No, no, no!" cried Mr. Thimblefinger, leaping to his feet. "That would spoil everything. No grown person living in this country has ever seen me. No, no! don't try that. It would spoil your luck. I wouldn't be here now if the Dolls' Grandmother hadn't begged me to come with her last night. But I'll come to see you," -- he pointed at Drusilla. "I'll come often."

"I des said dat fer ter see what you'd say," protested Drusilla. "You wan' gwine ter take 'im, wuz you, honey?" This question was addressed to Buster John, who scorned to answer it.

"Grown people wouldn't understand me," Mr. Thimblefinger explained. "They know a great deal too much to suit me."

"How do you get to your country?" inquired Buster John, who was keen for an adventure.

"The nearest way is by the spring," replied Mr. Thimblefinger. "That is the only way you could go."

"Can I go too?" asked Sweetest Susan. "And Drusilla?"

"Oh, of course," said Mr. Thimblefinger, shrugging his shoulders. "One can go or all can go."

"Do you go down the spring branch?" asked Buster John.

"No, no," replied Mr. Thimblefinger. "Below the spring and below the branch."

"Do you mean under the spring?" Sweetest Susan inquired, with some hesitation.

"That's it," cried Mr. Thimblefinger. "Right down through the spring and under it."

"Why, we'd drown," said Sweetest Susan. "The spring is deep."

"Well, you'll ha' ter 'skuze me," exclaimed Drusilla. "Dat water's too wet fer me."

Buster John waited for an explanation, but none was forthcoming.

"We couldn't go through the spring, you know," he said presently.

"How do you know?" asked Mr. Thimblefinger slyly. "Did you ever try it?"

He asked each of the children this, and the reply was that none of them had ever tried it.

"I put my foot in it once," said Buster John, "and the water was just like other spring water. I know we can't go through it."

"Come now!" Mr. Thimblefinger suggested, "don't say you know. Sometimes people live to be very old and don't know the very things they ought to know."

"But I know that," replied Buster John confidently.

"Very well, then," said Mr. Thimblefinger, pulling out a tiny watch, "did you ever feel of the water in the spring at precisely nine minutes and nine seconds after twelve o'clock?"

"N-o-o-o," replied Buster John, taken by surprise, "I don't think I ever did."

"Of course not!" cried Mr. Thimblefinger gayly. "You had no reason. Well, at nine minutes and nine seconds after twelve o'clock the water in the spring is not wet. It is as dry as the air we breathe. It is now two minutes after twelve o'clock. We'll go to the spring, wait until the time comes, and then you will see for yourselves."

As they went toward the spring -- Mr. Thimblefinger running on before with wonderful agility -- Drusilla touched Sweetest Susan on the arm. "Honey," said she, "don't let dat creetur pull you in de spring. Goodness knows, ef he puts his han' on me I'm gwine ter squall."

"Will you hush?" exclaimed Buster John impatiently.

"Watch out, now," said Drusilla defiantly. "Ef you gits drownded in dar I'll sho' tell yo' ma."

Fortunately, there was no one near the spring, so Mr. Thimblefinger advanced boldly, followed closely by the children, though Drusilla seemed to hang back somewhat doubtfully. When they arrived there Mr. Thimblefinger took out his tiny timepiece and held it in his hand. The children watched him with breathless interest, especially Buster John, who was thrilled with the idea of having an adventure entirely different from any that he had read of in the story-books.

As the little man stood there holding his watch and looking at it intently, the dinner-bell rang, first in the hallway and then in the back porch. The children remembered it afterward.

"You all better go git yo' dinner 'fo' it git col', stidder projeckin' 'roun' here wid you dunner what," remarked Drusilla.

"Now!" exclaimed Mr. Thimblefinger, "put your hand in the spring."

Buster John did as he was bid, and, to his amazement, he could feel no water. He could see it, but he couldn't feel it. He turned pale with excitement and withdrew his hand. Then he put his other hand in, but the result was the same. He plunged his arm in up to the elbow, but his sleeve remained perfectly dry.

"Try it, sis," he cried.

Sweetest Susan did so, and boldly declared there was no water in the spring. She wanted Drusilla to try to wet her hand, but Drusilla sullenly declined.

Mr. Thimblefinger settled the matter by walking into the spring.

"Now, then, if you are going, come along," he cried. "You have just seventeen and a half seconds." He waved his hand from the bottom of the spring and stood waiting. A spring lizard ran near him, and he drew his sword and chased it into a hole. A crawfish showed its head, and he drove it away. Then he waved his hand again. "Come on, the coast is clear."

Buster John put his hand in the water again, and this seemed to satisfy him. He stepped boldly into the spring, and in a moment he stood by Mr. Thimblefinger, laughing, but still excited by the novelty of his experience. He called to his sister: -- 

"Come on, sis. It's splendid down here."

"Is it wet?" she asked plaintively. "Is it cold?"

"No!" replied Buster John impatiently. "Don't be a baby."

"Come on, Drusilla! You've got to come. Mamma said you must go wherever we went," cried Sweetest Susan.

"No, ma'am!" exclaimed Drusilla, with emphasis. "She ain't tol' me ter foller you in de fier an' needer in de water!"

But Sweetest Susan didn't wait to hear. She jumped into the spring with a splash and then stood by her brother very red in the face.

"Five more seconds!" cried Mr. Thimblefinger in a businesslike way.

Drusilla looked in the spring and hesitated. She could see the water plain enough, but then she could also see Sweetest Susan and Buster John, and they seemed to be very comfortable.

"I'm comin'," she yelled, "but ef you all make me git drownded in dry water I'll ha'nt you ef it's de las' thing I do!"

Then she shut her eyes tight, put her fingers in her ears, and leaped into the spring. She floundered around with her eyes still shut, and gasped and caught her breath just like a drowning person, until she heard the others laughing at her, and then she opened her eyes with astonishment.

Suddenly there was a loud, splashing sound heard above and around them and under their feet.

"Watch out!" cried Mr. Thimblefinger. "Run this way! The water is getting wet again!"

The way seemed to widen before them as they ran, and in a moment they found themselves below the "gum," or "curb," of the spring and beyond it. But as they went forward the bottom of the spring seemed to grow and expand, and the sun shining through gave a soft light that was very pleasant to the eye. The grass was green and the leaves of the trees and the flowers were pale pink and yellow.

Mr. Thimblefinger seemed to be very happy. He ran along before the children as nimbly as a killdee, talking and laughing all the time. Presently Drusilla, who brought up the rear, suddenly stopped in her tracks and looked around. Then she uttered an exclamation of fright. Sweetest Susan and Buster John paused to see what was the matter.

"Wharbouts did we come in at?" she asked.

Then, for the first time, the children saw that the bottom of the spring had seemed to expand, until it spread over their heads and around on all sides as the sky does in our country.

"Don't bother about that," said Mr. Thimblefinger. "No matter how big it looks, it's nothing but the bottom of the spring after all."

"But how are we to get out, please?" asked Sweetest Susan.

"The same way you came in," said Mr. Thimblefinger.

"I tol' you! I tol' you!" exclaimed Drusilla, swinging her right arm up and down vigorously. "Ef you kin fly you kin git out, an' you look much like flyin'. Dat what you git by not mindin' me an' yo' ma!"

"Tut! tut!" exclaimed Mr. Thimblefinger. "I'll 'sicc' the Katydids on you if you don't stop scaring the little girl. Come! we are not far from my house. We'll go there and see what the neighbors have sent in for dinner."

Buster John followed him as readily as before, but Sweetest Susan and Drusilla were not so eager. They had no device, however, and Drusilla made the best of it.

"I ain't skeered ez I wuz. He talk mo' and mo' like folks."

So they went on toward Mr. Thimblefinger's house.



III.

Mr. Thimblefinger's Friends.


"I hope you are not tired," said Mr. Thimblefinger to Sweetest Susan when they had been on their way for some little time. "Because if you are you can rest yourself by taking longer steps."

Buster John was ready to laugh at this, but he soon discovered that Mr. Thimblefinger was right. He found that he could hop and jump ever so far in this queer country, and the first use he made of the discovery was to jump over Drusilla's head. This he did with hardly any effort. After that the journey of the children, which had grown somewhat tiresome (though they wouldn't say so), became a frolic. They skimmed along over the gray fields with no trouble at all, but Drusilla found it hard to retain her balance when she jumped high. Mr. Thimblefinger, who had a reason for everything, was puzzled at this. He paused a while and stood thinking and rubbing his chin. Then he said that either Drusilla's head was too light or her heels too heavy -- he couldn't for the life of him tell which.

There was one thing that bothered the children. If Mr. Thimblefinger's house was just big enough to fit him (as Buster John expressed it), how could they go inside? Sweetest Susan was so troubled that she asked Drusilla about it. But Drusilla shook her head vigorously.

"Don't come axin' me," she cried. "I done tol' you all right pine-blank not ter come. Ef de house lil' like dat creetur is, what you gwine do when night come? En den spozen 'pon top er dat dat a big rain come up? Oh, I tol' you 'fo' you started! Who in de name er sense ever heah talk er folks gwine down in a spring? You mought er know'd sump'in gwine ter happen. Oh, I tol' you!"

There was no denying this, and Sweetest Susan and her brother were beginning to feel anxious, when an exclamation from Mr. Thimblefinger attracted their attention.

"We are nearly there," he shouted. "Yonder is the house. My! won't the family be surprised when they see you!"

Sure enough there was the house, and it was not a small one, either. Drusilla said it looked more like a barn than a house, but Buster John said it didn't make any difference what it looked like so long as they could rest there and get something to eat, for they had had no dinner.

"I hope dey got sho' 'nuff vittles -- pot-licker an' dumplin's, an' sump'in you kin fill up wid," said Drusilla heartily.

Mr. Thimblefinger, who had been running a little way ahead, suddenly paused and waited for the children to come up.

"Come to think of it," he remarked, "you may have heard of some of my family. I call them my family, but they are no kin to me. We just live together in the same house for company's sake."

"They are not fairies?" suggested Sweetest Susan.

Mr. Thimblefinger shook his head. "Oh, no! Just common every-day people like myself. We put on no airs. Did you ever hear of Mrs. Meadows? And Mr. Rabbit? And Mrs. Rabbit?"

"Dem what wuz in de tale?" asked Drusilla.

"Yes," said Mr. Thimblefinger, "the very same persons."

"Sho' 'nuff!" exclaimed Drusilla. "Why, we been hear talk er dem sence 'fo' we wuz knee-high."

Sweetest Susan and Buster John said they had often heard of Mr. Rabbit and Mrs. Meadows. This seemed to please Mr. Thimblefinger very much. He smiled and nodded approval.

"Did they ever have you in a story?" asked Buster John.

"No, no!" replied Mr. Thimblefinger. "I was so little they forgot me." He laughed at his own joke, but it was very plain that he didn't relish the idea of not having his name in a book.

Presently the children came to the house, but they hesitated at the gate and stood there in fear and trembling. What they saw was enough to frighten them. An old woman was sitting in a chair knitting. She was not different from many old women the children had seen, but near her sat a Rabbit as big as a man. He was a tremendous creature, grizzly and gray, and watery-eyed from age. He sat in a rocking-chair smoking a pipe.

"Le' 's go back," whispered Drusilla. "Dat ar creetur bigger dan a hoss. Ef he git a glimp' us we er gone -- gone!"

Sweetest Susan shivered and looked at Buster John, and Buster John looked at Mr. Thimblefinger. But Mr. Thimblefinger ran forward, crying out: -- 

"Howdy, folks, howdy! I've brought some friends home to dinner." He beckoned to the children. "Come on and see Mrs. Meadows and Mr. Rabbit."

Mrs. Meadows immediately dropped her knitting in her lap, and threw her hands up to her head, as if to arrange her hair.

"Come in," said Mr. Thimblefinger to the children.

"Yes, come on," exclaimed Mr. Rabbit in a voice that sounded as if he had a bad cold.

"I'm in no fix to be seen," said Mrs. Meadows, "but I'm glad to see you, anyhow. Come right in. Take off your things and make yourself at home. How did you get here? I reckon that little trick there has been telling tales out of school." She pointed at Mr. Thimblefinger and laughed.

"He brought us," said Sweetest Susan. "I'm sorry we came."

"Now, don't say that," remarked Mrs. Meadows kindly. "What are you afraid of?"

"Of him," replied Sweetest Susan, nodding her head toward Mr. Rabbit.

"Is that all?" exclaimed Mrs. Meadows. "Why, he's as harmless as a kitten."

"Yes, yes!" said Mr. Rabbit complacently. "No harm in me -- no harm in old people. Just give us a little room in the corner -- a little place where we can sit and nod -- and there's no harm in us. I'm just as glad you've come as I can be. I see you've brought the Tar Baby. She's grown some since I saw her last." Mr. Rabbit looked at Drusilla with considerable curiosity. "I hope she's not as sticky as she used to be."

"Hey!" cried Buster John, laughing. "Mr. Rabbit thinks Drusilla is the Tar Baby!"

Drusilla tossed her head scornfully. "Huh! I ain't no Tar Baby. I may be a nigger, an' I speck I is, but I ain't no Tar Baby. My mammy done tol' me 'bout de Tar Baby in de tale, an' she got it fum her gran'daddy. Ef I'm de Tar Baby, I'm older dan my mammy's gran'daddy."

Mr. Rabbit took off his spectacles and wiped them on his coat-tail. "My eyes are getting very bad," he said, by way of apology. "But you certainly look very much like the Tar Baby. If you were both together in the dark, nobody could tell you apart. Well, well! I'm getting old."

"You ain't no older dan you look," said Drusilla spitefully under her breath.

"Hush!" whispered Sweetest Susan. "He'll eat us up."

Mrs. Meadows laughed. "Don't worry, child. Mr. Rabbit loves his pipe and a joke, but he'll never hurt you. Never in the world."

"But this isn't in the world," suggested Buster John.

"Well, it's next door, as you may say," Mrs. Meadows replied.

Just then Mr. Rabbit slowly raised himself from his chair and examined the seat closely. "I missed Mr. Thimblefinger," he said, "and I was afraid I had sat on him."

"Oh, no!" cried Mr. Thimblefinger, coming out from under the steps; "I was just resting myself."

"Mr. Thimblefinger will take care of himself, I'll be bound," exclaimed Mrs. Meadows. "He's little; but is a mountain strong because it is big?"

"Why, that puts me in mind of the story -- But never mind! I'm always thinking about old times." Mr. Rabbit sighed as he said this.

"Oh, please tell us the story," pleaded Sweetest Susan, anxious to make friends with Mr. Rabbit.

He shook his head. "Mrs. Meadows can tell it better than I can."

"Dinner!" cried Mr. Thimblefinger. "What about dinner?"

"Dinner'll be ready directly," replied Mrs. Meadows.

"But the story?" Sweetest Susan said.


The Strongest -- Who? Or Which?

"Well," replied Mrs. Meadows, "it was like this: One time in the country where we came from -- the country where you live now -- there chanced to be a big frost, and the mill-pond froze over. Mr. Rabbit ran along that way and found that the pond had this bridge across it."

"Was it this Mr. Rabbit here?" asked Buster John.

Mrs. Meadows folded her hands in her lap and looked at them. "Well," she said, "I never talk about folks behind their backs. You must do your own guessing. Anyway, Mr. Rabbit found the ice bridge over the pond, and as he was in something of a hurry he skipped across it. I mean he skipped a part of the way. The Ice was so slippery that when he got about halfway, his feet slipped from under him and he fell kerthump! He got up and rubbed himself as well as he could, and then he thought that the Ice must be very strong to hit him so hard a lick. He said to the Ice, 'You are very strong.'

"'I am so,' replied the Ice.

"'Well, if you are so strong, how can the Sun melt you?'

"The Ice said nothing, and so Mr. Rabbit asked the Sun, 'Are you very strong?'

"'So they tell me,' replied the Sun.

"'Then how can the Clouds hide you?'

"The Sun was somewhat ashamed and had nothing to say. So Mr. Rabbit looked at the Clouds.

"'Are you very strong?'

"'We have heard so,' replied the Clouds.

"'How can the Wind blow you?'

"The Clouds sailed away, and Mr. Rabbit asked the Wind, 'Are you very strong?'

"'I believe you,' said the Wind.

"'Then how can the Mountain stand against you?'

"The Wind blew itself away, and then Mr. Rabbit asked the Mountain, 'Are you very strong?'

"'So it seems,' replied the Mountain.

"'How can the Mouse make a nest in you?'

"The Mountain was mum. So Mr. Rabbit asked the Mouse, 'Are you very strong?'

"'I believe so,' replied the Mouse.

"'How can the Cat catch you?'

"The Mouse hid in the grass. Mr. Rabbit asked the Cat, 'Are you very strong?'

"'Yes, indeed,' replied the Cat.

"'How can the Dog chase you?'

"The Cat began to wash her face. Then Mr. Rabbit said to the Dog, 'Are you very strong?'

"'I certainly am,' replied the Dog.

"'Then why does the Stick scare you?'

"The Dog began to scratch the fleas off his neck, and Mr. Rabbit said to the Stick, 'Are you very strong?'

"'Everybody says so.'

"'Then how can the Fire burn you?'

"The Stick was dumb, and Mr. Rabbit asked the Fire, 'Are you very strong?'

"'Anybody will tell you so,' the Fire answered.

"'How can the Water quench you?'

"The Fire hid behind the smoke. Then Mr. Rabbit asked the Water, 'Are you very strong?'

"'Strong is no name for it,' said the Water.

"'How can the Ice cover you?'

"The Water went running down the river, and after it had gone the Ice said to Mr. Rabbit, 'You see you had to come back to me at last.'

"'Yes,' replied Mr. Rabbit, 'and now I am going away. You are too much for me.' Then Mr. Rabbit loped off, rubbing his bruises."

"Was it really you, Mr. Rabbit?" asked Sweetest Susan.

Mr. Rabbit rubbed his mustache with the end of his pipe-stem. "Well, I'll tell you the truth. I was mighty foolish in my young days. But now all I want to do is to eat breakfast, and then wait until dinner is ready, and then sit and wait until supper is put on the table."

Mrs. Meadows winked at the children and then turned to Mr. Rabbit.

"Now," said she, "I've told the story you ought to have told, for you know more about it than anybody else. It's as little as you can do to sing the old song that you sung when you used to go frolicking."

"Why, it's about myself!" exclaimed Mr. Rabbit. "At my time of life it would never do."

"Please make him sing it," said Sweetest Susan, who was much given to getting her own way by the pretty little art of coaxing.

"Oh, he'll sing it," replied Mrs. Meadows confidently. "He can't refuse."

Mr. Rabbit shook his head, and then seemed to fall into a brown study, but suddenly, seeing that they were all waiting for the song, he cleared up his throat, and after several false starts sang this song: -- 


Oh, This Is Mr. Rabbit!

Oh, this is Mr. Rabbit, that runs on the grass, So rise up, ladies, and let him pass; He courted Miss Meadows, when her ma was away, He crossed his legs, and said his say. He crossed his legs, and he winked his eye, And then he told Miss Meadows good-by. So it's good-by, ducky, And it's good-by, dear! I'll never come to see you Until next year! For this is Mr. Rabbit, that runs on the grass, So rise up, ladies, and let him pass.

And he cried from the gate, so bold and free: "I know you are glad to get rid of me." And then Miss Meadows shook her head --  "If you stay too long you'll find me dead. And it's good-by, ducky, And it's good-by, dear! You'll find me dead When you come next year!" For this is Mr. Rabbit, that runs on the grass, So rise up, ladies, and let him pass.

Mr. Owl called out from the top of the tree, "Oh, who? Oh, who?" and "He-he-he!" Mr. Fox slipped off in the woods and cried; Mr. Coon's broken heart caused a pain in his side. For it's good-by, ducky, And it's good-by, dear! If you ever come to see me, Come before next year! For this is Mr. Rabbit, that runs on the grass, So rise up, ladies, and let him pass.

Mr. Rabbit looked around, and saw all the trouble, And he laughed and he laughed till he bent over double. He shook his head, and said his say --  "I'll come a-calling when to-morrow is to-day. For when you have a ducky, Don't stay -- don't stay --  Go off and come again When to-morrow is to-day." For this is Mr. Rabbit, that runs on the grass, So rise up, ladies, and let him pass.



IV.

Two Queer Stories.


There is no doubt the children were very much surprised to see Mr. Rabbit. They were astonished to find that he was so large and solemn-looking. When the negroes on the plantation told them about Mr. Rabbit -- or Brother Rabbit, as he was sometimes called -- they had imagined that he was no larger than the rabbits they saw in the sedge-field or in the barley-patch, but this Mr. Rabbit was larger than a dozen of them put together.

In one way or another Sweetest Susan and Buster John and Drusilla showed their amazement very plainly -- especially Drusilla, who took no pains to conceal hers. Every time Mr. Rabbit moved she would nudge Sweetest Susan or Buster John and exclaim: "Look at dat!" or, "We better be gwine!" or, "Spozen Brer Fox er Brer Wolf come up an' dey er dat big!"

Mrs. Meadows noticed this; indeed, she could not help noticing it. And so she said: -- 

"I reckon maybe you expected to find Mr. Rabbit no bigger than the rest of his family that live in your country."

Before the children could make any answer, Mr. Rabbit began to chuckle, and he chuckled so heartily that Sweetest Susan was afraid he would choke.

"I don't wonder you laugh," said Mrs. Meadows, elevating her voice a little, as if Mr. Rabbit were a little deaf.

"It may not be polite to laugh in company," replied Mr. Rabbit, "but I am obliged to do it." His voice was wheezy, and he nodded his head vigorously. "Yes, I am obliged to do it. Why, I could put one of those poor creatures in my coat-pocket. They are not Rabbits. They are Runts. Yes, Runts. That's what they are. And to think, too, that their great-grandparents might have come here when I did. But, no! They wouldn't hear to it. No new country for them, they said. And so they stayed where they were, and the breed has dwindled down to -- to nothing. I'll be bound they have forgotten how to talk." He turned to the children with a look of inquiry.

"Why, of course, rabbits can't talk," said Buster John.

Mr. Rabbit shook his head sadly and put his hand to his eyes. "Well, well, well!" he exclaimed after a while. "Can't talk! But I might have known it. The family's gone to seed. I'm glad I'm not there to see it all. A neighbor here and there does no harm, but when people began to crowd in I concluded to move, and I'm glad I did. I'm old and getting feeble, but, thank gracious, I'm not a Runt."

"I don't see but you're as nimble as ever you were," remarked Mrs. Meadows soothingly.

"I know -- I know!" Mr. Rabbit insisted; "I may be as nimble, but I'm not as keen for a frolic as I used to be. The chimney-corner suits me better than a barbecue." Mr. Rabbit closed his big eyes and sighed. "Well, well -- everybody to his time, everybody to his taste!"

Mrs. Meadows nodded her head approvingly. "Yes; between first one thing and then another, there's lots of time and a heap of tastes."

"They tell me," remarked Mr. Rabbit suddenly, "that things have got to that pass in the country we came from that even Mr. Billy-Goat, who used to eat meat, has dwindled away in mind and body till he hangs around the stable doors and eats straw for a living. That's what Mr. Thimblefinger says, and he ought to know. I suppose Billy is still bob-tailed? I remember the very day he had his tail broken off."

"Tell us about it," remarked Buster John.


Why Mr. Billy-Goat's Tail Is Short.

"Oh, it doesn't amount to much," said he. "It's hardly worth talking about. I think it was one Saturday. In those days, you know, we used to have a half-holiday every Saturday. We worked hard all the week, and we tried to crowd as much fun into a half-holiday as possible. Well, one Saturday afternoon Mr. Billy-Goat and Mr. Dog were walking arm in arm along the road, talking and laughing in a sociable way, when all of a sudden a big rain came up. Mr. Billy-Goat said he was mighty sorry he left his parasol at home, because the rain was apt to make his horns rust. Mr. Dog shook himself and said he didn't mind water, because when he got wet the fleas quit biting.

"But Mr. Billy-Goat hurried on and Mr. Dog kept up with him until they came to Mr. Wolf's house, and they ran into the front porch for shelter. The door was shut tight, but Mr. Billy-Goat had on his high-heel shoes that day, and he made so much noise as he tramped about that Mr. Wolf opened his window and looked out. When he saw who it was, he cried out: -- 

"'Hallo! this is not a nice day to pay visits, but since you are here, you may as well come in out of the wet.'

"But Mr. Dog shook his head and flirted up dirt by scratching on the ground with his feet. He had smelled blood. Mr. Billy-Goat saw how Mr. Dog acted, and he was afraid to go in. So he shook his horns.

"'You'd just as well come in and sit by the fire,' said Mr. Wolf, unlatching the door.

"But Mr. Dog and Mr. Billy-Goat thanked him kindly, and said they didn't want to carry mud into the house. They said they would just stand in the porch till the shower passed over. Then Mr. Wolf took down his fiddle, tuned it up, and began to play. In his day and time few could beat him playing the fiddle. And this time he played his level best, for he knew that if he could start Mr. Billy-Goat to dancing he'd have him for dinner."

"I don't see how," said Buster John.

"Well," exclaimed Mr. Rabbit, "if Mr. Billy-Goat began to dance he would be likely to dance until he got tired, and then it would be an easy matter for Mr. Wolf to outrun him."

"Of course," said Sweetest Susan.

"Well," Mr. Rabbit continued, "Mr. Wolf kept on playing the fiddle, but Mr. Billy-Goat didn't dance. Not only that, he kept so near the edge of the porch that the rain drifted in on his horns and ran down his long beard. But he kept his eye on Mr. Wolf. After playing the fiddle till he was tired, Mr. Wolf asked: -- 

"'How do you get your meat, my young friends?'

"Mr. Dog said he depended on his teeth, and Mr. Billy-Goat, thinking to be on the safe side, said he also depended upon his teeth.

"'As for me,' cried Mr. Wolf, 'I depend on my feet!' and with that he dropped his fiddle and jumped at Mr. Billy-Goat. But he knocked the broom down and the handle tripped him. It was all very sudden, but by the time Mr. Wolf had recovered himself Mr. Billy-Goat and Mr. Dog had gone a considerable distance.

"They ran and ran until they came to a big creek. Mr. Billy-Goat asked Mr. Dog how he was going to get across.

"'Swim,' said Mr. Dog.

"'Then I'll have to bid you good-by,' replied Mr. Billy-Goat, 'for I can't swim a stroke.'

"By this time they had arrived at the bank of the creek, and they could hear Mr. Wolf coming through the woods. They had no time to lose. Mr. Dog looked around on the ground, gathered some jan-weed, yan-weed, and tan-weed, rubbed them together, and squeezed a drop of the juice on Mr. Billy-Goat's horns. He had no sooner done this than Mr. Billy-Goat was changed into a white rock.

"Then Mr. Dog leaped into the creek and swam across. Mr. Wolf ran to the bank, but there he stopped. The water was so wide it made tears come in his eyes; so deep that it made his legs ache; and so cold that it made his body shiver.

"When Mr. Dog arrived safely on the other side he cried out, 'Aha! you are afraid! You've drowned poor Mr. Billy-Goat, but you are afraid of me. I dare you to fling a rock at me!'

"This made Mr. Wolf so mad that he seized the white rock and threw it at Mr. Dog with all his might. It fell near Mr. Dog, and instantly became Mr. Billy-Goat again. But in falling a piece was broken off, and it happened to be Mr. Billy-Goat's tail. Ever since then he has had a very short tail."

"Were you there, Mr. Rabbit?" asked Sweetest Susan bluntly.

"I was fishing at the time," replied Mr. Rabbit. "I heard the noise they made, and I turned around and saw it just as I've told you."

Drusilla touched Buster John on the arm. "We ain't dreamin', is we, honey?"

Buster John looked at her scornfully. "What put that in your head?" he asked.

"Suppose the rock had hit Mr. Dog?" suggested Sweetest Susan.


The Pumpkin-Eater.

"Now, that's so!" exclaimed Mr. Thimblefinger. "And it reminds me of a little accident that happened in my mother's family. But it's hardly worth telling."

"Well, tell it, anyhow," said Mrs. Meadows.

"Yes," remarked Mr. Rabbit, "the proof of the pudding is in chewing the bag."

"Well," said Mr. Thimblefinger, "as far back as I can remember, and before that, too, my mother was a widow, and she had a great many children to take care of. The reason she had so many children was because she was poor. I have noticed all my life that when people are very poor they happen to have more children than they know what to do with. This was the way with my mother. She had a houseful of children, and she found it a hard matter to get along.

"One day she went down to the creek to wash the clothes, such as she and the children had, and when she got there she found an old man sitting on the bank. He said, 'Howdy,' and she said, 'Good-morning,' and then he asked her if she would be so good as to wash his coat and his waistcoat. She said she would be glad to do so, and the old man said he would be very much obliged. So my mother washed the coat and waistcoat. Then he asked her if she would comb his hair for him, and she did so.

"The old man thanked her kindly, and took from his pocket a string of red beads and made her a present of them. Then he told her to go out behind the house when she got home, and there she'd find a pumpkin-tree growing. He said that she must bury the string of beads at the foot of the tree.

"'That's a pity,' exclaimed my mother; 'they are so beautiful.'

"But the old man declared that she must do as he said, and after that she was to go to the pumpkin-tree every day and ask for as many pumpkins as she wanted.

"My mother went home and found the pumpkin-tree where never a tree had been growing before, and at its roots she buried the string of beads. Next morning, bright and early, she went to the pumpkin-tree and called for one pumpkin. Down it dropped from the tree. For a long time my mother and her children were happy and growing fat. Every day a big pumpkin would be cooked, and as my mother had to leave us so as to attend to her work, enough pumpkin would be left in the pot to last us all day.

"I remember that time very well," Mr. Thimblefinger continued, with a sigh, "for I was getting fat and growing to be almost as large as the rest of the children. But one day, as my mother was going out to work she found a hamper basket on the gate-post, and in that basket was a baby. So she carried the baby in the house, gave it something to eat, and then put it on the floor to play with the rest. But as soon as she got out of the yard the baby crawled to the pot where the cooked pumpkin was, and ate and ate until there was no pumpkin left. Of course, the rest of the children had to go hungry. And when my mother came home she had to go hungry, too.

"She was very much surprised. She found all the pumpkin gone and the children crying for something to eat, and the stray baby was crying louder than any. She said we were the greediest children she had ever seen.

"The next day she cooked two pumpkins, but the same thing happened. The baby went to the pot and ate both. The children told her how it happened, but she wouldn't believe them. She said she couldn't be made to believe that one puny little baby could eat two whole pumpkins -- and it is very queer, when you come to think about it.

"The next day she cooked three pumpkins, but the same thing happened. Then four, then five, then six. But it was always the same. No matter how many pumpkins were cooked, the stray baby would eat them all, and the rest of the children would have to go hungry. You see how small I am," said Mr. Thimblefinger, suddenly pausing in the thread of his story. "Well, the reason of it is that I was starved out by that pumpkin-eating baby. My brothers and sisters and myself were just as large and as healthy as any other children until that baby was found on the gate-post, and from that day we began to dwindle and shrink away.

"Well, we starved and starved until at last my mother could very plainly see that something was the matter. So she set a trap for the baby and baited it with pumpkins. She hadn't got out of hearing before the baby put his head in the pot and got caught in the trap. It stayed there all day, and when mother came home at night she found it there. She was very much surprised, but she saw she must get rid of the baby. She said that any creature that could manage to eat like that was able to take care of itself, and so she carried it off down the road and left it there.

"Now this Pumpkin-Eater was a witch baby, and as soon as it thought my mother was out of sight and hearing it changed itself into a tall, heavy man."

"'T wuz feedin' de big man all de time," exclaimed Drusilla.

"Certainly," replied Mr. Thimblefinger. "My mother was watching it, and she followed to see where it would go. It went down to the bank of the river. There it found the old man who had given my mother the string of beads, and asked him for something to eat.

"'Comb my hair for me,' said the old man.

"But it refused, and then the old man told it to go to the pumpkin-tree and ask for twenty pumpkins. The greedy thing was glad to do this. It went to the tree and called for twenty pumpkins, and down they fell on its head."

"What then?" asked Buster John, as Mr. Thimblefinger paused. "Was it hurt?"

"Smashed!" exclaimed Mr. Thimblefinger. "Knocked flatter than a pancake! Broke into jiblets!"

"It was a great waste of pumpkins," remarked Mrs. Meadows.



V.

The Talking-Saddle.


Just then Mrs. Meadows smoothed out her apron and rose from her chair.

"I smell dinner," she said, "and it smells like it is on the table. Let's go in and get rid of it."

She led the way, and the children followed. The dinner was nothing extra, -- just a plain, every-day, country dinner, with plenty of pot-liquor and dumplings; but the children were hungry, and they made short work of all that was placed before them. Drusilla waited on the table, as she did at home, but she didn't go close to Mr. Rabbit. She held out the dishes at arm's length when she offered him anything, and once she came very near dropping a plate when he suddenly flapped his big ear on his nose to drive off a fly.

Mrs. Meadows was very kind to the children, but when once the edge was taken off their appetite they began to get uneasy again. There were a thousand questions they might have asked, but they had been told never to ask questions in company. Mr. Thimblefinger, who had a keen eye for such things, noticed that they were beginning to get glum and dissatisfied, and so he said with a laugh: -- 

"I've often heard in my travels of children who talked too much, but these don't talk at all."

"Oh, they'll soon get over that," Mrs. Meadows remarked. "Everything is so strange here, they don't know what to make of it. When I was a little bit of a thing my ma used to take me to quiltings, and I know it took me the longest kind of a time to get used to the strangers and all."

"This isn't a quilting," said Sweetest Susan, with a sigh; "I wish it was."

"I don't!" exclaimed Buster John plumply.

"Once when I was listening through a keyhole," said Mr. Thimblefinger, placing his tiny knife and fork crosswise on his plate, "I heard a story about a Talking-Saddle."

"Tell it! tell it!" cried Buster John and Sweetest Susan.

"I suppose you have no pie to-day?" said Mr. Rabbit.

"Oh, yes," said Mrs. Meadows, "we'll have the pie and the story, too."

Mr. Thimblefinger smacked his lips and winked his eye in such comical fashion that the children laughed heartily, but they didn't forget the story.

"I don't know that I can remember the best of it," said Mr. Thimblefinger. "The wind was blowing and the keyhole was trying to learn how to whistle, and I may have missed some of the story. But it was such a queer one, and I was listening so closely, that I came very near falling off the door-knob when some one started to come out. I think we'd better eat our pie first. I might get one of those huckleberries in my throat while talking, and there's no doctor close at hand to keep me from choking to death."

So they ate their huckleberry-pie, and then Mr. Thimblefinger told the story.

"Once upon a time a farmer had five sons. He was not rich and he was not poor. He had some land, and he had a little money. He divided his land equally among his four oldest sons, giving each just as much as he could till. To each, he also gave a piece of money. Then he called his youngest son, and said: -- 

"'You have sharp eyes and a keen wit. You want no land. All you need is a saddle. That I will give you.'

"'A saddle! What will I do with a saddle?' asked the youngest son, whose name was Tip-Top.

"'Make your fortune with it.'

"'If I had a horse -- '

"'A head is better than a horse,' the father replied.

"Not long after, the old man died. The land was divided up among the four older sons, and Tip-Top was left with the saddle. He slung it on his back and set out to make his fortune. It was not long before he came to a large town. He rested for a while and then he went into the town. He remembered that his father had said a head was better than a horse, so, instead of carrying the saddle on his back, he put it on his head. At first the people thought he was carrying the saddle because he had sold his horse for a good price, or because the animal had died. But he went through street after street still carrying the saddle on his head, never pausing to look around or to speak to anybody, and at last the people began to wonder. Some said he was a simpleton, some said he was a saddle-maker advertising his wares, and some said he was a tramp who ought to be arrested and put in the workhouse.

"This talk finally reached the ears of the Mayor of the town, and he sent for Tip-Top to appear before him."

"What is a Mayor?" asked Sweetest Susan suddenly.

"He de head patter-roller," said Drusilla, before anybody else could reply.

"That's about right," Mr. Thimblefinger declared. "Well, the Mayor sent for Tip-Top. But instead of going to the place where the Mayor held his court, Tip-Top inquired where his house was and went there. Now, when Tip-Top knocked at the Mayor's door the servant, seeing the man with a saddle on his head, began to scold him.

"'Do you think the Mayor keeps his harness in the parlor? Go in the side gate and carry the saddle in the cellar where it belongs. Hang it on the first peg you see.'

"Tip-Top tried to say something, but the servant shut the door with a bang. Then Tip-Top did as he was bid. He went through the side gate, and found the cellar without any trouble, but instead of hanging the saddle on a peg, he placed it on the floor and sat on it.

"After waiting patiently a while, wondering when the Mayor would call him, Tip-Top heard voices on the other side of the wall. He listened closely, and soon found that the housemaid who had driven him away from the Mayor's door was talking to her brother, who had just returned from a long journey.

"'The Mayor has gold,' said the brother. 'You must tell me where he keeps it. I have a companion in my travels, and to-night we shall come and take the treasure.'

"For a long time the housemaid refused to tell where the Mayor kept his gold, but the brother threatened and coaxed, and finally she told him where the treasure lay.

"'It is in a closet by the chimney in the first room to the right at the head of the stairs. The gold is in an iron box and it is very heavy.'

"'My companion has long hair and a strong arm,' said the brother. 'He is cross-eyed and knock-kneed. It wouldn't do for you to meet him in the hallway. Go to bed early and lock your door, and if you hear any outcry during the night cover your head with a pillow and go to sleep again.'

"Then the housemaid and her brother went away.

"'Well,' said Tip-Top, 'this is no place for me.'

"He waited a while, and then went out of the cellar into the yard with his saddle on his head. The cook, seeing him there, told him to carry the saddle to the stable where the horses were kept. Tip-Top went to the stable, placed his saddle in an empty stall, and sat on it.

"After a while he heard two persons come in from the street. They went into a stall near by and began to talk. One was the coachman and the other was his nephew, who had just returned from a long journey.

"'The Mayor has fine horses,' said the nephew. 'I must have two of them to-night, otherwise I am ruined forever.'

"The coachman refused to listen at first, but after a while he consented. He told his nephew that the stable-boy slept in the manger.

"'I have a companion in my travels,' said his nephew, 'and to-night we shall come and take the horses away. My companion has short hair and a heavy hand. Close your eyes and cover your head with straw if you hear any outcry.'

"After a while the coachman and his nephew went out into the street again, and then Tip-Top came forth from the stable with the saddle on his head. The Mayor had just come in, and was standing at his window. He saw the man in the yard with the saddle on his head, and sent a servant to call him.

"'What is your name?' asked the Mayor.

"'Tip-Top, your honor.'

"'I didn't ask after your health; I asked for your name,' said the Mayor.

"'It is Tip-Top, your honor.'

"'Your name or your health?'

"'Both, your honor.'

"'What are you doing here?'

"'His honor, the Mayor, sent for me, your honor.'

"'What were you doing just now?'

"'Waiting to be sent for, your honor.'

"'Where is your horse?' asked the Mayor.

"'I have no horse, your honor.'

"'Why do you carry your saddle?'

"'Because no one will carry it for me, your honor.'

"'Why do you not sell it and be rid of it, ninny?'

"'Few are rich enough to buy it, your honor.'

"'How much money is it worth?'

"'Two thousand pieces of gold, your honor.'

"'Are you crazy?' cried the Mayor. 'Why is it so valuable?'

"'It is a Talking-Saddle, your honor.'

"'What does it say?'

"'Everything, your honor. It warns, it predicts, and it gives advice.'

"'Let it talk for me,' said the Mayor, full of curiosity.

"'Your honor would fail to understand its language,' replied Tip-Top.

"'Let it talk and do you tell me what it says.'

"Tip-Top placed his saddle on the carpet and pressed his foot against it until the leather made a creaking noise.

"'I am waiting,' said the Mayor. 'What does the saddle say?'

"'It says, your honor, that you must call the housemaid.'

"The Mayor, to humor the joke, did so. The housemaid came, grumbling. She looked at the saddle, at Tip-Top, and then at the Mayor.

"'Now what does the saddle say?' asked the Mayor.

"'It says, your honor, that this woman has a brother, who has just returned from a journey in strange lands. The saddle says, your honor, that this woman's brother has a companion who has long hair and a strong arm.'

"'Is that all?' asked the Mayor.

"'No, your honor, it is not half.'

"'It is very strange,' said the housemaid.

"'The saddle says, your honor, that if you will sit in the closet by the chimney, in the first room to the right, where there is an iron box that is very heavy, you will receive a visit to-night from this woman's brother and his companion.'

"The Mayor was very much astonished, but before he could open his lips the woman fell on her knees and confessed all. The Mayor called an officer and sent her away. Then he turned to Tip-Top, and asked: -- 

"'Is that all?'

"'By no means, your honor. The saddle says send for the coachman.'

"The Mayor did so, and the coachman came, bowing and smiling.

"'How much is the saddle worth?' the Mayor asked him.

"'Master, it is worthless,' replied the coachman, with a sneer.

"'Let us see,' said the Mayor. Then, turning to Tip-Top: 'What does the saddle say?'

"'It says, your honor, that this coachman here has a nephew, who has just returned from a long journey. It says that the nephew has a companion who has short hair and a heavy hand.'

"'What more?'

"'The saddle says, your honor, that if you will sleep in the manger where your two finest horses feed, you will receive a visit from the coachman's nephew and his traveling companion.'

"The coachman implored his master's mercy, and told all. Of course, the Mayor was very much astonished. He turned his unfaithful servants over to an officer, and that night had a watch set around his house and stable, and caught the thieves and their companions."

"But the saddle didn't talk," said Sweetest Susan. "So the man didn't tell what was true." She made this remark with so much dignity that Mrs. Meadows laughed.

But Buster John was quite impatient.

"This isn't a girl's story," he exclaimed.

"Oh, yes," replied Mrs. Meadows. "It is for girls as well as boys. Sometimes people tell stories just to pass the time away, and if the stories have little fibs in 'em, that don't do anybody any harm, they just keep them in there. If they didn't, the story wouldn't be true."

"Is that the end of the story of the Talking-Saddle?" asked Buster John.

"No! Oh, no!" Mr. Thimblefinger answered. "I was just going to tell you the rest."

But before he could go on with it, the noise of laughter was heard at the door, and then there came running in a queer-looking girl and a very queer-looking boy.



VI.

The Talking-Saddle And The Thief.


The queer-looking girl was running from the very queer-looking boy, and both were laughing loudly. When they saw the children sitting at the table they both stopped suddenly. The queer-looking girl turned and made a wry face at the very queer-looking boy. At this both burst out laughing, and suddenly stopped again.

"Be ashamed of yourselves!" exclaimed old Mr. Rabbit, rapping on the floor with his cane. "Be ashamed! Where are your manners? Go and speak to our friends and make your best bow, too, -- don't forget that!" Mr. Rabbit appeared to be very indignant.

Mrs. Meadows was in a better humor. "This," she said, as the queer-looking girl came forward, "is Chickamy Crany Crow, and this," as the very queer-looking boy came timidly up, "is Tickle-My-Toes."

They bowed, and then went off a little way, looking very solemn and comical. They didn't dare glance at each other for fear they would begin laughing again. The reason they looked so queer was because, although they acted like children, they were old in appearance, -- as old as a person past middle age.

"They are country-raised, poor things! You'll have to excuse them. They don't know any better." Mr. Thimblefinger sighed as he said this, and looked thoughtful.

"What about the Talking-Saddle?" Buster John inquired. "You said the story wasn't finished."

"To be sure! To be sure!" Mr. Thimblefinger cried. "My mind is like a wagon without a tongue. It goes every way but the right way. Where was I? Oh, yes, I remember now."

"Well, the Mayor was very thankful to Tip-Top for saving his treasure and his horses, but he wasn't satisfied about the saddle. He was worried. Now, you know when a child is worried it cries, but when a grown man is worried he sits down and looks away off, and puts his elbow in his hand and his finger to his nose -- so."

"Oh, I've seen papa do that," laughed Sweetest Susan.

"Yes, that's the way the Mayor did," Mr. Thimblefinger continued. "There was a great thief in that country who had never been caught. He didn't care for judges and juries and courthouses. He always sent the Mayor word when he was coming to the city and when he was going away.

"Now, the Mayor had received a letter from this man just the day before Tip-Top came. The thief said he was coming after a fine race-horse that was owned by the Mayor's brother. So the Mayor sat and thought, and finally he asked Tip-Top if his Talking-Saddle could catch a famous thief.

"'It has just caught four common rogues, your honor,' replied Tip-Top, 'and I think it can catch one uncommon thief.'

"Then the Mayor told Tip-Top that the most famous thief in all that country intended to steal his brother's race-horse. Tip-Top said he must see the horse, and together they went to the stable where it was kept. The horse was already guarded. Two servants sat in the stall, two sat outside, and two remained near the door. The Mayor's brother was also there.

"'What is this?' the brother asked.

"'This fellow wants to sell his saddle,' replied the Mayor.

"'Then arrest him,' cried the brother, 'for he is the thief.'

"'Nonsense,' replied the Mayor. 'He is a very honest man and I will vouch for him.'

"Then the Mayor called his brother aside and told him why the man with the saddle had come to see the horse.

"Tip-Top talked with the men who had been set to guard the horse, and he soon found that one of them was an accomplice of the thief. This man made a swift sign to Tip-Top, and placed his finger on his mouth. Tip-Top replied by closing his eyes with his fingers, as if to show that he saw nothing. When he had an opportunity he said to this man: -- 

"'Tell your master I will be willing to sell the saddle to-night. I will sleep with it under my head on the next corner. It is worth one thousand pieces of gold.'

"Then he returned to the Mayor, and they went away. Tip-Top laughed as they walked along. 'This thief,' he remarked, 'is a fool. It is so easy to steal a horse that he will not buy a saddle. He will try to steal mine. Then we shall catch him. He will get the horse -- '

"'What!' cried the Mayor; 'get the horse?'

"'Certainly; nothing is easier,' replied Tip-Top. 'He will get the horse, and then he will want a saddle. He will be passing the wall here. He will see me sleeping with my head on my friend and then he will attempt to steal it, but the surcingle will be buckled around my body, and I will awake and cry blue murder. Then you and your brother can come forward from the vacant house yonder and seize him.'

"'Where did you learn all this?' asked the Mayor. He began to suspect that his brother was right when he said that Tip-Top was the thief.

"'My saddle told me,' Tip-Top answered.

"'Well,' said the Mayor, 'your plan is as good as any, but how will the thief get the horse that is so well guarded?'

"'Ah!' Tip-Top exclaimed, 'if I were to tell you, we should never catch the thief.'

"So it was all arranged. Tip-Top was to sleep on his Talking-Saddle, near the wall and the Mayor and his brother were to watch from the windows of the vacant house opposite.

"When night came, the watchers who had been set to guard the horse were very anxious. They were ready to arrest any one who might chance to enter. Whenever they heard footsteps approaching they seized their clubs and stood on the defensive. Sometimes a passer-by would pause, look in, and ask what the trouble was. Then the watchers would reply that they were waiting for the great thief who was coming to steal the fine horse. Thus the hours passed, but no thief came. Then the watchers began to get tired.

"'We are crazy,' said one. 'How can a thief steal this horse, even if he were to come in here? We are four to one. Two of us should sleep a while, and thus we can take turns in watching.' This was agreed to, and two of the guards stretched themselves on the straw and prepared to sleep. But just then they heard some one singing far down the street. It was a jolly song, and the sound of it came louder and louder. As the singer was going by, the light in the stable caught his eye, and he paused and looked in, but still kept up his singing.

"'Friends,' he said when his song was done, 'what is the trouble?'

"'We are watching a horse.'

"'Is he sick? Perhaps I can aid you. I have doctored many a horse in my day.'

"'He is not sick,' replied the watchers. 'He is well and taking his ease. We are watching to prevent a thief from stealing him.'

"Then they told him the threat the thief had made.

"'Come, that is too good,' cried the newcomer. 'This thief will be worth looking at when four such stout lads as you get through with him. When does he show himself?'

"'That is what we are to find out,' replied the watchers.

"'Very well,' the newcomer said; 'I'll stay, by your permission, and see you double him up.'

"The watchers gave their consent gladly, for the newcomer had a lively manner and a rattling tongue. He sang songs and told stories for an hour or more, and then pulled a bottle from under his coat.

"'A little wine,' he said, 'will clear the fog from our throats.' He passed the bottle around, and all drank except the guard who was watching in the stall.

"Now the man who had come singing up the street was the thief himself, and the guard in the stall was his companion. The wine was drugged, and in a very few minutes three of the watchers were fast asleep. Then the thief and his companion took the horse from the stall.

"'I shall have to remain here and pretend to be asleep,' said the companion. 'You will find a saddle around the corner.' He then told the thief about the man with the saddle.

"'You are a fool, my friend,' said the thief. 'It is a trick -- a trap.'

"But when he had carried off the horse and hid it at the house of an acquaintance, the thought of the man with the saddle worried him so that he went back to satisfy himself. Tip-Top and his saddle were there, and Tip-Top had slept so soundly that his head had rolled from his pillow. The thief thought it would be a good stroke of business to take the saddle along, but when he tried to lift it, Tip-Top awoke and seized him, and cried 'Murder!' at the top of his voice.

"The Mayor and his brother rushed from their place of concealment, and soon the thief was bound.

"'Where is the horse?' cried the Mayor.

"'What horse?' exclaimed the thief. 'Do you think I carry horses in my pocket?'

"'What were you doing here, then?'

"'This fellow's head had slipped from its pillow, and when I tried to put it back he seized me and yelled that I was murdering him! I saw no horse under the saddle.'

"'Wait here a little,' said Tip-Top. 'Hold this thief till I return.'

"He went to the stable, woke the thief's accomplice, who by this time was really asleep, and told him his companion had been captured. 'If I can find the horse and hide it our friend will be safe, for nothing can be proved on him.'

"The man was so frightened that he told Tip-Top where he had arranged to meet the thief the next day. Then Tip-Top returned to the Mayor and his brother, who still held the thief, and took them to the house where the horse had been stabled.

"When the horse had been found and restored to its owner the Mayor said to Tip-Top that he would not only reward him handsomely but grant any request he might make.

"'Then, your honor,' replied Tip-Top, 'give this man his liberty.'

"'Why?' asked the Mayor, much astonished.

"'Because, your honor, he is my brother.'

"The thief was as much astonished as the Mayor at this turn in his affairs, but he had no difficulty in recognizing Tip-Top as his younger brother.

"'He certainly is a man of talent,' said the Mayor, 'and it is a pity that he should be executed.'

"Then the thief fell on his knees and begged the Mayor to pardon him, promising him to live and die an honest man. And he kept his promise. He engaged in business, and, aided by Tip-Top's advice and influence, made a large fortune."

"What became of the Talking-Saddle?" asked Buster John.

"Well," replied Mr. Thimblefinger, "Tip-Top hung the saddle in his front porch, as you have seen farmers do. He thought a great deal of it."

"I've read something about the great thief," remarked Buster John. "But the story didn't end that way. The thief escaped every time."

"Oh, well, you know how some people are," exclaimed Mrs. Meadows. "They want everything to happen just so; even a thief must be a big man if he's in a story; but I don't believe anybody ever stole anything yet without getting into trouble about it."

"Who is that crying?" Mr. Rabbit suddenly exclaimed.

"I hear no crying," said Mrs. Meadows.

"I certainly thought I heard crying," persisted Mr. Rabbit.

"It is Chickamy Crany Crow and Tickle-My-Toes singing. Listen!"

Sure enough the queer-looking boy and the queer-looking girl were singing a song. One sang one line and the other the next line, and this made the song somewhat comical. The words were something like these: -- 


Chickamy Crany Crow.

Oh sing it slow, This song of woe, Of the girl who went to wash her toe! Her name was Chick --  (Oh run here quick --  The word's so thick) --  Chickamy -- Chickamy Crany Crow!

Chickamy what? and Chickamy which? She went to the well and fell in the ditch; What o'clock, old Witch?

The clock struck one And bowed to the sun; But the sun was fast asleep you know; And the moon was quick, With her oldtime trick --  To hide from Chick --  Chickamy -- Chickamy Crany Crow!

Chickamy what? and Chickamy which? She went to the well and fell in the ditch; What o'clock, old Witch?

Oh, sad to tell! She went to the well --  The time was as close to eve as to dawn --  To Chickamy Chick, So supple and slick, The clock said "Tick!" But when she came back her chicken was gone!

Oh, whatamy, whichamy, chickamy, oh! Moonery, oonery, tickamy Toe! Wellery, tellery, gittery go! Witchery, itchery, knitchery know.

"What kinder gwines on is dat?" exclaimed Drusilla, whose mind had never been quite easy since she walked through the dry water in the spring without getting drowned. "We all better be makin' our way to'rds home. Time we git dar -- ef we ever is ter git dar -- it'll be dark good. Den what yo' ma gwine to say? She gwine ter talk wid de flat er her han' -- dat what she gwine ter talk wid. Come on!"

"Can't you be quiet?" cried Buster John. "It's nothing but a song."

"Oh, you kin stay, an' I'll stay wid you," said Drusilla; "but when Mistiss git you in de wash-room, don't you come sayin' dat I wouldn't fetch you home."

"I want to see everything," said Buster John.

"I done seed much ez I want ter see," replied Drusilla, "an' now I want ter live ter tell it."

Before Buster John could say anything more, everything suddenly grew a little darker, and in the middle of the sky -- or what ought to have been the sky, but which was the enlarged bottom of the spring -- there was a huge shadow. The children looked at it in silence.



VII.

The Ladder Of Lions.


The shadow that seemed to fall over everything caused Buster John and Sweetest Susan and Drusilla to run to the door. It was not a very dark shadow, but it was dark enough to attract their attention and excite their alarm. They were not yet used to their surroundings, for, although a great many things they saw and heard were familiar to them, they could not forget that they had come through the water in the spring. They could not forget that Mr. Thimblefinger was the smallest grown person they had ever seen, -- even if he were a grown person, -- nor could they forget that they had never seen a rabbit so wonderfully large as Mr. Rabbit. Drusilla expressed the feelings of all when she remarked that she felt "skittish." They were ready to take alarm at anything that might happen. Therefore they ran to the door to see what the shadow meant. Finally they looked up at the sky, or what seemed to be the sky, and there they saw, covering a large part of it, the vague outline of a huge jug. The shadow wobbled about and wavered, and ripples of light and shadow played about it and ran down to the horizon on all sides.

An astronomer, seeing these fantastic wobblings and waverings of light and shadow in our firmament, would straightway send a letter or a cable dispatch to the newspapers, declaring that an unheard-of convulsion was shaking the depths of celestial space. And, indeed, it was all very puzzling, even to the children, but Drusilla, who had less imagination than any of the rest, accounted for it all by one bold stroke of common sense.

"Shuh! 'T ain't nothin' 't all!" she exclaimed. "Dey done got froo wid dinner at home, an' ol' Aunt 'Cindy done put de buttermilk-jug back in de spring."

Sweetest Susan caught her breath with a gasp, and laughed hysterically. She had been very much alarmed.

"I expect that's what it is," said Buster John, but there was some doubt in his tone. He turned to Mr. Thimblefinger, who had followed them. "What time is it, please?"

Mr. Thimblefinger drew his watch from his pocket with as much dignity as he could assume, and held his head gravely on one side. "It is now -- let me see -- ahem! -- it is now precisely thirteen minutes and eleven seconds after one o'clock."

"Is that the jug in the spring?" asked Sweetest Susan, pointing to the huge black shadow that was now wobbling and wavering more slowly.

Mr. Thimblefinger shaded his eyes with his hand and examined the shadow critically. "Yes, that is the jug -- the light hurts my eyes -- yes, certainly, that is the jug."

Presently a volume of white vapor shot out from the shadow. It was larger than the largest comet, and almost as brilliant.

"What is that?" asked Sweetest Susan.

Mr. Thimblefinger felt almost as thoughtful as a sure-enough man of science.

"That," said he, "is an emanation -- an exhalation, you might say -- that we frequently witness in our atmosphere."

"A which?" asked Buster John.

"Well," replied Mr. Thimblefinger, clearing his throat, "it's -- er -- an emanation."

"Huh!" cried Drusilla, "'t ain't no kind er nation. It's des de milk leakin' out'n dat jug. I done tol' Aunt 'Cindy 'bout dat leakin' jug."

Mr. Rabbit and Mrs. Meadows had come out of the house in time to hear this, and they laughed heartily. In fact, they all laughed except Mr. Thimblefinger and Drusilla.

"It happens every day," said Mrs. Meadows. "We never notice it. I suppose if it happened up there where you children live, everybody would make a great to-do? I'm glad I don't live there where there's so much fussing and guessing going on. I know how it is. Something happens that doesn't happen every day, and then somebody'll guess one way and somebody another way, and the first thing you know there's a great rumpus over nothing. I'm truly glad I came away from there in time to get out of the worst of it. You children had better take a notion and stay here with us."

"Oh, no," cried Sweetest Susan. "Mamma and papa would want to see us."

"That's so," said Mrs. Meadows. "Well, I just came out here to tell you not to get too near the Green Moss Swamp beyond the hill yonder. There's an old Spring Lizard over there that might want to shake hands with you with his tail. Besides it's not healthy around there; it is too damp."

"Oh, we are not going anywhere until we start home," Sweetest Susan remarked.

"How large is the Spring Lizard?" inquired Buster John.

"He's a heap too big for you to manage," replied Mrs. Meadows. "I don't know that he'd hurt you, but he's slept in the mud over there until he's so fat he can't wallow scarcely. He might roll over on you and hurt you some."

"Are there any lions over there?" inquired Sweetest Susan.

"No, honey, not a living one," said Mrs. Meadows.

By this time Mr. Rabbit had come out on the piazza, bringing his walking-cane and his pipe. He presently seated himself on the steps, and leaned his head comfortably against one of the posts.

"Well, well, well," he exclaimed. "It has been years and years since I've heard the name of Brother Lion. Is he still living and doing well?" Mr. Rabbit turned an inquiring eye on Sweetest Susan.

"She doesn't know anything about lions," said Buster John.

"Why, I do!" cried Sweetest Susan. "I saw one once in a cage."

"In a cage? Brother Lion in a cage?" Mr. Rabbit raised his hands and rolled his eyes in astonishment. "What is the world coming to? Well, I've said many and many a time that Brother Lion was not right up here." Mr. Rabbit tapped his forehead significantly. "In a cage! Now, that pesters me. Why, he used to go roaring and romping about the country, scaring them that didn't know him mighty nigh to death. And so Brother Lion is in a cage? But I might have known it. I wonder how the rest of the family are getting on? Not that they are any kin to me, for they are not. I called him Brother Lion just to be neighborly. Oh, no! He and his family are no kin to me. They are too heavy in both head and feet for that."

Mr. Rabbit closed his eyes as if reflecting, and patted the ground softly with his foot.

"Well, well! I remember just as well as if it were yesterday the day I told Brother Lion that if he wasn't careful, Mr. Man would catch him and put him in a cage for his children to look at. But he just hooted at it -- and now, sure enough, there he is! I mind the first time he began his pursuit of Mr. Man. That was the time he got his hand caught in the split of the log."

"I done hear my daddy tell dat tale," remarked Drusilla.

"Yes," said Mr. Rabbit, "it soon became common talk in the neighborhood. Brother Lion had come a long way to hunt Mr. Man, and as soon as he got his hand out of the split in the log he started to go home again. I went part of the way with him, and then it was that I told him he'd find himself in a cage if he wasn't careful. I made a burdock poultice for his hand the best I could -- "

"And it's mighty good for bruises, I tell you now!" exclaimed Mrs. Meadows.

"And then Brother Lion went on home, feeling better, but still very mad. Crippled as he was, he was a quick traveler, and it was not long before he came to his journey's end.

"Well, when his mother saw him she was very sorry. But when he told her what the matter was she was vexed. 'Aha!' said she, 'how often have I told you about meddling with somebody else's business! How often have I told you about sticking your nose into things that don't concern you! I'm not sorry for you one bit, because if you had obeyed me you wouldn't be coming home now with your hand mashed all to flinders. But, no! daddy-like, you've got to go and get yourself into trouble with Mr. Man, and now you see what has come of it. I'm not feeling at all well myself, but now I've got to go to work and make a whole parcel of poultices and tie your hand up and nurse you -- and I declare somebody ought to be nursing me this very minute.'

"That was what Brother Lion's mother said," continued Mr. Rabbit, "but Brother Lion didn't say anything. He just lay on the sheepskin pallet she made him and studied how he would be revenged on Mr. Man. After a while his hand got well, but still he said very little about the matter. The more he thought about the way he had been treated, the madder he got. He gnashed his teeth together and waved his long tail about until it looked like a snake. Finally he sent word to all his kin -- his uncles and his cousins -- to meet him somewhere in the woods and hold a convention to consider how they should catch the great monster, Mr. Man, who had caused a log of wood to mash Brother Lion's hand.

"Well, it wasn't long before the uncles and cousins began to arrive. They came from far and near, and they seemed to be very ferocious. They shook their manes and showed their tushes. They went off in the woods and held their convention, and Brother Lion laid his complaint before them. He told them what kind of treatment he had received from Mr. Man, and asked them if they would help to get his revenge. He made quite a speech, and when he sat down, his uncles and cousins were very much excited. They roared and howled. They said they were ready to tear Mr. Man limb from limb. They declared they were ready to go where he was, and gnaw him and claw him on account of the scandalous way he had treated their blood-kin.

"But when Brother Lion's mother heard what they proposed to do she shut her eyes and shook her head from side to side, and told the uncles and the cousins that they had better go back home, all of them. She said that before they got through with Mr. Man they'd wish they had never been born. But go they would and go they did.

"So they started out soon one morning, and traveled night and day for nearly a week. They were getting very tired and hungry, and some of the younger blood-cousins wanted to stop and rest, and some wanted to turn around and go back home. But one morning while they were going through the woods, feeling a little shaky in head and limb, they suddenly came in sight of Mr. Man. He was cutting down trees and splitting them into timber. He had his coat off, and seemed to be very busy.

"But he was not so busy that he didn't hear Mr. Lion and his uncles and blood-cousins sneaking through the woods over the dry leaves, and he wasn't so busy that he couldn't see them moving about among the trees. He was very much astonished. He wondered where so many of the Lion family came from, and what they were doing there, but he didn't stop to ask any questions. He dropped his axe and climbed a tree.

"Brother Lion and his uncles and his blood-cousins were very much pleased when they saw Mr. Man climb the tree. 'We have him now,' said Brother Lion, and the rest licked their jaws and smiled. Then they gathered around the tree and sat on their haunches and watched Mr. Man. This didn't do any good, for Mr. Man sat on a limb and swung his legs, just as contentedly as if he was sitting in his rocking-chair at home.

"Then Brother Lion and his uncles and his blood-cousins showed their teeth and growled. But this didn't do any good. Mr. Man swung his feet and whistled a dance-tune. Then Brother Lion and his blood-cousins opened their mouths wide and roared as loud as they could. But this didn't do any good. Mr. Man leaned his head against the trunk of the tree and pretended to be nodding.

"This made Brother Lion and his blood-kin very mad. They ran around the tree and tore the bark with their claws, and waved their tails back and forth. But this didn't do any good. Mr. Man just sat up there and swung his feet and laughed at them.

"Brother Lion and his blood-kin soon found that if they intended to capture Mr. Man they'd have to do something else besides caper around the foot of the tree. So they talked it over, and Brother Lion fixed up a plan. He said that he would stand at the foot of the tree and rear up against the trunk, and one of his blood-cousins could climb on his back and rear up, and then another cousin or uncle could climb up, and so on until there was a ladder of bloodthirsty Lions high enough to reach Mr. Man.

"Brother Lion, mind you, was to be at the bottom of the Lion ladder," remarked Mr. Rabbit, with a chuckle, "and he had a very good reason for it. He had had dealings with Mr. Man, and he wanted to keep as far away from him as possible. But before they made the Lion ladder, Brother Lion looked up at Mr. Man and called out: -- 

"'What are you doing up there?'

"'You'll find out a great deal too soon for your comfort,' replied Mr. Man.

"Brother Lion said, 'Come down from there.'

"Mr. Man answered, 'I'll come down much sooner than you want me to.'

"Then Brother Lion, his uncles, and his blood-cousins began to build their ladder. Brother Lion was the bottom round of this ladder, as you may say," continued Mr. Rabbit. "He reared up and placed his hands against the tree, and one of his uncles jumped on his shoulders, and put his hands against the tree. Then a cousin, and then another uncle, and so on until the ladder reached a considerable distance up the tree. It was such a high ladder that it began to wobble, and the last uncle had hard work to make his way to the top. He climbed up very carefully and slowly, for he was not used to this sort of business. He was the oldest and the fiercest of the old company, but his knees shook under him as he climbed up and felt the ladder shaking and wobbling.

"Mr. Man saw that by the time this big Lion got to the top of the ladder his teeth and his claws would be too close for comfort, and so he called out in an angry tone: -- 

"'Just hold on! Just stand right still! Wait! I'm not after any of you except that fellow at the bottom there. I'm not trying to catch any of you but him. He has bothered me before. I let him go once, but I'll not let him get away this time. Just stand right still and hold him there till I climb down the other side of the tree.'

"With that Mr. Man shook the limbs and leaves and dropped some pieces of bark. This was more than Brother Lion could stand. He was so frightened that he jumped from under the ladder, and his uncles and his blood-cousins came tumbling to the ground, howling, growling, and fighting.

"They were as sorry-looking a sight as ever you saw when they came to their senses. Those that didn't have their bones broken by the fall were torn and mangled. They had acted so foolishly that out of the whole number, Mr. Man didn't get but three lion-skins that could be called perfect.

"Brother Lion went home to his mother as fast as he could go and remained quiet a long time. And now you tell me he's in a cage."

Mr. Rabbit paused and shook his head until his ears flopped.

The children seemed to enjoy the story very much; so much so, indeed, that Mrs. Meadows wanted Mr. Rabbit to tell some of his own queer experiences, but Mr. Rabbit laughed and said that it didn't seem exactly right to be telling his own stories. He said if he told the stories just as they happened, he'd have to talk about himself a good deal, and people would think he was boastful. He declared he didn't feel like making his young friends think he was bragging.

"Oh, we shan't mind that," said Sweetest Susan, "shall we, brother?"

"Why, of course not," replied Buster John.

"La! we all done hear folks brag, till we got hardened ter braggin'!" exclaimed Drusilla.

So the children, aided by Mrs. Meadows, coaxed Mr. Rabbit until he finally consented to tell some of his queer adventures.



VIII.

Brother Terrapin's Fiddle-String.


Mr. Rabbit moved his body uneasily about, and scratched his head, and crossed and uncrossed his legs several times before he began.

"I declare it isn't right!" he exclaimed after a while. "I don't mind telling about other folks, but when it comes to talking about myself, it is a different thing."

"Don't you remember the time you tried to get Brother Terrapin to give you a fiddle-string?" asked Mrs. Meadows, laughing a little.

"Oh, that was just a joke," replied Mr. Rabbit.

"Call it a joke, then," said Mrs. Meadows. "You know what the little boy said when the man asked him his name. He said, says he, 'You may call it anything, so you call me to dinner.'"

"He wasn't very polite," remarked Sweetest Susan.

"No, indeed," Mrs. Meadows answered; "but you know that little boys can't always remember to be polite."

"I think we were at your house," suggested Mr. Rabbit, rubbing his chin.

"Yes," replied Mrs. Meadows. "In the little house by the creek. The yard sloped from the front door right to the bank."

"To be sure," exclaimed Mr. Rabbit, brightening up. "I remember the house just as well as if I had seen it yesterday. There was a little shelf on the left-hand side of the door as you came out, and there the water-bucket sat."

"Yes," said Mrs. Meadows; "and there was just room enough up there by the bucket for Brother Terrapin."

"That's so," Mr. Rabbit replied, laughing, "and when he used to go to your house to see the girls they'd set the bucket on the table in the house and lift Brother Terrapin to the shelf so he could see and be seen. I remember it used to make him very mad when I'd tell him he would be a mighty man if he wasn't so flat-footed."

"Oh, you used to talk worse than that," cried Mrs. Meadows, laughing heartily at the remembrance of it. "You used to tell him he was the only man you ever saw that sat down when he stood up. I declare! Brother Terrapin's eyes used to get right red."

"Well," said Mr. Rabbit, after a pause; "I remember I went to your house one day and I carried my fiddle. When I got there, who should I see but old Brother Terrapin sitting up on the shelf. I expected to find the girls by themselves, but there was Brother Terrapin. So I began to joke him.

"'Howdy, Brother Terrapin?' says I. 'If you had a ladder handy you could come downstairs and shake hands, couldn't you?'

"He began to get sullen and sulky at once. He wouldn't hardly make any reply. But I didn't care for that. Says I: 'Cross your legs and look comfortable, Brother Terrapin; don't be glum in company. I've got my fiddle with me, and I'm going to make your bones ache if you don't dance.'

"Then I whirled in," said Mr. Rabbit, "and played the liveliest tunes I could think of, -- 'Billy in the Low Grounds,' ''Possum up the Gum-Stump,' 'Chicken in the Bread-Tray,' and all those hoppery-skippery, jiggery-dancery tunes that make your feet go whether or no. But there Brother Terrapin sat, looking as unconcerned as if the fiddle had been ten miles away. He didn't even keep time to the music with his foot. More than that, he didn't even wag his head from side to side."

"I always knew Brother Terrapin had no ear for music," remarked Mrs. Meadows. "If that was a fault, he certainly had more than his share of it."

"I ought not to talk about people behind their backs," Mr. Rabbit continued, trying to shake a fly out of his ear, "but I must say that Brother Terrapin was very dull about some things. Well, I played and played, and the girls danced and seemed to enjoy it. I believe you danced a round or two yourself?" Mr. Rabbit turned to Mrs. Meadows inquiringly.

"I expect I shook my foot a little," said Mrs. Meadows with a sigh. "I was none too good."

"They danced and danced until they were tired of dancing," Mr. Rabbit resumed; "but there sat Brother Terrapin as quiet as if he were asleep. Well, I was vexed -- I don't mind saying so now -- I was certainly vexed. But I didn't let on. And between tunes I did my best to worry Brother Terrapin.

"'Ladies,' says I, 'don't make so much fuss. Let Brother Terrapin get his nap out. You'll turn a chair over directly, and Brother Terrapin will give a jump and fall off the shelf and break some of the furniture in his house.' This made the girls laugh very much, for they remembered the old saying that Brother Terrapin carries his house on his back. 'Don't laugh so loud,' says I, 'Brother Terrapin has earned his rest. He's been courting on the other side of the creek, and he has no carriage to ride in when he goes back and forth. Sh-h!' says I, 'don't disturb him. When a person sits down when he stands up, and lies down when he walks, some allowance must be made.'

"Brother Terrapin's eyes grew redder and redder, and the skin on the back of his head began to work backward and forward. What might have happened I don't know, but just as the girls were in the middle of a dance one of my fiddle-strings broke, and it was the treble, too. I wouldn't have minded it if it had been any of the other strings, but when the treble broke I had to stop playing.

"Well, the girls were very much disappointed and so was I, for I had come for a frolic. I searched in my pockets, but I had no other string. I tried to play with three strings, but the tune wouldn't come. The girls were so sorry they didn't know what to do.

"Just then an idea struck me. 'Ladies,' says I, 'it's a thousand pities I didn't bring an extra treble, and I'm perfectly willing to go home and fetch one, but if Brother Terrapin was a little more accommodating the music could go right on. You could be dancing again in a little or no time.'

"'Oh, is that so?' says the girls. 'Well, we know Brother Terrapin will oblige us.'

"'I'm not so sure of that,' says I.

"'What do you want me to do?' says he. His voice sounded as if he had the croup.

"'Ladies,' says I, 'you may believe it or not, but if Brother Terrapin has a mind to he can lend me a treble string that will just fit my fiddle.'

"'Brother Rabbit,' says he, 'you know I have no fiddle-string. What would I be doing with one?'

"'Don't mind him, ladies. He knows just as well as I do that he has a fiddle-string in his neck. I can take my pocket-knife and get it out in half a minute,' says I.

"This made Brother Terrapin roll his eyes.

"'Be ashamed of yourself, Brother Terrapin,' says the girls. 'And we were having so much fun, too.'

"'If my neck was as long and as tough as Brother Terrapin's, I'd take one of the leaders out and make a fiddle-string of it, just to oblige the ladies,' says I.

"The girls turned up their noses and tossed their heads. 'Don't pester Brother Terrapin,' says they. 'We'll not ask him any more.'

"'Ladies,' says I, 'there is a way to get the fiddle-string without asking for it. Will you please hand me a case-knife out of the cupboard there?'

"I rose from my chair with a sort of a frown," continued Mr. Rabbit, laughing heartily, "but before I could lift my hand Brother Terrapin rolled from the shelf and went tumbling down the slope to the creek, heels over head."

"Did it hurt him much?" asked Sweetest Susan, with a touch of sympathy.

"It didn't stop his tongue," replied Mr. Rabbit. "He crawled out on the other side of the creek and said very bad words. He even went so far as to call me out of my name. But it is all over with now," said Mr. Rabbit, with a sigh. "I bear no grudges. Let bygones be bygones."

"I never heard before that Brother Terrapin had a fiddle-string in his neck," said Buster John, after he had thought the matter over a little.

"In dem times," said Drusilla, as if to satisfy her own mind, "you couldn't tell what nobody had skacely."

"Why, as to that," replied Mr. Rabbit, "the fiddle-string in his neck was news to Brother Terrapin."

There was a pause here and the children seemed to be somewhat listless.

"I'll tell you what I think," remarked Mrs. Meadows to Mr. Rabbit; "these children here are lonesome, and they'll be getting homesick long before the time comes for them to go. Oh, don't tell me!" she cried, when the children would have protested. "I know how I'd feel if I was away from home in a strange country and had nobody but queer people to talk to. We are too old. Even Chickamy Crany Crow and Tickle-My-Toes are too old, and Mr. Thimblefinger is too little."

"Well, what are we going to do about it?" asked Mr. Rabbit, running his thumb in the bowl of his pipe.

"I was just thinking," responded Mrs. Meadows. "Hadn't we better bring out the Looking-Glass family?"

"Well," said Mr. Rabbit, "I leave that to you." To hide the smile that gathered around his mouth Mr. Rabbit leaned his head over and scratched his left ear lazily with his left foot.

"That's what I'll do," Mrs. Meadows declared decisively. "These children want company they can appreciate, poor things!"

She went into the house, and presently came out again, bringing a mirror about three feet wide and five feet high.



IX.

The Looking-Glass Children.


The frame of the mirror was of dark wood, curiously carved, and it was set on pivots between two small but stout upright posts, made of the same kind of wood. As Mrs. Meadows brought the looking-glass out, it swung back and forth between these posts, and its polished surface shone with great brilliancy. The children wondered how they were to amuse themselves with this queer toy. Mrs. Meadows placed the looking-glass a little way from them, but not facing them. The frame was in profile, so that they could see neither the face nor the back of the mirror.

"You come first," she said to Buster John.

He went forward, and Mrs. Meadows placed him in front of the looking-glass. As he turned to face it, his reflection (as it seemed) stepped from the mirror and stared at him. Buster John looked at Mrs. Meadows for an explanation, but at that moment she beckoned to Sweetest Susan. When Buster John moved, his image moved. Mrs. Meadows pushed him gently aside to make room for Sweetest Susan, and it seemed that some invisible hand pushed his reflection gently aside.

Sweetest Susan stepped before the looking-glass, and her reflection walked out to meet her. Drusilla now came forward, and her image stepped forth, looking somewhat scared and showing the whites of its eyes. Mrs. Meadows went to the looking-glass, gave it a sudden turn on its pivots, and carried it into the house.

All this happened so rapidly that the children hardly had time to be surprised, but now that the looking-glass had been carried away and they were left with their reflections, their shadows, their images (or whatever it was), they didn't know what to do, or say, or think. They could only look at each other in dumb astonishment. Drusilla was the first to break the silence. In her surprise she had moved quickly back a few steps, and her image, which had come out of the looking-glass, had as quickly moved forward and toward her a few steps.

"Don't come follerin' atter me!" she cried excitedly. "Kaze ef you do, you'll sho' git hurted. I ain't done nothin' 't all ter you. I ain't gwine ter pester you, an' I ain't gwine ter let you pester me. I tell you dat now, so you'll know what ter 'pen' on."

"Don't move! Please don't move!" cried Sweetest Susan to Buster John. "If you do I can't tell you apart. I won't know which is which. That wouldn't be treating me right nor Mamma, either."

Naturally, the children were in a great predicament when Mrs. Meadows came back. She saw the trouble at once, and began to laugh. It was funny to see Buster John and Sweetest Susan and Drusilla standing there staring first at the Looking-Glass children and then at themselves, not daring to move for fear they would get mixed up with their doubles. The Looking-Glass children stared likewise, first at themselves and then at the others.

"What is the matter?" Mrs. Meadows asked. "Why don't you go and play with one another and make friends? It isn't many folks that have the chance you children have got."

"I don't feel like playing," said Sweetest Susan. "I'm afraid we'll get mixed up so that nobody will know one from the other."

"Why, there's all the difference in the world," exclaimed Mrs. Meadows, trying hard not to laugh. "The Looking-Glass children are all left-handed. You have a flower on the left side of your hat, the other Susan has a flower on the right side of hers. Your brother there has buttons on the right side of his coat; the other John has buttons on the left side. There is a flaw in the looking-glass, and Drusilla, being a little taller than you two, was just tall enough for the end of her nose to be even with the flaw. That's the reason the other Drusilla's nose looks like it had been mashed with a hammer."

"Yes 'm, it do!" exclaimed Drusilla. She involuntarily took a step forward to take a nearer view of the flawed nose, and of course the other Drusilla took a step forward as if to show the flawed nose. "Don't you dast ter come 'bout me!" exclaimed Drusilla. "Goodness knows, I don't look dat away. Go on, now! Go 'ten' ter yo' own business ef you got any."

"I don't want to play with you," said the other Drusilla. "You've got smut on your face. I don't like to play with dirty-faced girls."

"My face cleaner'n yone dis blessed minnit," retorted Drusilla.

"And your hair is not combed," said the other Drusilla. "It is wrapped with strings, and you couldn't comb it if you wanted to. I think it is a shame."

"Look at yo' own head!" retorted Drusilla angrily. "It's mo' woolly dan what mine is. 'T ain't never been kyarded much less combed. An' who got any mo' strings roun' der hair dan you got on yone?"

"How could I help it?" the other Drusilla asked. "You came and looked at me in the glass and I had to be just like you, smutty face and all. I don't think it is right. I know I never looked like this before, and I hope I never shall again."

"Tut, tut!" said Mrs. Meadows; "don't get to mooning around here. You might look better, but you don't look so bad. It will all come right on wash-day, as the woman said when she put her dress on wrong side outwards. Here comes Chickamy Crany Crow and Tickle-My-Toes. They'll be glad to see you, no matter how you look."

And they were. They ran to the Looking-Glass children and greeted them warmly. Tickle-My-Toes stared at the other Drusilla in surprise, but he didn't laugh at her. "You look as if you had fallen down the chimney," he said, "but that doesn't make any difference. So long as you are here, we are satisfied."

"Oh, I don't mind it," said the other Drusilla.

"Now, then," remarked Mrs. Meadows, "you couldn't please us better than to sing us a song. You haven't practiced together for a long time."

The other children looked at one another in a shamefaced way, and then, without a word of objection or explanation, they began to sing as with one voice, the most plaintive song that ever was heard. It may be called: -- 


The Looking-Glass Song.

It's oh! and it's ah! It's alack! and alas! Just imagine you lived in a big looking-glass!

Oh, what could you say and what could you do If you lived all alone in the toe of a shoe? You could hop, you could skip, you could jump, you could dance, And you'd hear very little of "shouldn'ts" and "shan'ts." You could stump your big toe, and it would never get hurt; You could kick up the sand, you could play in the dirt.

But it's oh! and it's ah! It's alack! and alas! Just imagine you lived in a big looking-glass!

Oh, what could you do, and what would you say If you lived in the pantry all night and all day? You could say it was jolly, and splendid, and nice; You could eat all the jelly, and frighten the mice. You could taste the preserves, you could nibble the cheese --  You could smell the red pepper, and sit down and sneeze.

But it's oh! and it's ah! It's alack! and alas! Just imagine you lived in a big looking-glass!

Oh, what could you do if you lived under ground? You could ride Mr. Mole and go galloping round; You could hear the black cricket a-playing his fife, For to quiet the baby and please his dear wife. You could hear the green grasshopper frying his meat, Near the nest of the June-Bug under the wheat. You could get all the goobers and artichokes, too --  You could peep from the window the grub-worm went through.

But it's oh! and it's ah! It's alack! and alas! Just imagine you lived in a big looking-glass!

"Oh, I think that is splendid," cried Sweetest Susan.

"Mr. Rabbit doesn't like it much," replied Mrs. Meadows, "but I tell him it is pretty good for children that were raised in a Looking-Glass."

"It will do very well," remarked Mr. Rabbit, "but you'll hear nicer songs by the time you are as old as I am."

"Dem ar white chillun done mighty well," said Drusilla, "but I don't like de way dat ar nigger gal hilt her head."

"Do they have to stay in the looking-glass?" asked Buster John. "If they do I'm sorry for them."

"I ain't sorry fer dat black gal," said Drusilla spitefully. "She too ugly ter suit me."

"Whose fault is it but yours?" cried Chickamy Crany Crow.

"Yes, whose fault is it?" cried Tickle-My-Toes.

"Come, come!" cries Mrs. Meadows. "We want no trouble here."

"We'll not trouble her," answered Tickle-My-Toes. "Old Rawhead-and-Bloody-Bones will do the troubling."

"Now you all heah dat!" exclaimed Drusilla, in some alarm. "I ain't pesterin' nobody, an' I ain't doin' nothin' 't all. Ef I can't talk I des ez well quit livin'. I'm gwine home, I am, an' ef I can't fin' de way, den I'll know who'll have ter answer fer it."

"Well, if you go," said Mrs. Meadows, "you'll have company. The other black girl will have to go too."

"How come dat?" exclaimed Drusilla.

"It would take me too long to tell you," replied Mrs. Meadows. "Why does your shadow in a looking-glass make every motion that you make? Because it's obliged to -- that's all. That's just the reason the other black girl would follow you."

"Don't mind Drusilla," said Buster John. "She just talks to hear herself talk. Her mouth flies open before she knows it."

"Well, the poor things won't trouble you long," said Mrs. Meadows. "They'll want to go back home presently."

"Do they have to stay in the looking-glass?" inquired Buster John, repeating a question he had already asked.

"Well, they were born and raised there," replied Mrs. Meadows. "It is their home, and, although they are glad to get out for a little while, they wouldn't be very happy if they had to stay out."

The children and the Looking-Glass children played together a little while, or made believe to play, but they didn't seem to enjoy themselves. Mrs. Meadows noticed this and asked Mr. Rabbit the reason.

"Simple enough, simple enough," Mr. Rabbit answered. "They are so much alike in their looks and ways and so different in their raising that they can't get on together. How would I feel if my double were to walk out of the side of the house and sit here facing me and mimicking my every motion? I wouldn't feel very comfortable, I can tell you."

"I reckon not," said Mrs. Meadows. Presently she called the children, brought out the looking-glass and told them it was time to bid the others good-by. At this the other children seemed to be very well pleased. The other Buster John and the other Sweetest Susan shook hands all round, and the other Drusilla made a curtsey to the company. Then, with a run and a jump, they plunged into the big looking-glass as you have seen youngsters plunge into a pond of water.

"Ho!" cried Mr. Thimblefinger, "they jumped in with a splash, but they never made a ripple."

"They haven't room enough in there to turn around," said Sweetest Susan.

"Why not?" inquired Mr. Thimblefinger. "To them the world is a looking-glass, and a mighty little one at that. If you were to peep in their glass now they'd peep back at you; but, as they look at it, you are in a looking-glass and they are out of it. And I wouldn't be surprised if they are a great deal sorrier for you than you are for them."

"When are we to go home?" asked Sweetest Susan plaintively.

"Oho! you want to get back into your looking-glass!" cried Mr. Thimblefinger merrily. "Well, you won't have long to wait. By rights, you ought to stay here twelve hours, but the old Spring Lizard and I have put our heads together, and we've fixed it so that you can get back before sundown."

"Isn't it night at home now?" inquired Buster John.

"Why, they are hardly through washing the dinner dishes," replied Mrs. Meadows.

"It is just half past two," said Mr. Thimblefinger, looking at his watch.

"Well, it look so dark all dis time dat I done got hungry fer supper," remarked Drusilla.



X.

Mr. Rabbit As A Rain-Maker.


"I hope it won't rain," said Sweetest Susan, "for then the spring would fill up so we couldn't get out, and we should get wet down here."

"Oh, no," replied Mr. Thimblefinger, "the water is never wet down here. It is a little damp, that's all."

"Well, that's enough, I'm sure," remarked Mr. Rabbit. "It's enough to give me the wheezes when I first get up in the morning, and it's not at all comfortable, I can tell you."

"There is one funny thing about springs," said Mrs. Meadows, "no matter how much it rains, they never get any fuller. They may run a little freer, but they never get any fuller. Speaking of rains," she continued, turning to Mr. Rabbit and laughing, "don't you remember the time you set yourself up as a rain-maker?"

Mr. Rabbit chuckled so that he bent nearly double.

"I don't remember that," sighed Mr. Thimblefinger. "You two have more jokes between you than you can shake a stick at. That comes of me being small and puny. Tell us about it, please."

Mr. Rabbit fingered his pipe -- a way he had when he put on his thinking-cap, as Mrs. Meadows expressed it -- and presently said: -- 

"It's not such a joke after all, but I'll let you judge for yourself. Once upon a time, when all of us lived next door, on the other side of the spring, there was a tremendous drouth. I had been living a long time, but never before had seen such a long dry spell. Everybody was farming except myself, and even I had planted a small garden.

"Well, there was a big rain about planting-time, but after that came the drouth, and the hot weather with it. One month, six weeks, two months, ten weeks -- and still no sign of rain. The cotton was all shriveled up, and the corn looked as if it would catch a-fire, it was so dry; even the cow-peas turned yellow. Everything was parched. The creeks ran dry, and the rivers got so low the mills had to stop. I remember that when Brother Bear tried to carry me across the ferry his flatboat ran aground in the middle of the river, and the water was so low we found we could wade out.

"The drouth got so bad that everybody was complaining -- everybody except me. Brother Wolf and Brother Bear would come and sit on my front porch and do nothing but complain; but I said nothing. I simply smoked my pipe and shook my head, and said nothing. They noticed this, after so long a time, and one day, while they were sitting there complaining and declaring that they were ruined, I went in to get a drink of water. I came back gently and heard them asking each other how it was that I didn't join in their complaints. When I came out, Brother Wolf says, says he: 'Brother Rabbit, how are your craps?' I remember he said 'craps.'

"'Well,' says I, 'my craps are middling good. They might be better, and they might be worse, but I have no cause to grumble.'

"They looked at each other, and then Brother Bear asked if I had had any rain at my house. 'None,' says I, 'to brag about -- a drizzle here and a drizzle there, but nothing to boast of.'

"They looked at each other in great surprise, and then Brother Wolf spoke up. 'Brother Rabbit,' says he, 'how can you get a drizzle and the rest of us not a drop?'

"'Well,' says I, 'some folks that know me call me the rain-maker. They may be right. They may be wrong. I'm not going to squabble about it. You can call me what you please. I shall not dispute with you.'

"Presently they went away, but it wasn't long before they came back, bringing with them all the neighbors for miles around. They gathered in the porch and in the yard and outside the gate, and begged me, if I was a rain-maker, to make it rain there and then to save their crops. They begged me and begged me, but I sat cross-legged and smoked my pipe -- this same pipe you see here. Brother Fox, who had done me many a mean trick (though he was always well paid for it), got on his knees and begged me to make it rain for them.

"Finally I told them that I'd make it rain for the whole settlement on two conditions. The first condition was that every one was to pay toll."

"Toll is the pay the miller takes out at the mill," remarked Buster John.

"Yes," replied Mr. Rabbit, "you take your turn of meal to the mill and the miller takes his payment out of the meal. Well, I told them they'd have to pay toll. They agreed to that, and then asked what else they'd have to do, but I said we'd attend to one thing at a time. First let the toll be paid.

"They went off, and in due time they came back. Some brought corn and some brought meal; some brought wheat and some brought flour; some brought milk and some brought butter; some brought honey in the clean, and some brought honey in the comb; some brought one thing and some brought another, but they all brought something.

"Then they gathered around and asked what else they had to do. 'Well,' says I, 'you certainly act as if you wanted rain -- all of you -- there's no disputing that. You have paid the toll according to agreement. You have surely earned the rain, and now there's nothing for me to do but to find out how much rain you want.'

"With that they all began to talk at once, especially Brother Bear, who lived in the upland district, where the drouth had been the worst, but I put an end to that at once.

"'Hold on there!' says I, 'just wait! Don't get into any dispute around here. You are on my grounds and at my house. Let's have no squabbling. I'm not feeling so mighty well, anyhow, and the least fuss will be enough to upset me. But the world is wide. Just go on yonder hill and fix up the whole matter to suit yourselves. Just come to some agreement as to how much rain you want, and as soon as you agree send me word, and then go home and hoist your parasols, for there'll surely be a sprinkle.'

"Well," Mr. Rabbit continued, "this was such a sensible plan that they couldn't help but agree to it, and presently they all went to the hill and began to talk the matter over, while I went into the house.

"This was in the morning. Well, dinner-time came, but still no word had come from the convention on the hill. I went out into the porch, flung my red handkerchief over my face to keep the flies off, and took my afternoon nap, but still no word came from the hill. Then I fell to laughing, and laughed until I nearly choked myself."

"But what were you laughing at?" Buster John inquired, with a serious air.

Mr. Rabbit paused, looked at the youngster solemnly, and said, "Well, I'll tell you. I didn't laugh because anybody had hurt my feelings. I just laughed at circumstances. I sat and waited until the afternoon was half gone, and then slipped up the hill to see what was to be seen and hear what was to be heard. Everything was very quiet up there. Those who had gone up there to decide what sort of rain they wanted were sitting; around under the pine-trees, looking very sour and saying nothing. The ground was torn up a little in spots, and I thought I could see scattered around little patches of hair and little pieces of hide. I judged from that that the arguments they had used were very serious. I watched them from behind the bushes a little while, and then Brother Bear walked out into the open and declared that any one who didn't want the rain to be a trash-mover was anything but a nice fellow. At this Brother Coon, who lived in the low grounds, remarked that anybody who wanted anything more than a drizzle was not well raised at all.

"Then I soon found out what the trouble was. Brother Bear, living on the uplands, wanted a big rain; Brother Coon, who lived in the low grounds, wanted a little rain; Brother Fox wanted a tolerably heavy shower; and Brother Mink just wanted a cloudy night to coax the frogs out. Some wanted a freshet, some wanted a drizzle, and some wanted a fog.

"They wouldn't agree because they couldn't agree," continued Brother Rabbit, "and finally they slunk off to their homes one at a time. So I didn't have to make any rain at all."

"But you couldn't have made it rain," said Sweetest Susan placidly.

"I didn't say I could," replied Mr. Rabbit. "I told them I would make the rain if they would agree among themselves."

"But you took what they brought you?" suggested Sweetest Susan in a tone that was intended for a rebuke.

"Well," Mr. Rabbit answered, "you know what the old saying is -- 'Fools have to pay for their folly.' They might as well have paid me as to pay somebody else. That's the way I looked at it in those days. I don't know how I'd look at it now, because I'm not so nimble footed as I used to be, nor so full of mischief."

"If there had been many more such fools in your neighborhood," remarked Mr. Thimblefinger, "you could have set up a grocery-store."

There was a little pause, and then Mrs. Meadows, looking around, exclaimed: -- 

"Just look yonder, will you?"

Chickamy Crany Crow had two sticks, and with these she was playing on an imaginary fiddle. Tickle-My-Toes had the broom, and this, he pretended, was a banjo.

The two queer-looking creatures wagged their heads from side to side and patted the ground with their feet, just as though they were making sure-enough music, and presently Tickle-My-Toes sang this song to a very lively tune: -- 


Oh, Lullymaloo!

I'll up and I'll grin if you tickle my chin, And I'll sneeze if you tickle my nose; I'll up and I'll cry if you tickle my eye --  But I'll squeal if you tickle my toes!

Oh, grin with your chinnery in, And sneeze with your nosery oze, And cry with your wipery eye, But please don't tickle my toes!

I'll grin and I'll sneeze, I'll cry and I'll squeal, And scare you with ouches! and ohs! You may tickle my head, you may tickle my heel, But please don't tickle my toes!

Oh, grin with your innery chin, And sneeze with your ozery nose, And cry with your wipery eye, But please don't tickle my toes!

I'll grin, tee-hee! and I'll cry, boo-hoo! And I'll sneeze, icky chow! icky-chose! And I'll squeal just as loud, Oh, Lullymaloo! Whenever you tickle my toes!

Buster John, Sweetest Susan, and Drusilla laughed so heartily at this that Chickamy Crany Crow and Tickle-My-Toes didn't wait to repeat the chorus of the song, but ran away, pretending to be very much frightened. This made the children laugh still more, and for the first time they felt thoroughly at home in Mr. Thimblefinger's queer country.



XI.

How Brother Bear's Hair Was Combed.


While Buster John, Sweetest Susan, and Drusilla were watching Chickamy Crany Crow and Tickle-My-Toes run away, and laughing at them, suddenly the sky in Mr. Thimblefinger's queer country grew brighter. The dark shadow of the buttermilk-jug had disappeared, and there were wavering lines of white light flashing across, as though the sun were trying to shine through. Along with these flashing lines there were wavering lines of shadow that rippled and danced about curiously. There seemed to be some tremendous commotion going on. If some person with the learning and wisdom of an astronomer had seen this wonderful display, he would have been overcome with awe and fear. He would have concluded that the sky was about to go to pieces, and ten to one he would have left his unreflecting telescope swinging in the air, and crawled under the bed.

But there was no astronomer in Mr. Thimblefinger's queer country, and the children had seen too many strange sights to be very much alarmed. Besides, Drusilla solved the mystery before they had time to gather their fears together.

"Shuh!" she exclaimed; "'t ain't nothin' 't all. When dey tuck de jug outin' de spring de water 'bleedge to be shuck up."

And it was true. The rippling and wavering in the sky of Mr. Thimblefinger's queer country were caused by lifting the buttermilk-jug from the spring. As soon as the commotion ceased, it was seen that across the sky, from horizon to horizon, dark lines and shadows extended. They were irregular, and branched out here and there in every direction. Drusilla gazed at them for some moments without venturing to explain them. Suddenly a shadow that seemed to have life and motion made its appearance, and darted about among the dark lines. Drusilla laughed.

"La! Hit's dat dead lim' ober de spring, an' dere's a jay-bird hoppin' about in it right now. Ain't I done heah yo' pa say dat lim' 'll hafter be cut off 'fo' it fall an' break somebody's head?"

"Well, well! She ain't so bad off up here as I thought she was," said Mr. Thimblefinger, tapping his forehead significantly.

"Ain't I done tell you dat dey's mo' in my head dan what you kin comb out?" exclaimed Drusilla indignantly.

"Speaking of combing and things of that sort," remarked Mr. Rabbit, turning to Mrs. Meadows, "did I ever tell you how Brother Bear learned to comb his hair?"

Mrs. Meadows reflected a moment, or pretended to reflect. "Now, I'm not right certain about that. Maybe you have and maybe you haven't; I don't remember. How did you teach Brother Bear to keep his hair roached and parted? Mostly when I used to know him, he went about looking mighty ragged and shabby."

Mr. Rabbit chuckled for several moments and then said: "Well, in my courting-days, you know, I used to go around fixed up in style. Many and many a time I've heard the girls whisper to one another and say, 'Oh, my! Ain't Mr. Rabbit looking spruce to-day?' There was one season in particular that I was careful to primp up and look sassy. I put bergamot oil on my hair, and kept it brushed so slick that a fly would slip up and cripple himself if he lit on it.

"It so happened that my road took me by Brother Bear's house every day -- right by the front gate. Sometimes Mrs. Bear would be hanging out clothes on the fence, sometimes she would be sweeping off the front porch, and sometimes she would be working in the garden; but no matter what she was doing I'd cough and catch her eye, and then I'd bow just as polite as you please."

"What were you doing all that for?" asked Buster John.

"Well, I'll tell you," Mr. Rabbit replied. "I had a grudge against Brother Bear, and I wanted to work a little scheme. Along at first I just went on by the back of Brother Bear's house, and around through the woods home, but in a few days I'd pass by the house and then get over the fence and creep back to hear what Mrs. Bear had to say. One morning I heard her talking. She was out in the yard fixing to do her week's washing while Brother Bear was in the house dozing. I could hear what Mrs. Bear said, but I was too far off to hear what answer Brother Bear made.

"Mrs. Bear says, says she: 'Honey, you ain't asleep, are you? Brother Rabbit has just gone along by the gate dressed to kill.' A grumbling sound came from the house. Mrs. Bear says, says she, 'I wonder where he goes every day, with his hair combed so slick?' Grumble in the house. 'You'd better wish you looked half as nice,' says Mrs. Bear. Grumble in the house. 'Well, I don't care if he is a grand rascal, he looks nice and clean, and that's more than anybody can say about you,' says Mrs. Bear. Growl in the house. Mrs. Bear says, says she, 'Oh, you can rip and rear, but Brother Rabbit goes about with his head combed, and he looks lots better that way than them that go about with rat nests in their hair -- lots better.'"

Here Brother Rabbit chuckled again. "I thought to myself, thinks I, that I'd better be getting on toward home, and so I crept back up the fence and went on my way.

"The next day as I was going along the road, who should I meet but old Brother Bear himself. Well, here's a row, thinks I, but it didn't turn out so. Brother Bear was just as polite to me as I had been to his old woman.

"We passed the time of day and talked about the crops a little while, but I could see that Brother Bear had something serious on his mind. Finally, he shuffled around and sat down on a stump beside the roadside.

"'Brother Rabbit,' he says, says he, 'how in the world do you manage to keep your hair so slick and smooth all the time? My old woman sees you passing by every day, and she's been worrying the life out of me because I don't keep my hair combed that way. So I said to myself I'd ask you the very next time I met you.'

"Brother Bear was looking pretty rough and tough, and so I says, says I, 'You look as if she had been tousling you about it.'

"He hung his head at this, and shuffled around and changed his seat. Says he: 'No, it's not so bad as all that, but I want to ask you plump and plain, if it's a fair question, how you comb your hair so it will stay nice?'

"I looked at him and shook my head. Says I, 'Brother Bear, I don't comb my hair.'

"He was so much surprised that he opened his mouth, and his tongue hung out on one side -- a big, red tongue that had known the taste of innocent blood."

"That's the truth!" exclaimed Mrs. Meadows.

Sweetest Susan shuddered.

"Says he, 'Brother Rabbit, if you don't comb your hair, how in the wide world do you keep it so smooth?'"

"Says I, 'Easy enough. Every morning my old woman takes the axe and chops my head off -- '"

"Oh!" cried Sweetest Susan.

"'Takes the axe and chops off my head,'" Mr. Rabbit continued, as solemn as a judge, "'and carries it out in the yard, where she can have light to see and room to work, and then she combs it and combs it until every kink comes straight and every hair is in its place. Then she brings my head back, puts it where it belongs, and there it is -- all combed.'

"Brother Bear seemed to be very much astonished. Says he, 'Doesn't it hurt, Brother Rabbit?'

"Says I, 'Hurt who? I'm no chicken.'

"Says he, 'Doesn't it bleed?'

"Says I, 'No more than enough to make my appetite good.'"

Mr. Rabbit paused and looked up at the ripples of light and shade that were chasing each other across the sky in Mr. Thimblefinger's queer country. Then he looked at the children.

"The upshot of it was," he continued, "that Brother Bear went home and told Mrs. Bear how I had my head combed every day. Woman-like, she wanted to try it at once; so Brother Bear laid his head on a log of wood, and Mrs. Bear got the axe and raised it high in the air. Brother Bear had just time to squall out, 'Cut it off easy, old woman!' when the axe fell on his neck, and there he was!"

"Oh, did it kill him?" cried Sweetest Susan.

"That's what the neighbors said," replied Mr. Rabbit placidly.

Sweetest Susan didn't seem to be at all pleased. Seeing this, Mrs. Meadows exclaimed: -- 

"To think of the poor little pigs Brother Bear killed and ate!"

"Yes," said Mr. Rabbit, "and the lambs!"

"Worse than that!" cried Mr. Thimblefinger. "Think of the little children he devoured! Think of it!"

"I'm glad he had his head cut off," said Buster John heartily.

"Me too, honey," assented Drusilla.



XII.

A Singing-Match.


After telling how Brother Bear learned to comb his hair, Mr. Rabbit closed his eyes and seemed to be about to fall into a doze, as old people have been known to do. During the pause that followed, Sweetest Susan saw what appeared to be a bird of peculiar shape sailing around in the sky of Mr. Thimblefinger's queer country.

It was long of body and seemed to have no wings, and yet it sailed about overhead as majestically and easily as an eagle could have done.

"What sort of a bird is it?" inquired Sweetest Susan, pointing out the object to Mrs. Meadows.

"Now, really, I don't know," was the reply. "They are so high in the sky and I've seen them so often that I've never bothered my head about them."

Mr. Thimblefinger climbed on the back of a chair, so as to get a better view of the curious bird, but he shook his head and climbed nimbly down again. The queer bird was too much for Mr. Thimblefinger. Mr. Rabbit opened his eyes lazily and looked at it.

"If I'm not much mistaken -- " he started to say, but Drusilla broke in without any ceremony: -- 

"'T ain't nothin' 't all, but one er dem ar meller bugs what swims roun' in de spring."

"Why, I expect it is a mellow bug," said Mrs. Meadows, laughing. "I used to catch them when I was a girl and put them in my handkerchief. They smell just like a ripe apple."

"I thought it was a buzzard," said Buster John.

"No," remarked Mr. Rabbit, "I used to be well acquainted with Brother Buzzard, and when he's in the air he's longer from side to side than he is from end to end. I don't know when I've thought of Brother Buzzard before. I never liked him much, but I used to see him sailing around on sunshiny days, or sitting in the top of a dead pine drying his wings after a heavy rain. He cut a very funny figure sitting up there, with his wings spread out and drooping like a sick chicken.

"I remember the time, too, when he had a singing-match with Brother Crow, and I nearly laughed myself to death over it."

"Oh, tell us about it," cried Buster John.

"There's nothing in it when it is told," replied Mr. Rabbit. "There are some things that are funny when you see them, but not funny at all when you come to tell about them."

"We don't mind that," said Sweetest Susan.

"I don't know exactly how it came about," resumed Mr. Rabbit, after a pause, "but as near as I can remember, Brother Buzzard and Brother Crow met with each other early one morning in a big pine-tree. They howdied, but there was a sort of coolness between them on account of the fact that Brother Buzzard had been going about the neighborhood making his brags and his boasts that he could outfly Brother Crow. They hadn't been up in the tree very long before they began to dispute. Brother Buzzard was not a very loud talker in those days, whatever he may be now, but Brother Crow could squall louder than a woman who has been married twenty-two years. And so there they had it, quarreling and disputing and disturbing the peace."

"What were they quarreling about?" Buster John inquired.

"Well," replied Mr. Rabbit, "you know the road that leads to Brag is the shortest route to Bluster. Brother Buzzard and Brother Crow were quarreling because they had been bragging, and a little more and they'd have had a regular pitched battle then and there.

"'Maybe you can outfly me, Brother Buzzard,' says Mr. Crow, 'but I'll be bound you can't outsing me.'

"'I have never tried,' says Brother Buzzard, says he.

"'Well, suppose you try it now,' says Brother Crow. 'I'll go you a fine suit of clothes, and a cocked hat to boot, that I can sit here and sing longer than you can,' says he.

"'Oh, ho!' says Brother Buzzard, 'you may sing louder, but you can't sing longer than I can,' says he.

"'Is it a go?' says Brother Crow.

"'It's a go,' says Brother Buzzard, says he.

"'It's no fair bet,' says Brother Crow, 'because you are a bigger man than I am, and it stands to reason that you have got more wind in your craw than I have, but I shall give you one trial if I split my gizzard,' says he.

"Yes," remarked Mr. Rabbit, scratching his head thoughtfully, "those were the very words he used -- 'if I split my gizzard,' says he. Well, they shook hands to ratify the bet, and then Brother Crow, without making any flourishes, raised the tune, -- 

"'Oh, Susy, my Susy, gangloo! Oh, Milly, my Molly, langloo!'

"Then Brother Buzzard flung his head back and chimed in, -- 

"'Oh, Susy, my Susy, gangloo! Oh, Milly, my Molly, langloo!'

and such another racket as they made I never heard before, and have never heard since."

"Why, what kind of a song was it?" inquired Sweetest Susan. "I'm sure I never heard such a song."

"Well," replied Mr. Rabbit, "you are young and I am old, but you know just as much about that song as I do, and maybe more than I do, for you haven't been pestered with it as long as I have. It is a worse riddle to me than it was the day I heard it."

"What did they do then?" asked Buster John.

"Well," Mr. Rabbit replied, "they sat there and sang just as I told you. Brother Buzzard would stop to catch his breath and then break out, -- 

"'Oh, Susy, my Susy, gangloo! Oh, Milly, my Molly, langloo!'

and then Brother Crow would squall out, -- 

"'Oh, Susy, my Susy, gangloo! Oh, Milly, my Molly, langloo!'

"They sang on until they began to get hungry, and as Brother Buzzard seemed to be the biggest and fattest of the two, everybody thought he would hold out the longest. But Brother Crow was plucky, and he sang right along in spite of the emptiness in his craw. He didn't squall as loud as he did at first, but every time Brother Buzzard sang, Brother Crow would sing, too. By and by, they both began to get very weak.

"At last, as luck would have it, Brother Crow saw his wife flying over, and he sang out as loud as he could: -- 

"'Oh, Susy! -- Go tell my children -- my Susy, -- to bring my dinner -- gangloo! -- and tell them -- oh, Milly, my Molly, -- to bring it quickly -- langloo!'

"It wasn't very long after that before all Brother Crow's family connections came flying to help him, and as soon as they found out how matters stood they brought him more victuals than he knew what to do with. Brother Buzzard held out as long as he could, but he was obliged to give up, and since that time there has been mighty little singing in the Buzzard family.

"But that isn't all," remarked Mr. Rabbit, as solemnly as if he were pointing a moral. "Since that time Brother Crow, who was dressed in white, has been wearing the black suit that he won from Brother Buzzard."

"Speaking of singing birds," said Mr. Thimblefinger, turning to Mrs. Meadows, "what is that song I used to hear you humming about a little bird?"

"Oh, it's just a nonsense song," replied Mrs. Meadows. "It has no beginning and no ending."

But the children said they wanted to hear it, anyhow, and so Mrs. Meadows sang about -- 


The Little Bird.

There was once a little Bird so full of Song That he sang in the Rose-Bush the whole Night long.

And "Oh," said the Redbird to the Jay, "Don't you wish you could sit and sing that way?" "Mercy, no!" said the Jay; "for he sings too late; I sing well enough for to please my Mate."

There was once a little Bird so full of Song That he sang in the Rose-Bush the whole Night long.

Then "Oh," said the Redbird to the Crow, "Don't you wish you could sit and sing just so?" "Do hush," said the Crow, "or I'll start for to weep, Be -- caw -- caw -- cause he's a-losing of his sleep."

There was once a little Bird so full of Song That he sang in the Rose-Bush the whole Night long.

And "Oh," said the Redbird to the Wren, "Don't you wish you could sing so now and then?" "Not me," said the Wren as she shook her Head; "I think his Mamma ought to put him to Bed."

But the Singing Bird was so full of Glee That he sang all night in the Rose-Bush Tree.



XIII.

The Strawberry-Girl.


"Isn't it almost time for us to start home?" said Sweetest Susan, turning to Mr. Thimblefinger.

"Why, you've got all the afternoon before you," replied Mr. Thimblefinger. "Besides it will be downhill all the way. I was just going to tell you a story, but if you really want to go I'll put off the telling of it until some of your grandchildren tumble in the spring when the wet water has run out and the dry water has taken its place."

"Tell the story, please," said Buster John.

"It's about a girl," remarked Mr. Thimblefinger. "She was called the Strawberry-Girl. My mother knew the girl well, and I've heard her tell the story many a time. But if you want to go home -- "

"Oh, please tell the story," cried Sweetest Susan.

"Well," said Mr. Thimblefinger; "once there was an old woman who lived in the woods. She lived all alone, and people said she was a witch. She was so old that the skin on her forehead had deep wrinkles in it, and these wrinkles caused everybody to think that the old woman was frowning all the time. People called her Granny Grim-Eye.

"Whenever Granny Grim-Eye got hungry she went to a strawberry-patch in the field near where she lived, and gathered a basket of strawberries. One day when she went after strawberries she found a beautiful little girl asleep in the patch.

"'Hity-tity!' said Granny Grim-Eye, 'what are you doing here? Where did you come from, and where are you going?'

"The little girl awoke and stared at Granny Grim-Eye. She was tied to a blackberry-bush by a silver chain so fine that the links of it could hardly be seen with the naked eye. 'Who are you?' asked Granny Grim-Eye.

"'Nothing nor nobody,' replied the little girl, and that was all the answer Granny Grim-Eye could get from the child.

"'Well,' said Granny Grim-Eye, 'this is my strawberry-patch, and everything I find in it belongs to me. I'll take you home and see what I can make out of you.'

"So she took the girl home and cared for her, giving her the name of the Strawberry-Girl. In the course of time the Strawberry-Girl grew to be the most beautiful young woman in the country, but her mind was not bright. In fact, I have heard my mother say that the Strawberry-Girl was as stupid and as silly as she could be, but she was so beautiful that people were inclined to forgive her for being stupid.

"Granny Grim-Eye used to send her with strawberries to sell to the rich man who owned nearly all the land in that part of the country. Now, this rich man fell in love with the Strawberry-Girl, but when he found that she was both stupid and silly he gave up all thought of marrying her. He was very fond of her, nevertheless, and bought all the berries she had for sale. But when she began to talk he would turn away with a sigh, for everything she said was stupid.

"It so happened one day that Granny Grim-Eye was too sick to pick the strawberries herself, as she always had done, and she was afraid to trust the Strawberry-Girl to pick them. But the rich man sent word that he was to have a company of friends to dinner and he must have some strawberries. There was nothing for Granny Grim-Eye to do but to send the Strawberry-Girl to the patch. Granny Grim-Eye called her up and cautioned her not to pick anything but good, ripe strawberries, and then sent her off to the patch.

"But on the way the Strawberry-Girl saw some red berries growing on bushes, and these she picked and put in the basket until it was full. 'These are just as red as ripe strawberries,' she said, 'and they will do just as well. Besides, they are a great deal easier to pick.'

"The way to the rich man's house led through a very thick wood, and while the Strawberry-Girl was going through this wood a little old man stepped from a hollow tree and stood in the path before her.

"'Aha!' says he, 'I find you alone at last. Where are you going, and what have you got?'

"'I am carrying some strawberries to your master,' says the Strawberry-Girl, who imagined that the rich man was everybody's master.

"'My master!' cries the little old man; 'my master! But if he were my master, and I wanted to get rid of him, I'd not get in your path, for every berry in your basket is rank poison.'

"'Well, anyhow, they are red,' says the stupid Strawberry-Girl.

"'So they are,' says the little old man. 'But if you want to kill your master carry them to him.'

"'Oh, I don't want to kill him,' says the Strawberry-Girl. 'He pays too well.'

"'Once you belonged to me,' says the little old man. 'I tied you to a blackberry-bush with a fine silver chain, and left you there until I could attend to some business in the city. When I came back you were gone. I hunted for you high and low only to hear that you had been found by Granny Grim-Eye. What is the result? You have grown up beautiful and stupid. After all these years you don't know a strawberry from a dragon's-apple. If you had remained with me you would have grown to be the most beautiful as well as the wittiest woman in the world. You would have known everything that is hidden in nature -- everything that has been stored between the lids of all the books. It is a great pity!'

"'Yes,' says the stupid Strawberry-Girl, 'I expect it is; but what must I do with these berries? I haven't time to pick more.'

"'Well,' says the little old man, 'I'll make a bargain with you. I'll fill your basket with the finest berries that were ever seen, and I'll make you the wittiest woman in the world if at the end of one year you will marry me.'

"The stupid Strawberry-Girl gave her promise, and then the little old man touched her on the forehead with his left thumb, pointed at a bright star with his right forefinger, and then went back to his hollow tree, warning the girl not to forget her promise.

"When she looked in the basket the red dragon's-apples had disappeared, and in their place she saw the finest strawberries that had ever been grown. These she carried to the rich man, who was as much surprised at the size and lusciousness of the berries as his guests were at the extraordinary beauty of the young girl. They praised her beauty to their host, who shook his head and said that beauty ceased to be beautiful when it was tied to stupidity. The guests, however, would not believe that so beautiful a creature could be stupid, and to satisfy them the rich man sent for the girl and engaged her in conversation. Her replies were so wise, so apt, and so witty, as to astound all the company, while the rich man was dumfounded with astonishment.

"After that, when the Strawberry-Girl came with berries for sale, the rich man always sent for her, and her wit and intelligence were so pleasing to him that he finally asked her to be his wife. But she remembered the bargain she had made with the little old man who had met her in the wood, and she told the rich man that she would have to take time to consider his proposal.

"She was very much worried. She fretted until she began to lose some of her beauty, and when Granny Grim-Eye saw this she began to ask questions, and it was not long before she found out all about the bargain the Strawberry-Girl had made with the little Old Man of the Wood.

"'Oho!' she cried. 'He is up to his old tricks, is he? Well, we shall see!'

"So she went to her chest and got the silver chain with which the Strawberry-Girl had been fastened to the blackberry-bush, and wrapped and twined it in the shape of a star. This star she fixed on the Strawberry-Girl's forehead by means of a velvet band, and told her to wear it constantly.

"It happened that on the very day the year expired the Strawberry-Girl was walking through the wood. The little old man jumped from his hollow tree and ran forward to claim his bride. But when he saw the star shining on her forehead he gave a loud cry, threw his hands before his eyes, and turned and fled through the wood faster than any deer could have done. Nobody ever saw him again, and the Strawberry-Girl married the rich man and lived happily for many long years."

"I think that is a nice story," said Sweetest Susan.

"I'm glad you do," remarked Mr. Thimblefinger. "My mother knew all the facts in the case, and I've heard her tell it many a time. I may have left out some of the happenings, but these and many others you can supply for yourself."



XIV.

The Witch Of The Well.


While Mr. Thimblefinger was telling the story of the Strawberry-Girl, Chickamy Crany Crow and Tickle-My-Toes had drawn near to listen. Chickamy Crany Crow stood near Mrs. Meadows, and seemed to be very much interested. When Mr. Thimblefinger had concluded, she would have gone away, but Mrs. Meadows detained her.

"No," said Mrs. Meadows, as Chickamy Crany Crow tried to pull her hand away; "you must stay right here and tell the children the story of the Witch of the Well."

"They know it already," said Chickamy Crany Crow, trying to hide behind Mrs. Meadows's chair.

"No, we don't," exclaimed Buster John. "We know the old rhyme about

"'Chickamy, Chickamy Crany Crow, Went to the well to wash her toe, And when she came back her chicken was gone.'

That's the rhyme we say in the game, but we never heard the story."

"I can't tell it to so many," said Chickamy Crany Crow.

"Well, tell it to me, then," replied Mrs. Meadows coaxingly. "The rest won't listen any more than they can help."

"Well," said Chickamy Crany Crow, "one time there was an old woman that lived near a well. For a long time nobody thought she was a witch, but after a while people began to have their suspicions. There was a quagmire in the road right in front of the old woman's house, and every traveler passing that way was sure to get mud on his feet. No matter whether he was riding horseback or in a buggy, it was all the same. He was sure to get his feet muddy. And the mud was so black, and thick, and heavy, that he was anxious to get it off as soon as possible.

"It happened, too, that every time a traveler crossed the quagmire, after getting the black, heavy mud on his feet, the old woman would be sitting in her door smoking a cob pipe.

"'Howdy, dearie!' she would say. 'Why, you're full of nasty mud! Go to the well yonder, dearie, and wash it off.'

"The traveler would leave his buggy and horse, or his horse and saddle, or his bundle at the old witch's door, and go to the well to wash his feet. When he came back everything would be gone, -- witch, horse, buggy, saddle, or bundle. The quagmire would be dried up, and the road itself would seem to be a different road. Sometimes it would be days and days before the traveler could find his way to the place where he started.

"One day a traveler came along the road in a fine carriage. With him he had a beautiful little girl with long golden hair. She had eyes as blue and as clear as the water in the spring when the sunshine slants through, and her skin was as white as milk. When the carriage had crossed the quagmire, the traveler found that his feet were covered with the black, heavy mud. He couldn't imagine how it had happened. There was no hole in the bottom of the carriage, the door was shut tight, and there was no way for the mud to get in. He said to the little girl: -- 

"'Daughter, are your feet muddy?'

"'Not a bit, father.'

"When the carriage crossed the quagmire, there sat the old woman in the door.

"'Howdy, dearie!' says she. 'And how did you get the nasty mud on your feet? Yonder is a well; leave your carriage here and go wash it off.'

"So the traveler kissed his daughter, for he was very fond of her, and went to the well to wash his feet. When he came back, daughter, carriage, and old woman had all disappeared. He wandered around like a crazy man for many days, and at last came to where my mother lived and told his story. This wasn't the first time she had heard such a tale, and she concluded to see what the matter was. So she called me and gave me a black chicken and told me to go by the old woman's house and see what happened.

"I took the chicken, which was tied by the legs, and went along the road until I came to the quagmire. I tried to pick my way around it, but the black mud bubbled up and flew at my feet, and finally it became so thick and heavy I could scarcely walk. When I got across, there sat the old woman smoking her cob pipe and grinning.

"'Howdy, dearie!' says she.

"'Howdy, granny!' says I.

"'Leave your fat chicken here,' says she, 'and go to yonder well and wash your toe.'

"'Thanky, granny; that I will,' says I.

"So I went to the well, but when I came back my chicken was gone. And so was the old woman, and the quagmire. But I didn't get frightened. I went back to the well and began to sing, -- 

"'Chickamy, Chickamy Crany Crow, I went to the well to wash my toe, But when I came back my chicken was gone --  What o'clock, old witch?'

"I hadn't been there long before the mud began to bubble up again, and out of it came the old witch. And then what seemed to be a thick mist cleared away, and there was the old witch's house, and inside I could see the beautiful little girl crying for her father. I intended to run home and tell what I had seen, but before I could move out of my tracks I heard the old woman coming to the well. In coming up out of the quagmire she had got mud on her feet. She had pulled off her shoes for comfort, and had been going about in her stocking-feet, and of course when she disappeared in the quagmire, and came up through it again, her stockings were full of mud; and so she came to the well to wash them.

"I didn't know whether to run or stay, but I stayed, and as soon as the old woman got in sight, I sat on the ground and began to rock my body backwards and forwards, crying, -- 

"'Oh, mercy me! Oh, what shall I do? I can't get the black mud off of my shoe!'

"The old woman seemed to be very angry when she first saw me, but I pretended to pay no attention to her. I just rocked backwards and forwards, and cried that I couldn't get the black mud off of my shoe. The old woman sat down and pulled off her stockings, and began to wash them. When she had finished one, she threw it behind her on the grass to dry. Being wet and heavy it fell farther from her hand than she intended. It fell close to me, and I picked it up and stuffed it in my pocket."

"What for?" asked Buster John bluntly.

"Well, I hardly know," replied Chickamy Crany Crow, somewhat embarrassed at the suddenness of the question. "I wanted to get even with her for stealing my fat chicken. I hardly knew what I was doing, and I certainly didn't know how it would turn out. Well, I stuffed the old woman's wet stocking in my pocket, and kept on crying out that I didn't know how to get the black mud off of my shoe.

"'Do as I do,' said the old woman. Then I went and sat on the grass in front of her, and washed the mud from my shoe.

"For the first time I saw what a horrible-looking creature the old woman was. Her eyes were sunk in her head, her nose was hooked over her mouth, and she had two long upper teeth that hung lower than her under lip. I says to myself, 'Well, old lady, if you are not a witch, there never was one.' She washed her stocking, mumbling and chewing, and when she had finished she threw it behind her, and sat hugging her knees, and glaring at me in a way that made my flesh crawl.

"'What is your name?' says she.

"'Chickamy Crany Crow,' says I.

"'What are you doing here?' says she.

"Says I, 'I went to the well to wash my toe, but when I came back my chicken was gone.'

"Then the old woman began to laugh like a cackling hen, and she laughed so loud and laughed so long that it scared me. I got up and pretended to be going home, but when I had gone a little way I hid behind a big tree, and watched the old woman's antics. She kept on laughing for some time, and then she reached out for her stockings. She found the only one she had left, and put it on. Then she reached around for the other, but failed to find it, because I had it in my pocket. This seemed to puzzle her. She stood up and looked all around for her missing stocking, but it wasn't there. Then she sat down again, pulled off the stocking she had on, and put it on the other foot.

"But she still lacked a stocking. This seemed to puzzle the old witch worse than ever. Once more she pulled off the stocking and put it on the other foot, and appeared to be very much astonished because one foot was still bare."

"She couldn't 'a' had much sense!" exclaimed Drusilla.

"Not about stockings and things like that," said Chickamy Crany Crow. "Well, she sat there, pulling the stocking from one foot and putting it on the other, until she seemed to forget about everything else. I watched her until I got tired, and then I thought I would take her missing stocking and throw it in the quagmire.

"The moment I did this, the quagmire began to bubble, and hiss, and roll, and toss and tumble about, and soon it disappeared altogether. A little fog arose when the quagmire sank out of sight, and when this cleared away, there stood the carriage that had brought the beautiful little girl with the golden hair, and the little girl herself was sitting in it, ready to go to her father. But this wasn't all. All around, there were numbers of horses and buggies, and all sorts of bundles and money-purses, and everything that travelers carry along with them.

"Well, I got in the carriage with the beautiful little girl, clucked to the horses, and drove to my mother's house. All the horses with saddles, and all the horses hitched to buggies, followed along after us, and there was great rejoicing among the people as we went by."

"What became of the old witch?" asked Buster John.

"She stayed there, trying to make one stocking do for two feet, until the well dried up, and after that I don't know what became of her."

"You ought to have been a young man," said Sweetest Susan, who had been reading fairy stories, "so that you could have married the beautiful girl with golden hair, after rescuing her. Besides, your name would have been in the books."

"Oh," answered Chickamy Crany Crow, smiling for the first time, "there are plenty of names in the books that you never hear of; but now, wherever little children get together to play games, you will hear them saying the rhyme that tells a part of my story, -- 

"'Chickamy, Chickamy Crany Crow, Went to the well to wash her toe, But when she got back her chicken was gone.'"



XV.

The Bewitched Huntsman.


"There used to be a great many more witches than there are now," remarked Mr. Thimblefinger. "I reckon it's because folks have more business of their own to attend to; or, it may be a change in the climate. I hear old people say that the winters are colder now than they used to be, and the summers hotter. Maybe that has something to do with it. Anyhow, something has happened to thin the witches out."

"Yes," said Mr. Rabbit; "I've noticed that they are scarcer than they used to be, but I never inquired into the whys and wherefores. They never bothered me, and I never bothered them."

"Well, when I first came here," said Mr. Thimblefinger, "I noticed Jimmy Jay-Bird bringing sand and mortar every Friday, and it occurred to me that he was preparing to lay the foundations of a witch's house in this country. So I says to myself, says I, 'I'll keep an eye on Jimmy, and see where he gets in and out; for, surely, he doesn't come by way of the spring.' But Jimmy Jay-Bird was pretty slick, and it was some time before I found out where he came down and went out. By some means or other, he had discovered the big hollow poplar on the spring branch, and he was coming and going that way."

"I know where it is," said Buster John.

"Yes," replied Mr. Thimblefinger. "It is the oldest and the biggest tree in the whole country next door. But as soon as I found that Jimmy Jay-Bird was using it as a passageway, I drove a peg in the hole and put an end to his schemes, whatever they may have been. I don't know where he carries his sand and mortar now, and I don't care.

"But I didn't start out to tell anything about Jimmy Jay-Bird," continued Mr. Thimblefinger, after pausing a moment. "I was thinking about the way a witch was caught by a boy no bigger and not much older than our young friend here."

"Tell us about it, please!" cried Buster John enthusiastically.

"Well," said Mr. Thimblefinger, "it's not much of a story. You can't take a handful of facts and make a story of them unless you know how to fling them together. The best I can do is to tell it just as it happened as near as I can remember.

"When I was a little bit of a fellow -- now don't laugh!" cried Mr. Thimblefinger, seeing Mr. Rabbit wink at Mrs. Meadows, -- "I mean when I was in my teens. Well, when I was younger than I am now, an old witch lived not far from our house. Her eyes were red around the rims, and her eyeballs looked as if they had been boiled. Everybody called her Peggy Pig-Eye, and she answered to that name about as well as she did to any other. Near her house there lived a man who had a wife and a son. He was a tolerably well-to-do man, and all the neighbors thought very well of him. But he used to go to town every sale-day, and at night he would come home feeling very gay. I don't know what there was in town to make him feel so gay, but I know that he used to come by our house singing at the top of his voice and cutting up all sorts of shines.

"Well, one night when he was going back home whooping and yelling, he saw something dark in the road before him, and he rode his horse at it full tilt. The horse seemed to have little taste for such sport, for he snorted and wanted to shy around the dark object. But the man clapped spurs to the horse and drove him right at it. The black thing ran, and the man spurred his horse after it. It ran down the road, then across an old field and back into the road again, the man pursuing it as hard as he could make his horse go. Finally it ran into Peggy Pig-Eye's yard and under her house, and the man went clattering after it. Just as he pulled his horse up (to keep the animal from running broadside into the house) the door opened, and Peggy Pig-Eye put her head out.

"'Oh, it's you, is it?' she cried. 'And you are after me, are you? Very well!' With that she clapped the door to, and the man rode on home, not feeling as lively as he had felt.

"Now, it happened that this man was a great hunter. He had a pack of fine dogs, and he was very fond of them. He hunted deer with them by day, and raccoons and 'possums by night. The first time he went hunting after riding into Peggy Pig-Eye's yard was at night. He didn't go very far from his house before his dogs struck a warm trail and went scurrying towards the big swamp at a great rate. A negro, who went along to carry the light and cut the tree down, shook his head and declared the dogs were not barking to suit him. He said there was more whine than growl to the noise they were making.

"Anyhow, the dogs went scurrying to the big swamp, and the man and the negro followed as fast as they could. The dogs treed right at the edge of the swamp, and when the man and the negro got there, they were barking up a big poplar. The negro held his torch behind him so as to 'shine' in the raccoon's eyes, -- if it was a raccoon, -- but he could see nothing.

"'Cut the tree down,' said the man.

"The negro shook his head, but he whacked away at the poplar with his axe, and cut it so that it would fall away from the swamp. The tree fell with a tremendous crash, and the dogs rushed into the top limbs, followed by the man and the negro. But before they could wink their eyes, something tall and white walked out, and cried: -- 

"'You are always after me!'

"The negro threw down the torch and the axe, and ran home as fast as he could. The dogs tried hard to catch the white thing, whatever it was, but as soon as they got near enough to bite it, they tucked their tails between their legs and ran howling back to their master.

"This happened every time the man went out to hunt raccoons and 'possums. The dogs would strike a warm trail not far from the house, run to the edge of the swamp, and bay up a tree, and then when the tree was cut down, something tall and white would walk from the top limbs, and cry out:

"'You are always after me!'

"The man thought it was very queer, but he wasn't frightened. He said to himself that if he couldn't catch raccoons and 'possums, maybe he could catch a fox. So he called up his dogs one morning just about day, mounted his horse, and started out to catch a fox. Before they had gone a hundred yards from the house, the dogs found a warm trail and began to follow it in lively style. The man spurred his horse after them and harked them on. They ran around in a wide circle, and presently something white flitted by the man, with the dogs after it in full cry. As it went by it screamed out: -- 

"'You are always after me!'

"Then it disappeared, and after a while the dogs came back, panting as hard as if they had run forty miles. The man went back home and sat by the fire and studied about it, and the more he studied the worse he was troubled. He sat so long without saying anything that his little boy asked him what the matter was, but the man shook his head, and said there were some things that children ought not to know. The boy was fourteen years old, and very small for his age, but he had plenty of sense, and was very brave. He told his mother that his father was in some deep trouble, and begged her to find out what it was, and tell him about it.

"So the little boy's mother set herself to work to find out what was troubling her husband. She pressed him so hard with questions that he finally told her about his strange adventures while out hunting. The wife was so frightened that she begged her husband not to go hunting any more, but to give up his dogs and attend to business that was not so dangerous.

"The man promised that he would hunt no more raccoons or 'possums or foxes, but he said he needed his dogs to hunt deer. The woman told her son all that her husband had said to her, and after that the little boy made it a habit to go off in the woods and sit at the foot of a big chestnut-tree, and wonder what it was that ran before his father's dogs.

"Matters went on this way until finally one day the man said he would go out and catch a deer. He called his dogs, especially Old Top, the oldest one of all. Top was a big hound, and hunted nothing else but deer, and he was never known to fail to run down and catch the deer he got after. Old Top went along when he was called, but it was very plain to the little boy, who was watching, that he didn't go willingly. Anyhow, Old Top went, though he looked back at the little boy and wagged his tail knowingly more than once.

"Before the hunter got out of hearing, the dogs struck a trail and pursued it in the direction of the big woods beyond the creek. For a long time the little boy listened to the dogs running. Sometimes they seemed to come nearer, and then they would go farther, and finally the sound of their trailing died away altogether.

"After waiting and listening for some time, the little boy went into the woods and sat at the foot of the chestnut-tree. While he was sitting there thinking, and watching the big black ants chase each other up and down the tree, he heard the bushes shake, and suddenly a little old man appeared before him.

"'Heyday!' said the little old man. 'You are too young to be thinking. Leave thoughts for old people; you should be at play.'

"'But sometimes,' replied the little boy, 'children have to think, too. It doesn't make my head ache to think.'

"'I see, I see!' exclaimed the little old man; 'your name is Three Wits. Three Wits, how are you? I hope you are well. You ought to have come here a little sooner. There is a famous hunt going on in these woods. It passed here awhile ago -- a fool on a frightened horse and seven crazy dogs galloping after Satan's sister. Oh, it is jolly! Stay where you are, Three Wits. This famous hunt will pass this way again directly, and you will have a plain view of it.'

"After a while the little boy heard the dogs coming, and presently he saw the strangest sight his eyes had ever beheld. Going through the woods as swift as the wind, he saw a great white Stag. On the back of the Stag, and holding to its antlers, was an old woman. She was grinning horribly, and her gray hair was streaming out behind her like a ragged banner. The Stag, bearing the old woman, rushed through the woods and disappeared. Then came the dogs in full cry, and after the dogs came the little boy's father, spurring his horse and yelling in the excitement of the chase.

"'What do you think of it, Three Wits?' asked the little old man, laughing.

"'I don't like it,' replied the boy. 'That man is my father.'

"'Your father!' cried the little old man. 'Oho! That alters the case. Well, well! Let's see -- let's see!'

"The little old man took from the wallet he had on his back a thick book with a red cover. Then he sat at the foot of the chestnut-tree and turned the well-thumbed leaves until he found the place he was hunting for. He closed the book, but kept his forefinger between the leaves, and took the little boy's hand in his."



XVI.

The Three Ivory Bobbins.


"The little old man took the boy's hand in his, but before he could say anything, a rustling was heard in the bushes. Presently, Old Top, the deerhound, made his appearance. He went up to the boy, smelt of him, wagged his tail as a sign of satisfaction, and then curled up in the leaves as if to take a nap. But he didn't go to sleep. Every once in awhile, Old Top raised his head and listened wistfully to the running dogs that could be heard in the distance.

"'A very sensible dog!' exclaimed the little old man. 'He knows something is wrong.'

"'What is it?' asked the boy.

"'Well, Three Wits,' said the little old man, 'I'll tell you. The man, the horse, and the dogs, are under a spell. They are bewitched, and they will continue to be bewitched until doomsday, unless the spell is broken. They will go round and round on the trail until they exhaust themselves, and then they will gradually grow thinner and thinner until they disappear; and then nothing will be heard but the barking of the dogs, and the sound of that will grow fainter and fainter, until no human ear can hear it. Now, the question is, Three Wits, do you wish the spell broken?'

"'I do,' replied the boy, 'for my mother's sake.'

"'Now that is well spoken,' said the old man, rising and laying his hand gently on the boy's head. 'For, behold, Three Wits, what is written in the book.'

"The old man opened the red volume and read as follows, pointing to each word with his finger: -- 

"'Whoever shall, for the sake of his mother, earnestly desire to break the spells worked by Paggia Paggiola, the Hunting-Witch, is in a way to have his desire fulfilled. For this is the indispensable condition. Moreover, he who hopes to succeed must have the innocence of youth and the courage of manhood. On his left arm there should grow a mole, and in this mole are three white hairs.'

"'I have the mole,' said the boy, opening his vest.

"Sure enough, there was the mole, and on the mole were growing three long white hairs as fine as silk. With a pair of silver tweezers that he found in his wallet, the little old man pulled the long white hairs from the mole. One by one he pulled them. One by one he ran them through his fingers, and one by one they seemed to grow longer and stronger, each time they were pulled through the little old man's swift-moving fingers.

"Then, searching in his wallet, he found three ivory bobbins; and on these he wound the long, strong, and silken hairs. He wound and wound, and as he wound he sang: -- 

"'Now on this bobbin I wind a hair, White, and silken, and long; I wind it slow, I wind it fair, Glossy, and white, and strong.

"'I wind it here in shade and sun, For one, one, one are three --  Three and no more where the stag shall run, Close by the chestnut-tree.

"'And one shall catch, and two shall hold, And three shall clamp and kill; Just say to your hand, Be steady and bold; And say to your heart, I will.'

"The boy was surprised to see, as the old man sang and wound, that the white hairs spun out into silver wires hundreds of feet long, and stronger than steel.

"'Take these, Three Wits,' said the old man, after he had finished winding the bobbins. 'Take these, and when the hunt runs this way again, fling one at the Stag, and one at the dogs, and one at the horse the huntsman rides. You must fling them quickly, one after the other. It is easy enough to miss the Stag, but you must not fail to catch the dogs. You may fail on the Stag and horse, but you must not fail on the dogs. Be strong. Brace yourself for three quick and hard throws.'

"Then they stood there listening; and presently Old Top, the deerhound, raised his head and whistled through his nose, the whistle ending in a whine.

"'They are coming now, Three Wits!' exclaimed the little old man. 'Get ready! Throw quick and hard! Don't be afraid!'

"In the distance, the baying of the dogs could be heard, and Old Top rose and shook himself and growled. In another moment the Stag, ridden by the grinning old woman, flitted past; but, quick as a flash, Three Wits threw the first bobbin, and he threw it so hard that it made a zooning sound in the air. The Stag made one tremendous bound and disappeared. The dogs came next, and Three Wits threw the second bobbin. It zooned through the air, and the silver wire unwound with a twanging sound, and fell full upon the panting and baying pack. It fell upon them, and wound itself about them, and smothered their cries, and held them fast in its glistening meshes.

"Then came the rushing horse and its furious rider. Three Wits threw the third bobbin, but the horse shied at the motion of the boy's hand, and flew through the woods in the direction taken by the Stag. When Three Wits saw both the Stag and the horse escape, he fell upon the ground and began to weep.

"'Hity-tity!' exclaimed the little old man, coming from behind the tree where he had concealed himself. 'What's this? Why, I was about to cry "Bravo!" and here I find you pretending to be a baby. Get up. If I am not mistaken you have accomplished even more than I expected you would. Let's see.'

"He lifted Three Wits to his feet, and then the two went to where the hunt had passed. At one point the dogs were entangled in the silver wire, and were unable to free themselves. A little farther in, they found a thick wisp of gray hair which the wire had cut from the head of the grinning old woman who rode the Stag. The little old man clapped his hands with delight and cut some joyful capers, for he was very nimble.

"'Good!' he exclaimed. 'Another half inch and you would have cut off her head instead of her hair! But where is the bobbin? I don't see the bobbin! We must have the bobbin!'

"Three Wits hunted, but he could find no bobbin. Then he caught hold of the wire, and found that it led into the woods the way the Stag had gone. He caught hold of it and followed it along, calling to the little old man. They followed the silver wire far into the woods, and finally they came to the end of it, and there was the Stag, strangled and dead. The weight of the bobbin had carried the wire around his body and around his neck, and the bobbin itself had caught in the fork of one of his antlers.

"The little old man seemed to be very happy. He patted Three Wits on the shoulder, and declared that he was a good boy, a fine boy. 'But there is more to be done,' said the little old man, -- 'a great deal more. And you will have to go alone. I can help you, but I can't be with you.'

"Then he found the ivory bobbins, rewound the silver wire, which seemed to spin out still longer, and gave them to Three Wits. 'Take these,' he said, 'and go to the witch's house.'

"'Do you mean Peggy Pig-Eye's house?' asked Three Wits.

"'Why, of course.' replied the little old man. 'Her right name, as you saw by the book, is Paggia Paggiola, but people call her Peggy Pig-Eye for short. Go to her house, throw one of the bobbins over the roof, and then throw one around each end. Throw quick and hard, and, as you throw, cry out, -- 

"'Bibbity bobbity bobbin, Go hibbity hob hobnobbin.'

"'But wait!' cried the little old man. 'You may need these dogs.' He took a wisp of the witch's hair, and whipped them back to life. And maybe you'll need a horse to ride. So he went into the woods where the Stag lay dead, and whipped him to his feet with the witch's hair.

"'This is your horse,' he said to Three Wits. But the boy was afraid to mount the Stag. 'Be bold!' cried the little old man; 'all depends on that! Give me your foot. There you are! Loop the silver wire over his horns, and touch him with the bobbin the way you want him to go. He'll carry you safely. Good-by! Be bold!'

"Following the little old man's directions, Three Wits was soon cantering down the road on the Stag's back. The dogs seemed to take everything for granted, and followed along after the Stag as readily as if he had been their master's horse. But travelers who chanced to be going along the road went into the wood when they saw a boy riding a big Stag. They were not used to such a queer sight.

"The spirits of Three Wits rose as he went along. Everything had turned out so happily, and the Stag moved along so gracefully and easily that Three Wits felt quite like a hero.

"He went ambling along the road, the people staring at him, until he came to the witch's house. Everything was quiet there. The windows and doors were closed, and the only sign of life about the place was a big black cat that sat on the water-shelf. Three Wits rode the Stag around the house three times. Then over the roof he threw a bobbin. To the right he threw another, and to the left another. The silver wire seemed to whirl until it became a tangle of wire all over the house. The big black cat made an attempt to escape, but it was caught in the wire as a fly is caught in a spider's web, and it hung helpless by the water-shelf.

"And then a very wonderful thing happened. The silver wire seemed to become so heavy that the roof of the house couldn't bear its weight. The cabin swayed, and finally the roof fell in with a crash. Out of the dust and wreck walked the father of Three Wits, leading his horse, and, following him, came a dozen or more elegantly dressed gentlemen whom Three Wits had never seen before. They shook hands with the boy and thanked him for coming to their rescue, and each gave him a large sum of gold, so that when they started on their way home, Three Wits found that he was very rich. As for the father, he seized Three Wits in his arms and embraced him again and again, and declared that even a king might be proud to have such a brave son.

"While they were talking, the little old man came out of the wood. He went straight to Three Wits, placed his hand on the boy's head, and seemed to be blessing him. Then he lifted Three Wits from the Stag's back, mounted in his place, waved his hand twice, and, in a twinkling, had disappeared in the wood. That was the end of the witch, and this is the end of the story."

"Well, I think it is a very good story," said Buster John.

"I think so, too," remarked Sweetest Susan; "but I'm sorry there was no little girl in it."



XVII.

"Keen-Point," "Cob-Handle," And "Butch."


"The three bobbins," said Mrs. Meadows, "remind me of a circumstance -- "

"Is a circumstance a story?" interrupted Sweetest Susan.

"Oh, you mustn't mind my country talk," replied Mrs. Meadows, laughing. "It was a trick of my tongue. I didn't want to say 'story' because you might be disappointed. But I reckon I may as well call it a story. Well, as I was saying, the three bobbins remind me of a story that was partly about a little girl."

"I know it must be a nice story," cried Sweetest Susan enthusiastically.

But Mrs. Meadows shook her head. "From all I can hear," she said, "matters and things in general are a great deal nicer in books than they are outside of books. Folks are folks, anyway you can fix them, I don't care what the books say. But I'll not deny that in my day and time I have seen folks mighty near as nice and as pretty as those you read about in the books, and one of these was the little girl I am going to tell you about.

"Once upon a time, in the country where I then lived, -- and I've lived in a good many countries, for wherever you find mountains, hills, and rivers, there you'll find the Meadows family, -- there was a little girl who was both beautiful and good. She was not as good nor as beautiful as those you read about in the books, but she was good enough for the people who knew her. For a wonder she didn't have long golden hair. Her hair was black, and curled about her head in the loveliest way; and her eyes were large and brown, and her skin creamy white, with just the shadow of rose color in her face. Her parents were rich and proud, but they were prouder of their little girl than they were of their money, as well they might be, seeing that she was the smartest and most beautiful child to be found in all the country round."

"Were there no princes and castles in that country?" inquired Sweetest Susan.

"Oh, dear, no!" replied Mrs. Meadows. "The folks were just plain, common, every-day people. Those that were fortunate enough to be honest and contented were much better off than any princes you ever heard of; and a hut where happiness lives is a much finer place than the finest castle.

"Well, as I was telling you, the parents of this little girl with black curly hair were very proud of her. They watched over her very carefully, and neglected nothing that would make her happy and contented. Some little girls that I have known would have been spoiled by so much kindness and attention, but this little girl with the black curly hair wasn't spoiled at all. She was as good as she was beautiful.

"One day, when this little girl was walking in the flower garden, she heard the gardener talking to his wife through the iron fence. The woman's voice was so pleasant and her laugh so cheerful that the little girl ran to the fence and peeped through to see who it was. The gardener's wife saw her, and at once began to pet her and make much of her. The little girl wanted the woman to come into the garden, and seemed to be so much in earnest about it that the woman promised she would come and be the child's nurse some day.

"No sooner had the gardener's wife gone about her business than the little girl ran and told her mother that she must have a nurse. At first her mother paid little attention to her, thinking that it was the passing whim of a child, but the little girl insisted, until finally her mother said: -- 

"'Who shall be your nurse? You know, my dear, that you can't have everybody and anybody?'

"'Ask the gardener,' the little girl replied. 'He knows.'

"'And how does he know?' the mother asked.

"'I saw him talking with her,' the little girl replied.

"So, after a time, the gardener was called, and then it was found that his wife was the person the little girl had selected to be her nurse. The father and mother hesitated for some time before they would consent to send for the woman, but finally she came, and they were so much struck by her pleasant manners and cheerful disposition that they were quite willing to employ her.

"For a long time after that the little girl and her nurse were never separated except when the nurse would go home to see her husband and her son, who was a handsome boy about fourteen years old. The little girl used to grieve so when her nurse left her that on one occasion, when the woman was going home for only an hour or so, she carried the child with her. There the little girl saw the handsome son of her nurse, and they were both very much pleased with each other. In the little time she stayed, the boy showed her a hundred new games, and told her a great many stories she had never heard before."

"How old was the little girl?" Mr. Thimblefinger inquired.

"Between seven and eight," replied Mrs. Meadows "Just old enough to be cute. Well, in the little time they were together the boy and girl grew to be very fond of each other. The boy thought she was the daintiest and prettiest creature he had ever seen, and the little girl thought the boy was all that a boy should be.

"Of course, when the little girl went back home again she talked of nothing else but the boy who had proved to be such a wonderful playmate. This set the child's mother to thinking, and she made up her mind that it wouldn't do for these children to see so much of each other. So she sent for the nurse and told her very kindly that she didn't think it would be prudent to carry the little girl to her house any more.

"The nurse agreed with the little girl's mother, but somehow she didn't relish the idea that her brave and handsome son wasn't good enough to play with anybody's daughter. She thought the matter over for several days, and finally decided that it would be better to give up her place as nurse. She was very fond of the little girl, but she was still fonder of her boy. So she ceased to be the child's nurse, and went to her own home.

"The little girl grieved day and night for her kind nurse. Nothing would console her. Her mother bought her a little pony, but she wouldn't ride it; wonderful dolls, but she wouldn't look at them; the finest cakes and candies, but she wouldn't eat them; the most beautiful dresses, but she wouldn't wear them. Matters went on in this way for I don't know how long, until, finally, one day the little girl's mother concluded to send for the nurse.

"Now it happened that on that particular day the little girl had made up her mind to go after her nurse. One day in each week, the gardener would open the big gates of the park in order to trundle away the trash and weeds that he had raked up. The little girl watched him open the gate, and then, when the gardener went for his wheelbarrow, she slipped out at the gate and went running across the fields.

"For a time the little girl was perfectly happy. She gave herself up to the pleasure of being alone, of being able to do as she chose, with no one to tell her not to do this or do that, or to say 'come here,' or 'go yonder.' So she went running across the fields, looking at the birds, and trying to catch butterflies, and singing to herself some of the beautiful songs that her nurse's son had taught her.

"Now it happened that when she ran out of the garden gate, in her haste to keep out of sight of the gardener, she went away from her nurse's house instead of going towards it. She had been kept so closely at home that she had no idea of the great world beyond the garden gate. She thought that all she had to do to get to her dear nurse's house was to go out at the gate and keep on going until she came to the place where there were two big trees, with a swing between them, and a little white house on the other side.

"So she went on her way, singing and skipping. When she grew tired she sat down to rest. When she grew thirsty she drank of the clear, cold water that ran through the fields. When she became hungry, she ate the berries that grew along the way. She was perfectly satisfied that she would soon come to her nurse's house. But the sun doesn't stop for grown people, much less for children, and the little girl soon found that night was coming on. The only thought she had was that her nurse's house had been moved farther away, and that by going straight ahead she would find it after a while.

"So she trudged along. When the sun was nearly down she saw an old man sitting in the shade of a tree. The little girl went straight towards him, made him a curtsey, as she had been taught to do, and said: -- 

"'Please, sir, where is my nurse's house?'

"The old man raised his head and glanced all around. 'I see no nurse's house,' he replied.

"Then, after a little while the old man said: 'My dear, give me a drink of water.'

"The little girl looked all around. 'I see no water,' she replied.

"'Well said, well said!' exclaimed the old man. 'You are very bright and very beautiful, therefore I'll give you some advice. There is a spring by yonder tree, but you must not drink the water. There is a pomegranate-tree growing by the spring, but you must eat none of the fruit.'

"Having said this, the old man slung his wallet over his back and went on his way. The little girl went to the spring and looked at the water. Then she looked at the beautiful red fruit growing on the pomegranate-tree. She was very thirsty, very hungry, and very tired. She thought to herself that the old man was very mean and stingy. 'He's afraid I'll muddy the water,' she said, 'and he wants all the pomegranates for himself.'

"Then she drank from the spring, and the water was very sweet and cool. She ate the fruit of the pomegranate-tree, and it was delicious. Then being tired, she stretched herself out on the grass and was soon sound asleep.

"Now it so happened," continued Mrs. Meadows, pretending to examine the stitches in Sweetest Susan's frock "that the spring and the pomegranate-tree were under a spell. They belonged to an old Conjurer who lived in a cave close by. In this cave he had a large bowl of water on a shelf, and near it, growing in a box, was a little pomegranate-bush. Whenever anybody drank from the spring, the water in the bowl would shake and tremble and become muddy; and whenever a pomegranate was pulled from the big bush by the spring, the little bush in the Conjurer's cave would bend and wave its limbs as if a gale were blowing.

"All this occurred when the little girl drank from the spring and pulled and ate one of the pomegranates; and by the time she was sound asleep, the Conjurer had come out of his cave and discovered her. He waited a little while, and then took the child and carried her to his cave, and it was many a long day before anybody, except the Conjurer himself, saw her again."

At this point Mrs. Meadows paused.



XVIII.

Mrs. Meadows Resumes Her Story.


The pause was occasioned by Mr. Rabbit. He had fallen into a doze while Mrs. Meadows was telling her story, and just as she came to the point where the Conjurer had lifted the little girl in his arms and carried her into his cave, Mr. Rabbit had dreamed that he was falling. His chair was tilted back a little, and he made such a mighty effort to keep himself from falling in his dream that he lost his balance and went over sure enough.

"I declare!" he exclaimed. "I ought to be ashamed of myself to be falling heels over head this way without any reason in the world, and right before company too. Wasn't there something in your story about falling?"

"Not a word!" replied Mrs. Meadows firmly.

"Well, well, well!" exclaimed Mr. Rabbit. "I'll try and keep my eyes open hereafter."

The children tried their best to keep from laughing at Mr. Rabbit's predicament, but Drusilla was finally compelled to give way to her desire, and then they all joined in, even Mr. Rabbit smiling somewhat grimly.

"Let me see," said Mrs. Meadows, after a while; "the last we heard of the little girl I was telling you about, the Conjurer had carried her into his cave?"

"Yes," answered Sweetest Susan; "and now I want to know what became of her."

"Well," said Mrs. Meadows, "the shortest way to tell you that is the best way. It happened that on the very day the little girl ran away to visit her nurse, the nurse had concluded to visit the little girl. So she put on her best things and went to the little girl's home. When the woman came to the garden she saw the gate open, and presently her husband, the gardener, came out trundling a load of weeds and trash in his wheelbarrow. She asked about the little girl.

"'She was playing under the trees yonder awhile ago,' said the man. 'I haven't seen her since.'

"The woman went into the garden and searched among the trees and arbors, but no little girl could she find.

"'Having come so far,' she said to herself, 'I'll not go back without seeing the precious little creature.' So she went towards the house, searching for the child. She inquired of every servant she met where the little girl was, and finally went into the house searching for her. At last she came to the room where sat her former mistress. But the child was not there.

"In a very short while there was a tremendous uproar in the place. The maid servants and the men servants went running about through the house, through the yard, and through the garden, calling the little girl. They hunted in every hole and corner, and in every nook and cranny, but the child was not to be found.

"The kind-hearted nurse wept almost as bitterly as the mother. 'Oh, if I had been here,' she cried, 'this would never have happened.'

"The little girl's father came in just in time to hear this, and he immediately suspected that the nurse had stolen his daughter and would pretend to find her again in the hope of securing a reward. He said nothing of his suspicions, but he determined to have the nurse closely watched.

"He was so firmly convinced that his suspicion was correct that he treated his daughter's disappearance somewhat lightly, and this helped to console the mother. When it became certain that the little girl was not to be found in the house or on the place, her father called one of his trusty clerks (for he was a rich and powerful merchant), and told him to disguise himself as a peddler, go to the nurse's house, and there discover, if possible, where the nurse had bestowed the child.

"The clerk did as he was directed, but when he arrived at the nurse's house, disguised as a peddler, he was surprised to find as much grief under that humble roof as there was at his master's house. He knocked at the door and inquired the cause of the trouble, hoping to discover that the display of grief was a mere sham. But he soon saw it was genuine. Both the woman and her handsome son were weeping bitterly over the disappearance of the little girl.

"'May I get a bite to eat?' asked the peddler.

"'That you may!' exclaimed the woman, 'for we shall need nothing ourselves, until we hear some news of that precious child.' Then she told the peddler about the strange disappearance of the little girl she used to nurse, and the peddler, in order to carry out his purpose, asked a great many questions. When he was told that the parents of the little girl were very rich he laughed, and said that if they had plenty of money they could get along very well without a little girl, but this made the woman and her son so angry that they were on the point of showing the peddler the door. They were ready to dismiss him with many hard words, when they heard some one calling.

"The son went into the yard, and found that an old man had fallen not far from their gate and was unable to rise. The woman went to help her son bring the old man in, and while they were gone the peddler took his leave without so much as saying good-by.

"With a good deal of trouble the old man was brought into the house, and made comfortable, but no sooner had he been placed upon the woman's bed than he leaped to his feet and stood on the floor, laughing.

"'I have fallen at a dozen doors to-day,' he cried, 'and this is the first that has been opened to me.'

"'Well,' replied the woman, 'if we had known you were playing pranks on us I don't think this door would have opened to you. We are having too much trouble ourselves to pester with other people's troubles.'

"Then she went on to tell of the disappearance of the little girl she used to nurse. The old man tried to get in a word of consolation, now and then, but the woman talked too fast for that. But presently she had told about all she had to tell.

"'See how it turns out!' cried the old man. 'How can it be accident that brings to your door the only person in the world that can give you any tidings of the little girl? I saw a child to-day some miles from here who asked me to show her her nurse's house.'

"'Bless her dear little heart!' exclaimed the woman.

"'But she was in great danger,' said the old man. 'She was just about to enter the domain of Rimrak.'

"'Ah, why didn't you bring her away with you?' cried the woman.

"'It is not permitted,' replied the old man. 'I did what I could. I warned her not to drink of the waters of the spring nor to eat of the pomegranate-seed. I could do no more.'

"'Oh, what will become of the dear child?' exclaimed the woman, wringing her hands.

"'If she drinks of the waters of the spring,' responded the old man, 'or eats of the pomegranate-seed, she will fall into a deep sleep. Then will come Rimrak, the Conjurer, and convey her to his cave, and there she will be held captive until she forgets she is a captive, or until she has been rescued by some bold youth who loves her well enough to remember the color of her eyes.'

"'I remember! I remember!' cried the woman's handsome son.

"'Be not too sure,' replied the old man. 'Sit down and think it over.'

"'No need for that,' said the boy. 'Her eyes once seen can never be forgotten.'

"'Oho!' exclaimed the old man. 'Then perhaps you can tell me the color of the little girl's eyes?'

"'Certainly,' said the boy. 'They are brown when she lifts them to your face and dark when she looks away from you.'

"The old man nodded his head with a greater display of good humor than he had yet shown.

"'Ah, you think so,' said the old man, warningly; 'you think you know, but be not too sure.'

"'Why, I can see her now!' exclaimed the boy.

"'Where?' cried his mother; 'oh, where?'

"The boy fell back in his seat and covered his face with his hands.

"'He was speaking of his memory,' said the old man. 'If he can trust it, well and good.'

"'You should have brought the child home with you,' said the matter-of-fact woman.

"'It was not in my power,' replied the old man. 'She had gone too far. She had already entered the domain of Rimrak, the Conjurer. All that I could do I did. I warned her not to drink of the waters of the spring. I warned her not to eat of the seed of the pomegranate. But now that I am here, let us see what can be done.'

"He went to his wallet, which he had placed on the table, opened it and took from it three knives. One was a clasp-knife with a long, slim blade, the next was a common case-knife, and the third was a big butcher's-knife. The case-knife had once had a horn or wooden handle, but this had dropped off, and the iron that held the knife in place had been run into a corncob. The old man took these knives from his wallet, one by one, and placed them on the table.

"'Now listen to me,' he said to the boy. 'All will go well with you if you are bold, and if you really remember the color of the little girl's eyes. Here are your arms. This,' taking up the clasp-knife, 'is Keen-Point. This,' taking up the case-knife, 'is Cob-Handle. And this is Butch. Remember their names, -- Keen-Point, Cob-Handle, and Butch. Keen-Point is to show you the way, Cob-Handle is to warn you of danger, and Butch is to protect you. But they will all fail you -- they will all go wrong -- if you do not remember the color of the little girl's eyes.'

"The boy took Keen-Point, Cob-Handle, and Butch, and stowed them away in a wallet, in which his mother placed a supply of food. Then he set out on his journey, with a light heart. He was not afraid, for he knew that he loved the little girl well enough to remember the color of her eyes. He went on his way till he came to the open fields where no one lived. He had been there many a time before, but now it seemed to him that he had never seen so many paths and by-ways. They led in all directions and crossed each other almost at every turn.

"He stopped and looked all around, and then he took Keen-Point from his wallet, and said: -- 

"'Keen-Point can, Keen-Point may, Point keen and true, and show me the way.'

"As soon as he said this, the knife tumbled from his hand and fell to the ground, the end of the keen blade pointing towards one of the many footpaths. The boy picked it up, and it tumbled from his hand again, pointing in the same direction. He picked it up the second time, and again the knife fell from his hand and pointed to the footpath. For the third time he lifted the knife from the ground, and as it fell no more, he placed it in his wallet, and went on his way.

"Thus he continued for many hours. When he was in doubt about the way, Keen-Point would show him. When he grew hungry, he ate the food his mother had placed in his wallet. It was late in the day when he started, and before he came to the spring and the pomegranate-tree, the sun went down and night came on. The boy stopped under a wide-spreading tree, said his prayers, placed his wallet under his head for a pillow, and went to sleep.

"Bright and early the next morning he was up and going. Whenever he had any doubt about the way, Keen-Point would show him, and before the sun was up very high, he came in sight of the pomegranate-tree, with its red and golden fruit, and he knew the spring was close by.

"As he went on he grew thirstier, and thirstier, and when he came to where the cool, clear waters of the spring were bubbling from the ground with a sort of gurgling sound, his throat and mouth seemed to be as dry as paper. More than that, when he came to the spring, a traveler was sitting on one of the stones that lay around, drinking the water from a silver cup and peeling the rind from a pomegranate with a silver knife. The traveler had a very pleasant face and manner, and he spoke to the boy in the kindest way.

"'If you want some water,' he said, 'you may drink from my silver cup. If you are hungry, you may peel a pomegranate with my silver knife.'

"The boy thanked the traveler and said that he would eat and drink later in the day. He thought to himself that a man who could drink from a silver cup and eat with a silver knife ought to be able to travel in a carriage or on horseback, but there was no horse nor carriage in sight.

"'Well,' said the traveler, 'if you will neither eat nor drink, you can at least rest yourself.'

"So the boy seated himself on one of the big rocks close by the spring, and the traveler began to ask him all sorts of questions. What was his name, and where did he come from, and where was he going."

"What was his name?" asked Sweetest Susan suddenly.

"Well, I declare!" exclaimed Mrs. Meadows, "haven't I told you his name?"

"If you did, we didn't hear you," said Buster John.

Mrs. Meadows raised her hands above her head and let them fall helplessly in her lap. "I told you I didn't know how to tell stories!" she cried. "You had fair warning. Well, well, well! And I never even told you his name!" She paused and stared at the children as if she wanted them to pity her weakness. "To think that I should forget to call his name! Everybody knew it in my day and time, and they knew about his wonderful adventures.

"His name was Valentine, because he was born on St. Valentine's Day, and the little girl's name was Geraldine.

"Well, the traveler asked Valentine all sorts of questions, and tried hard to persuade him to drink some of the water and eat the pomegranate-seed.

"'I have heard,' said the traveler, 'that all this country around here is ruled by a cruel Conjurer, and that he has power over all except those who may chance to find this spring and this pomegranate-tree in passing, and drink of the water and eat of the fruit.'

"But Valentine shook his head. He said he would rather have milk than water any day, and as for pomegranates, he had no taste for them.

"'Then I would advise you to go no farther,' said the traveler. 'If you fall into the hands of the Conjurer, you will never escape.'

"'I have heard of this great Conjurer,' replied Valentine, 'and I should like nothing better than to see him.'

"He took Keen-Point from his wallet and pretended to be playing with it, letting it fall and picking it up. The knife pointed beyond the spring and the pomegranate-tree, and in a little while Valentine went on his journey. On the hill beyond the spring, he turned and looked back, but the traveler had disappeared. As there was no place where he could hide, Valentine concluded that the man he had seen was no traveler at all, but Rimrak, the Conjurer.

"But he was not afraid. He went on his way, and, after a little, came to a grove of the tallest and biggest trees he had ever seen. As he was passing through this grove, he suddenly saw two tremendous spiders running about among the trees before and behind him. Their bodies were as big as a feather bed when it is rolled up, and they were pretty much the same color. Valentine watched their antics a few minutes, and soon saw they were spinning a web among the trees and that he was in the middle of it.

"The big spiders ran about on the ground spinning their webs around him, and then they began to jump from tree to tree. Valentine began to have a creepy feeling up and down his back, for he didn't relish the idea of being caught in a spider's web like a bluebottle fly. He wondered why Cob-Handle hadn't warned him of the danger, and then he remembered that the case-knife was wrapped so tightly in his wallet that it couldn't give a warning if it was to try. So he took all the knives from the wallet, -- Keen-Point, Cob-Handle, and Butch, -- and placed them in his girdle.

"Valentine hardly had time to fasten the straps about the wallet, before he felt Cob-Handle jumping about and thumping against his side. Then he saw one of the big spiders coming towards him. Big as it was it moved nimbly, and before Valentine had time to get out of the way, it ran around him and wrapped a strand of its web about his legs. The strand was as big as a stout twine and as strong and as hard as wire. Then the big spider turned and came back, but by this time Valentine had drawn Butch from his belt, and as the ugly creature came near he struck at it with the knife, and cut off one of its hairy legs. The creature was so full of life and venom that its leg jumped around and clawed the ground for some little time.

"Holding Butch point down and edge outwards, Valentine cut the strand of web that held his legs. It was so large, and drawn so tightly about him, that it sounded like somebody had broken a fiddle-string. In this way he cut his way through the web. The crippled spider ran to his mate, and the two stood watching Valentine, their eyes shining green and venomous, and their jaws working as if they were chewing something."

"They were sharpening their teeth," Buster John suggested.

"I reckon so," replied Mrs. Meadows. "Anyhow they were ugly enough to scare anybody. Valentine cut his way through the web and marched out on the other side. He rested a little and then went on his way; but he had not gone far before Cob-Handle began to jump and thump against his side. He stopped and looked around, but he could see nothing. He listened, but he could hear nothing.

"Presently he felt the ground moving beneath his feet, and he ran forward as fast as he could. And he didn't run too fast, either, for no sooner had he jumped away than a great hole appeared right where he had been standing. He could see that it was both wide and deep, but he didn't go back to look at it.

"No; he kept on his way, and it wasn't long before Cob-Handle began to jump and thump. Keen-Point also began to jump and thump, and showed him which way to go, and he ran as fast as he could. He heard a roaring sound as he started, and he had hardly got fifty steps away, though he was running with all his might, before a tremendous whirlwind came along, tearing up the bushes by roots and ploughing the ground. It came so close to Valentine that if he had had on a long-tail coat, I believe it would have been tangled in the whirlwind.

"I tell you," Mrs. Meadows went on, seeing the children smiling, "it was no laughing matter to Valentine. He shivered and trembled when he thought what a narrow escape he had had.

"He went on his way, and in a little while Cob-Handle began to jump and thump again. Valentine, thus warned, stood still and looked around more carefully than he had yet done. Some distance off, he saw a horrible creature coming towards him. It was in the shape of a man, but it had four arms and hands, and in each hand it was flourishing a club. Its hair stood out from its head like the shucks in a scouring-mop, and as it came nearer, Valentine saw that it had three eyes, -- one on each side of its nose, and one in its forehead.

"Keen-Point said, 'Go straight forward,' and then Butch began to jump and thump, so Valentine placed Cob-Handle and Keen-Point in his girdle, and took Butch in his hand. Holding the point straight before him, he went towards the misshapen creature. Its red and watery eyes were blinking and winking, and its arms were threshing the air with the clubs at such a tremendous rate that Valentine thought his hour had surely come. But he shut his eyes and went straight at the creature. The sharp point of Butch had no sooner touched the monster on its hairy breast than its hands dropped the clubs, and it ran howling back the way it came.

"Valentine followed fast enough to see the creature enter a cave, and to this, Keen-Point told him he must go. As he went forward, a fierce-looking man came from the cave and stood guarding the entrance. He was covered from head to foot with silver armor, and he brandished a long keen sword with a silver handle. But Valentine went straight forward, holding Butch in his hand. The long sword never touched him, nor did the silver armor stand in his way. With one blow against Butch the long sword was shattered, and the silver armor fell away from Rimrak like the hulls from a ripe hickory-nut. Rimrak himself fell before Butch and disappeared with a hissing sound; and then the cave was no longer dark. Its roof seemed to roll away; and where the cave had been, there stood a great company of people who had been held captive by the Conjurer. They stood wondering what had happened and what would happen next. Among them was Geraldine. She knew Valentine, and ran to him, and then he was very happy. The people whom he had rescued, gathered around him and thanked him and thanked him; and some would have rewarded him, but he said he deserved none. He had come after the little girl, and he was not responsible for any accidents that happened to other people. This is what he said, and this is how he felt; but the people wondered that a young boy should be so bold and yet so modest.

"So they talked together, and decided to go with him to his home. Their horses and their carriages they found in good order, and in a little while they formed a procession. In this way they carried Valentine to his home, crying out to the people they passed, -- 

"'This is our deliverer! This is the brave boy that conquered Rimrak, the great Conjurer!'

"They carried Valentine to his home, and then they went with him to Geraldine's home. There was great rejoicing in the town. The little girl's father was rich, and he called all the people together; and they had a big dinner, and everybody was happy. The little girl had her old nurse back, and she grew up to be a beautiful young woman, and Valentine grew up to be a handsome young man."



XIX.

A Story Of The River.


"I think that was a beautiful story," said Sweetest Susan, when Mrs. Meadows paused; "but was that the end?"

"Why, wasn't that enough?" inquired Mr. Rabbit sleepily. "What more could you ask? Didn't the boy and girl get back home where they could get something to eat?"

"What became of them?" asked Buster John. "The stories about boys and girls in books say they married and lived happily ever after."

"Oh, yes!" cried Mr. Thimblefinger. "I've heard about it. I remember the poetry, -- 

"'They married, then, and lived in clover, And when they died, they died all over.'"

"Well," said Mrs. Meadows, "I thought surely you'd get tired of Valentine and Geraldine by the time they got back home, and so I thought we'd do well to leave them there. Still, if you are not tired -- " Mrs. Meadows paused and looked at the children.

"Oh, we are not tired," protested Buster John.

"Well," said Mrs. Meadows, "if that's the case, I'll tell you what happened after Valentine and Geraldine went back home. Of course, Geraldine's father and mother were very proud and happy when their little girl was brought back to them. They were very grateful to Valentine, and they offered him money. But somehow Valentine didn't want their money. He said that the pleasure of getting Geraldine out of the hands of the wicked Conjurer was reward enough for him, and so he shook his head and refused the money that was offered him.

"Now, the little girl's father was rich and prosperous, while Valentine was very poor, and it was natural that the rich man should wonder why the boy, who was poor, should refuse money. Somehow, he took a dislike to Valentine. He said to himself that a boy who would refuse money as a free gift would never be prosperous.

"As time went on, Valentine grew to be a handsome young man, but he was still poor. He went to see Geraldine sometimes, but as she grew older, she grew shyer. Valentine couldn't understand this, but he thought it was because she was old enough to know that she was rich and he was poor.

"He said to her one day. 'You are not as friendly as you used to be.'

"'Oh, yes I am,' she replied. 'I shall always be friendly with you.'

"'No,' said he, 'you have changed.'

"'No more than you,' was her answer.

"'I changed?' he cried. 'I love you more than I ever did.'

"With that Geraldine hung her head to hide her blushes, but Valentine thought she was angry. He turned on his heel and would have gone away, but she called him back, and told him not to go away angry -- and then they made it up somehow. Valentine said he would speak to Geraldine's father. This he did, but the father shook his head.

"'You want to take her to a hut?' he cried. 'Why she might as well have stayed in the Conjurer's cave. Go and get you a fortune, and then come back, and maybe we'll talk the matter over.'

"Valentine went away very sad. He never turned his head, although Geraldine was watching him from a window, ready to wave her hand and throw him a kiss. He wandered off into the woods until he came to the bank of the River, and there he sat watching the water go by. He watched it until he almost forgot his own trouble. It went along slowly and majestically, and sometimes it seemed to come eddying back to kiss the bank at his feet. For a little while it smoothed the wrinkles in his mind. He wondered where the River came from and where it was going to. It was always coming and always going, and there was never an end to it. All day long it went by, sometimes laughing and playing in the shallows and sometimes sighing a little under the willows.

"Valentine watched it and listened to the pleasant sounds it made until he began to feel as if the River was something like a friend and companion. It soothed his grief and drove away his loneliness. Being alone, he began to speak his thoughts aloud.

"'Oh! I wish I had a friend as strong and as powerful as the River!' he cried.

"'And why not?' he heard a voice say. The water at his feet splashed a little louder. He looked around, but saw no one; he listened, but heard nothing.

"'I wonder who could have spoken?' he said aloud.

"'Who but your friend, the River?' a Voice replied.

"'Please don't mock me, whoever you are. There is no fun in misfortune,' said Valentine.

"'None at all' responded the Voice. 'I am your friend the River. I will give you all the aid in my power.'

"'How am I to know the River is talking?' Valentine asked.

"'By this,' replied the River. At the word, a wave larger than all the rest sprang up the bank, and threw its spray in Valentine's hair and face. 'That is my salute,' said the River. 'It is a rough way, but I know no other. Now, how can I aid you?'

"'That is what troubles me,' responded Valentine. 'You are always going; you never stay.'

"'True,' said the River; 'but I am always coming. Therefore I must be always returning.'

"'But how?' Valentine asked.

"'Not this way,' said the River, 'but over your head. When in the early morning, or in the warmer noon, or in the pleasant evenings, you see the white clouds flying westward, you may be sure that I am returning.' Then the River broke into a thousand ripples, as if smiling.

"But Valentine sat with a very serious face. 'I do not know how you can aid me,' he sighed.

"'I know what you wish,' the River replied. 'You wish riches.'

"'Yes,' said Valentine, 'but not for the sake of the riches themselves.'

"'Of course not!' the River exclaimed. 'Riches would be worthless if they could not command something better; and they are worse than worthless when the power they give is used for evil. I can give you riches, but not without your help. I can give you the power to obtain wealth, but I cannot give you the power to use it as it should be used.'

"Valentine listened to the mysterious Voice of the River like one in a dream. He could hardly believe his ears.

"'You say nothing,' said the River; 'you seem half asleep. But if I am to help you, you must help yourself. Walk by my side a little way. Further down you will come to a boat that has drifted against the bank.'

"Valentine rose and stretched himself, and walked by the side of the River. He had not gone far before he came upon a boat that had drifted into an eddy. It lay there rocking, and a long oar rested against the seat.

"'Jump in,' said the River; 'shove the boat away from the bank and trust to me. Take the oar and pull, and I will push you along.'

"Valentine did as he was told, and he soon found that the boat was gliding swiftly along. The trees and houses on each side seemed to be running a race to the rear, and the boats that he passed on the River seemed to be standing still. He went on for some hours, always trusting to the River. When he grew tired, he held his oar in the air and rested, but whether he rested or whether he rowed, he saw that his boat was always gliding swiftly along.

"Presently, in the far distance, he could see the spires and steeples of a city, and he wondered whether he would be compelled to go gliding by, or whether the River would land him there. But he was not left long in doubt.

"'That is your future home,' said the River. 'There you will find friends, and there you will become rich and famous.'

"'But how?' asked Valentine.

"'I can only tell you the beginning,' replied the River. 'When your boat glides to the landing-place, you will see there an old gentleman richly dressed. He will ask you if you have seen his little son. He has been there every day for two days, and he has asked of all comers the same question.'

"'What shall I say to him?' asked Valentine.

"'Tell him you have not seen his son,' replied the River, 'but that you feel sure you can find the boy. Tell the old gentleman that you have come a long journey, and need rest, but that when you have refreshed yourself, you will go and seek his son.'

"'But where shall I seek for the boy?' asked Valentine.

"'Come to me,' said the River. 'I will be here. I am always going, and yet I am always coming.'

"By this time they had come to the city. 'Row for the landing,' said the River; 'your fortune is there.'

"Valentine dipped his oar in the water and rowed to the landing. He leaped from his boat, threw the chain around a stake, and looked around. Sure enough, an old gentleman, richly dressed, was walking up and down, his hands crossed behind him. When he saw Valentine he paused and looked at him. Valentine bowed politely as he had been taught to do.

"'You are a comely lad,' said the old gentleman. 'Did you come down the River, or from below?'

"'I came down the River,' replied Valentine, touching his hat again.

"'I have lost my youngest son,' said the old gentleman. 'He is a little boy about six years old. He wandered from home two days ago, came to the River landing, and was last seen playing in a boat. I have been trying to find him. My boats have been searching in all directions, but the child cannot be found.'

"'I think I can find him,' said Valentine, 'but first I must rest and refresh myself. I have come a long journey, and I am tired.'

"The old gentleman seized him by the hand. 'Come with me!' he exclaimed. 'You shall go to my house. Your every want shall be supplied. If you succeed in finding my lost boy you shall have whatever you ask for.'

"'I shall ask for nothing,' replied Valentine. 'The pleasure I shall have in restoring your son to your arms will be sufficient reward for me.'

"'Nevertheless,' said the gentleman, 'you shall have a more substantial reward than that.'

"So he took Valentine home, and treated him with the greatest kindness. He was served with rich food and the finest spiced wines, and fitted out with an elegant suit of clothes. Early the next morning, Valentine thanked the gentleman for his kindness.

"'I go now,' he said, 'to find your son. Watch for me near the River. I may return soon, or I may be gone long, but when I return I will bring your son.'

"'You are young,' remarked the gentleman. 'You are hopeful and brave. You imagine you can succeed where others have failed. But I fear not. My lost boy has been sought by men older than you, and quite as brave, but they have not found him.'

"'Certainly, I may fail,' Valentine replied. 'If I depended on myself alone, I know I would fail. But I trust in Providence.'

"Valentine and the gentleman then went to the River -- one to go in search of the lost child, and the other to watch and wait for the return. Valentine went to the water's edge.

"'Get a boat with a sail,' whispered the River, lapping the sand at his feet. This was provided at once, for the gentleman was very wealthy, and then Valentine set out on his voyage. 'Go back the way you came,' said the River, 'but keep out of the middle current. Let the wind fill your sails and carry you near the shore, on the right.' With the River to direct him, Valentine sailed along with a light heart and a happy mind. For more than two hours he journeyed up the River, and it was not until the sun was low in the west that the River told him to lower the sails of his boat. This done, the River carried his boat gently ashore, and as it glided on the sand, he saw, near by, a boat, in which a little boy lay fast asleep. Without disturbing him, Valentine lifted the little fellow in his arms, and transferred him to the new boat, in which wraps, and cloaks, and food had been placed.

"It was easy to guess how the little boy had been lost. He had gone to play in a boat, which broke loose from its fastenings, and drifted slowly up the River in the eddies that play hide and seek near the bank. The first day the searchers searched for him, they went too far. The next day they searched too near, and so the child drifted and drifted, and was lost sure enough. He was very cold and wet when Valentine found him, but in a little while he was warmly wrapped in the cloaks that had been provided.

"'Take his boat in tow,' said the River. 'Let your sails stay down, and take the oars and row home as hard as you can.'

"The River helped with its swift current, and it was not long before Valentine caught a glimpse of the bonfire that was burning at the landing to light him back to the city.

"There was great rejoicing when Valentine returned with the lost child. The bells were rung and salutes fired from the big cannon that commanded the approaches to the city. It turned out that the gentleman whose child Valentine had found was the ruler of the city, and you may depend upon it he was grateful to the unknown young man.

"But in all large cities there are some envious people, and these soon had it whispered about that Valentine was a mere adventurer who had stolen the child and hid it so that he might rescue it again when a big reward was offered. These whispers grew thicker and thicker until at last they reached the ears of every one. No one knew Valentine, and appearances were against him, but one day he was approached by an old man with a long white beard, who asked him from whence he came. The old man was so kind and agreeable in his manner that Valentine told him the story of the rescue of Geraldine.

"Much to his surprise the old man rose and embraced him. 'Come with me!' he cried. So saying, he carried Valentine to the marketplace, and there in the presence of a great crowd of people, the old man said: -- 

"'Behold my rescuer! Behold the brave youth who conquered Rimrak, the Conjurer.'

"This closed the mouths of the envious, and when that happens, there is not much more to tell in any story."

Here Mrs. Meadows paused and looked at Mr. Rabbit, who sat fast asleep in his chair.

"Did he get rich and marry Geraldine?" inquired Sweetest Susan.

"Why of course," replied Mrs. Meadows. "Do you reckon he'd have gone through all these ups and downs if he wasn't to marry and settle down and be happy in the end?"

"Well," said Buster John, "it was a pretty good story."

"I speck so," remarked Drusilla, "but dey's lots too much richness in it fer me."

Mrs. Meadows laughed so heartily at this that Mr. Rabbit was aroused from his nap, and looked around in surprise.

"Did I hear somebody say supper was ready?" he asked.

Mrs. Meadows laughed again, but this time she glanced at the sky of Mr. Thimblefinger's queer country. It had grown perceptibly darker. Mr. Thimblefinger drew out his little watch. Mr. Rabbit closed one eye, and sat as if listening for something.

"Well," said Mrs. Meadows with a sigh, "I reckon we'll have to tell you good-by for this time, but I do hope you'll come again. I declare it has been a treat to have some new somebody to talk to. By the time you get back home the sun will be setting in your country, and your folks will begin to be uneasy about you."

The children were not at all anxious to go. They had had a very curious experience in Mr. Thimblefinger's queer country, and they had almost forgotten that the sun in their part of the world had a habit of going down. But they said they were ready, and then they shook hands all around. When Buster John came to shake hands with Mr. Rabbit, the latter looked at the youngster a moment.

"Did you ever happen to know a colored man named Aaron?" he asked.

"Uncle Aaron!" exclaimed Buster John. "Why, he lives on our plantation. He's the foreman."

"Well," said Mr. Rabbit solemnly, "when you see Aaron, take his left hand in both of yours, bend his thumb back a little, and with your right thumb make this mark *. The first time he will pay no attention. Make it the second time. Then he will be ready to listen. Make it the third time. Then he will ask you what you want. Say to him that you want to learn the language of the animals."

"Won't he get angry?" asked Buster John.

"Try him," replied Mr. Rabbit with a cunning look. "Now, good-by!"

"When you get ready to come again," said Mrs. Meadows, "just drop a big apple in the spring, and I'll be bound we'll all see it and know what it means. And when you come be sure and bring the apple. It's been a month of Sundays since I've had one."

The children promised they would, and then, with Mr. Thimblefinger leading the way, they started home, which they reached without further adventure. As they stood on the brink of the spring, waving their hands to Mr. Thimblefinger, who was smiling at them from the bottom, Drusilla remarked with unction: -- 

"I dunner how 't is wid you all, but I don't no mo' b'lieve we been down dar under dat water dar dan -- dan -- dan de man in de moon. Dat I don't!"

Then the youngsters heard the supper-bell ring, and they all ran towards the house.

<eob>

The Shades Of The Wilderness: A Story Of Lee's Great Stand

By

Joseph Alexander Altsheler



Chapter I

The Southern Retreat


A train of wagons and men wound slowly over the hills in the darkness and rain toward the South. In the wagons lay fourteen or fifteen thousand wounded soldiers, but they made little noise, as the wheels sank suddenly in the mud or bumped over stones. Although the vast majority of them were young, boys or not much more, they had learned to be masters of themselves, and they suffered in silence, save when some one, lost in fever, uttered a groan.

But the chief sound was a blended note made by the turning of wheels, and the hoofs of horses sinking in the soft earth. The officers gave but few orders, and the cavalrymen who rode on either flank looked solicitously into the wagons now and then to see how their wounded friends fared, though they seldom spoke. The darkness they did not mind, because they were used to it, and the rain and the coolness were a relief, after three days of the fiercest battle the American continent had ever known, fought in the hottest days that the troops could recall.

Thus Lee's army drew its long length from the fatal field of Gettysburg, although his valiant brigades did not yet know that the clump of trees upon Cemetery Hill had marked the high tide of the Confederacy. All that memorable Fourth of July, following the close of the battle they had lain, facing Meade and challenging him to come on, confident that while the invasion of the North was over they could beat back once more the invasion of the South.

They had no word of complaint against their great commander, Lee. The faith in him, which was so high, remained unbroken, as it was destined to remain so to the last. But men began to whisper to one another, and say if only Jackson had been there. They mourned anew that terrible evening in the Wilderness when Lee had lost his mighty lieutenant, his striking arm, the invincible Stonewall. If the man in the old slouch hat had only been with Lee on Seminary Ridge it would now be the army of Meade retreating farther into the North, and they would be pursuing. That belief was destined to sink deep in the soul of the South, and remain there long after the Confederacy was but a name.

The same thought was often in the mind of Harry Kenton, as he rode near the rear of the column, whence he had been sent by Lee to observe and then to report. It was far after midnight now, and the last of the Southern army could not leave Seminary Ridge before morning. But Harry could detect no sign of pursuit. Now and then, a distant gun boomed, and the thunder muttered on the horizon, as if in answer. But there was nothing to indicate that the Army of the Potomac was moving from Gettysburg in pursuit, although the President in Washington, his heart filled with bitterness, was vainly asking why his army would not reap the fruits of a victory won so hardly. Fifty thousand men had fallen on the hills and in the valleys about Gettysburg, and it seemed, for the time, that nothing would come of such a slaughter. But the Northern army had suffered immense losses, and Lee and his men were ready to fight again if attacked. Perhaps it was wiser to remain content upon the field with their sanguinary success. At least, Meade and his generals thought so.

Harry, toward morning came upon St. Clair and Langdon riding together. Both had been wounded slightly, but their hurts had not kept them from the saddle, and they were in cheerful mood.

"You've been further back than we, Harry," said St. Clair. "Is Meade hot upon our track? We hear the throb of a cannon now and then."

"It doesn't mean anything. Meade hasn't moved. While we didn't win we struck the Yankees such a mighty blow that they'll have to rest, and breathe a while before they follow."

"And I guess we need a little resting and breathing ourselves," said Langdon frankly. "There were times when I thought the whole world had just turned itself into a volcano of fire."

"But we'll come back again," said St. Clair. "We'll make these Pennsylvania Dutchmen take notice of us a second time."

"That's the right spirit," said Langdon. "Arthur had nearly all of his fine uniform shot off him, but he's managed to fasten the pieces together, and ride on, just as if it were brand new."

But Harry was silent. The prescient spirit of his famous great grandfather, Henry Ware, had descended upon his valiant great grandson. Hope had not gone from him, but it did not enter his mind that they should invade Pennsylvania again.

"I'm glad to leave Gettysburg," he said. "More good men of ours have fallen there than anywhere else."

"That's true," said St. Clair, "but Marse Bob will win for us, anyhow. You don't think any of these Union generals here in the East can whip our Lee, do you?"

"Of course not!" said Happy Tom. "Besides, Lee has me to help him."

"How are Colonel Talbot and Lieutenant-Colonel St. Hilaire?" asked Harry.

"Sound asleep, both of 'em," replied St. Clair. "And it's a strange thing, too. They were sitting in a wagon, having resumed that game of chess which they began in the Valley of Virginia, but they were so exhausted that both fell sound asleep while playing. They are sitting upright, as they sleep, and Lieutenant-Colonel St. Hilaire's thumb and forefinger rest upon a white pawn that he intended to move."

"I hope they won't be jarred out of their rest and that they'll sleep on," said Harry. "Nobody deserves it more."

He waved a hand to his friends and continued his ride toward the rear. The column passed slowly on in silence. Now and then gusts of rain lashed across his face, but he liked the feeling. It was a fillip to his blood, and his nerves began to recover from the tremendous strain and excitement of the last four days.

Obeying his orders he rode almost directly back toward the field of Gettysburg from which the Southern forces were still marching. A friendly voice from a little wood hailed him, and he recognized it at once as that of Sherburne, who sat his horse alone among the trees.

"Come here, Harry," he said.

"Glad to find you alive, Sherburne. Where's your troop?"

"What's left of it is on ahead. I'll join the men in a few minutes. But look back there!"

Harry from the knoll, which was higher than he had thought, gazed upon a vast and dusky panorama. Once more the field of Gettysburg swam before him, not now in fire and smoke, but in vapors and misty rain. When he shut his eyes he saw again the great armies charging on the slopes, the blazing fire from hundreds of cannon and a hundred thousand rifles. There, too, went Pickett's brigades, devoted to death but never flinching. A sob burst from his throat, and he opened his eyes again.

"You feel about it as I do," said Sherburne. "We'll never come back into the North."

"It isn't merely a feeling within me, I know it."

"So do I, but we can still hold Virginia."

"I think so, too. Come, we'd better turn. There goes the field of Gettysburg. The rain and mist have blotted it out."

The panorama, the most terrible upon which Harry had ever looked, vanished in the darkness. The two rode slowly from the knoll and into the road.

"It will be daylight in an hour," said Sherburne, "and by that time the last of our men will be gone."

"And I must hasten to our commander-in-chief," said Harry.

"How is he?" asked Sherburne. "Does he seem downcast?"

"No, he holds his head as high as ever, and cheers the men. They say that Pickett's charge was a glorious mistake, but he takes all the blame for it, if there is any. He doesn't criticize any of his generals."

"Only a man of the greatest moral grandeur could act like that. It's because of such things that our people, boys, officers and all, will follow him to the death."

"Good-by, Sherburne," said Harry. "Hope I'll see you again soon."

He urged his horse into a faster gait, anxious to overtake Lee and report that all was well with the rear guard. He noticed once more, and with the greatest care that long line of the wounded and the unwounded, winding sixteen miles across the hills from Gettysburg to Chambersburg, and his mind was full of grave thoughts. More than two years in the very thick of the greatest war, then known, were sufficient to make a boy a man, at least in intellect and responsibility.

Harry saw very clearly, as he rode beside the retreating but valiant army that had failed in its great attempt, that their role would be the defensive. For a little while he was sunk in deep depression. Then invincible youth conquered anew, and hope sprang up again. The night was at the darkest, but dawn was not far away. Fugitive gusts of wind drenched him once more, but he did not mind it, nor did he pay any attention to the occasional growl of a distant gun. He was strong in the belief that Meade would not pursue -- at least not yet. A general who had just lost nearly one-third of his own army was not in much condition to follow his enemy.

He urged his horse to increased speed, and pressed on toward the head of the column. The rain ceased and cool puffs of wind came out of the east. Then the blackness there turned to gray, which soon deepened into silver. Through the silver veil shot a bolt of red fire, and the sun came over the hills.

Although the green world had been touched with brown by the hot sun of July it looked fresh and beautiful to Harry. The brown in the morning sunlight was a rosy red, and the winds of dawn were charged with life. His horse, too, felt the change and it was easy now to force him into a gallop toward a fire on a low hill, which Harry felt sure had been built to cook breakfast for their great commander.

As he approached he saw Lee and his generals standing before the blaze, some eating, and others drinking. An orderly, near by, held the commander's famous horse, Traveller, and two or three horses belonging to the other generals were trying to find a little grass between the stony outcrops of the hills. Harry felt an overwhelming curiosity, but he kept it in restraint, dismounting at a little distance, and approaching on foot.

He could not observe much change in the general's appearance. His handsome gray suit was as neat as ever, and the three stars, the only marks of his rank that he wore, shone untarnished upon his collar. The dignified and cheerful manner that marked him before Gettysburg marked him also afterward. To Harry, so young and so thoroughly charged with the emotions of his time and section, he was a figure to be approached with veneration.

He saw the stalwart and bearded Longstreet and other generals whom he knew, among them the brilliant Stuart in his brilliant plumage, but rather quiet and subdued in manner now, since he had not come to Gettysburg as soon as he was needed. Harry hung back a little, fearing lest he might be regarded as thrusting himself into a company so much his superior in rank, but Lee saw him and beckoned to him.

"I sent you back toward Gettysburg to report on our withdrawal, Lieutenant Kenton," he said.

"Yes, sir. I returned all the way to the field. The last of our troops should be leaving there just about now. The Northern army had made no preparation for immediate pursuit."

"Your report agrees with all the others that I have received. How long have you been without sleep?"

"I don't know, sir," he said at last. "I can't remember. Maybe it has been two or three days."

Stuart, who held a cup of coffee in his hand, laughed. "The times have been such that there are generals as well as lieutenants," he said, "who can't remember when they've slept."

"You're exhausted, my lad," said Lee gravely and kindly, "and there's nothing more you can do for us just now. Take some breakfast with us, and then you must sleep in one of the wagons. An orderly will look after your horse."

Lee handed him a cup of coffee with his own hand, and Harry, thanking him, withdrew to the outer fringe of the little group, where he took his breakfast, amazed to find how hungry he was, although he had not thought of food before. Then without a word, as he saw that the generals were engrossed in a conference, he withdrew.

"You'll find Lieutenant Dalton of the staff in the covered wagon over there," said the orderly who had taken his horse. "The general sent him to it more'n two hours ago."

"Then I'll be inside it in less than two minutes," said Harry.

But with rest in sight he collapsed suddenly. His head fell forward of its own weight. His feet became lead. Everything swam before his eyes. He felt that he must sleep or die. But he managed to drag himself to the wagon and climbed inside. Dalton lay in the center of it so sound asleep that he was like one dead. Harry rolled him to one side, making room for himself, and lay down beside him. Then his eyes closed, and he, too, slept so soundly that he also looked like one dead.

He was awakened by Dalton pulling at him. The young Virginian was sitting up and looking at Harry with curiosity. He clapped his hands when the Kentuckian opened his eyes.

"Now I know that you're not dead," he said. "When I woke up and found you lying beside me I thought they had just put your body in here for safekeeping. As that's not the case, kindly explain to me and at once what you're doing in my wagon."

"I'm waking up just at present, but for an hour or two before that I was sleeping."

"Hour or two? Hour or two? Hear him! An orderly who I know is no liar told me that you got in here just after dawn. Now kindly lift that canvasflap, look out and tell me what you see."

Harry did as he was told, and was amazed. The same rolling landscape still met his eyes, and the sun was just about as high in the sky as it was when he had climbed into the wagon. But it was in the west now instead of the east.

"See and know, young man!" said Dalton, paternally. "The entire day has elapsed and here you have lain in ignorant slumber, careless of everything, reckless of what might happen to the army. For twelve hours General Lee has been without your advice, and how, lacking it, he has got this far, Heaven alone knows."

"It seems that he's pulled through, and, since I'm now awake, you can hurry to him and tell him I'm ready to furnish the right plans to stop the forthcoming Yankee invasion."

"They'll keep another day, but we've certainly had a good sleep, Harry."

"Yes, a provision or ammunition wagon isn't a bad place for a wornout soldier. I remember I slept in another such as this in the Valley of Virginia, when we were with Jackson."

He stopped suddenly and choked. He could not mention the name of Jackson, until long afterward, without something rising in his throat.

The driver obscured a good deal of the front view, but he suddenly turned a rubicund and smiling face upon them.

"Waked up, hev ye?" he exclaimed. "Wa'al it's about time. I've looked back from time to time an' I wuzn't at all shore whether you two gen'rals wuz alive or dead. Sometimes when the wagon slanted a lot you would roll over each other, but it didn't seem to make no diffunce. Pow'ful good sleepers you are."

"Yes," said Harry. "We're two of the original Seven Sleepers."

"I don't doubt that you are two, but they wuz more'n seven."

"How do you know?"

"'Cause at least seven thousand in this train have been sleepin' as hard as you wuz. I guess you mean the 'rig'nal Seventy Thousand Sleepers."

Harry's spirits had returned after his long sleep. He was a lad again. The weight of Gettysburg no longer rested upon him. The Army of Northern Virginia had merely made a single failure. It would strike again and again, as hard as ever.

"It's true that we've been slumbering," he said, "but we're as wide awake now as ever, Mr. Driver."

"My name ain't Driver," said the man.

"Then what is it?"

"Jones, Dick Jones, which I hold to be a right proper name."

"Not romantic, but short, simple and satisfying."

"I reckon so. Leastways, I've never wanted to change it. I'm from No'th Calliny, an' I've been followin' Bobby Lee a pow'ful long distance from home. Fine country up here in Pennsylvany, but I'd ruther be back in them No'th Calliny mountains. You two young gen'rals may think it's an easy an' safe job drivin' a wagon loaded with ammunition. But s'pose you have to drive it right under fire, as you most often have to do, an' then if a shell or somethin' like it hits your wagon the whole thing goes off kerplunk, an' whar are you?"

"It's a sudden an' easy death," said Dalton, philosophically.

"Too sudden an' too easy. I don't mind tellin' you that seein' men killed an' wounded is a spo't that's beginnin' to pall on me. Reckon I've had enough of it to last me for the next thousand years. I've forgot, if I ever knowed, what this war wuz started about. Say, young fellers, I've got a wife back thar, a high-steppin', fine-lookin' gal not more'n twenty years old -- I'm just twenty-five myself, an' we've got a year-old baby the cutest that wuz ever born. Now, when I wuz lookin' at that charge of Pickett's men, an' the whole world wuz blazin' with fire, an' all the skies wuz rainin' steel and lead, an' whar grass growed before, nothin' but bayonets wuz growin' then, do you know what I seed sometimes?"

"What was it?" asked Harry.

"Fur a secon' all that hell of fire an' smoke an' killin' would float away, an' I seed our mountain, with the cove, an' the trees, an' the green grass growin' in it, an' the branch, with the water so clear you could see your face in it, runnin' down the center, an' thar at the head of the cove my cabin, not much uv a buildin' to look at, no towerin' mansion, but just a stout two-room log cabin that the snows an' hails of winter can't break into, an' in the door wuz standin' Mary with the hair flyin' about her face, an' her eyes shinin', with the little feller in her arms, lookin' at me 'way off as I come walkin' fast down the cove toward 'em, returnin' from the big war."

There was a moment's silence, and Dalton said gruffly to hide his feelings:

"Dick Jones, by the time this war is over, and you go walking down the cove toward your home, a man with mustache and side whiskers will come forward to meet you, and he'll be that son of yours."

But Dick Jones cheerfully shook his head.

"The war ain't goin' to last that long," he said confidently, "an' I ain't goin' to git killed. What I saw will come true, 'cause I feel it so strong."

"There ought to be a general law forbidding a man with a young wife and baby to go to a war," said Harry.

"But they ain't no sich law," said Dick Jones, in his optimistic tone, "an' so we needn't worry 'bout it. But if you two gen'rals should happen along through the mountains uv western No'th Calliny after the war I'd like fur you to come to my cabin, an' see Mary an' the baby an' me. Our cove is named Jones' Cove, after my father, an' the branch that runs through it runs into Jones' Creek, an' Jones' Creek runs into the Yadkin River an' our county is Yadkin. Oh, you could find it plumb easy, if two sich great gen'rals as you wuzn't ashamed to eat sweet pertaters an' ham an' turkey an' co'n pone with a wagon driver like me."

Harry saw, despite his playful method of calling them generals, that he was thoroughly in earnest, and he was more moved than he would have been willing to confess.

"Too proud!" he said. "Why, we'd be glad!"

"Mebbe your road will lead that way," said Jones. "An' ef you do, jest remember that the skillet's on the fire, an' the latch string is hangin' outside the do'."

The allusion to the mountains made Harry's mind travel far back, over an almost interminable space of time now, it seemed, when he was yet a novice in war, to the home of Sam Jarvis, deep in the Kentucky mountains, and the old, old woman who had said to him as he left: "You will come again, and you will be thin and pale, and in rags, and you will fall at the door. I see you coming with these two eyes of mine."

A little shiver passed over him. He knew that no one could penetrate the future, but he shivered nevertheless, and he found himself saying mechanically:

"It's likely that I'll return through the mountains, and if so I'll look you up at that home in the cove on the brook that runs into Jones' Creek."

"That bein' settled," said Jones, "what do you gen'rals reckon to do jest now, after havin' finished your big sleep?"

"Your wagon is about to lose the first two passengers it has ever carried," replied Harry. "Orderlies have our horses somewhere. We belong on the staff of General Lee."

"An' you see him an' hear him talk every day? Some people are pow'ful lucky. I guess you'll say a lot about it when you're old men."

"We're going to say a lot about it while we're young men. Good-by, Mr. Jones. We've been in some good hotels, but we never slept better in any of them than we have in this moving one of yours."

"Good-by, you're always welcome to it. I think Marse Bob is on ahead."

The two left the wagon and took to a path beside the road, which was muddy and rutted deeply by innumerable hoofs and wheels. But grass and foliage were now dry after the heavy rains that followed the Battle of Gettysburg, and the sun was shining in late splendor. The army, taking the lack of pursuit and attack as proof that the enemy had suffered as much as they, if not more, was in good spirits, and many of the men sang their marching songs. A band ahead of them suddenly began to play mellow music, "Partant Pour La Syrie," and other old French songs. The airs became gay, festive, uplifting to the soul, and they tickled the feet of the young men.

"The Cajun band!" exclaimed Harry. "It never occurred to me that they weren't all dead, and here they are, playing us into happiness!"

"And the Invincibles, or what's left of them, won't be far away," said Dalton.

They walked on a little more briskly and beside them the vast length of the unsuccessful army still trailed its slow way back into the South. The sun was setting in uncommon magnificence, clothing everything in a shower of gold, through which the lilting notes of the music came to Harry and Dalton's ears. Presently the two saw them, the short, dark men from far Louisiana, not so many as they had been, but playing with all the fervor of old, putting their Latin souls into their music.

"And there are the Invincibles just ahead of them!" exclaimed Dalton. "The two colonels have left the wagon and are riding with their men. See, how erect they sit."

"I do see them, and they're a good sight to see," said Harry. "I hope they'll live to finish that chess game."

"And fifty years afterward, too."

A shout of joy burst from the road, and a tall young man, slender, dark and handsome, rushed out, and, seizing the hands of first one and then the other, shook them eagerly, his dark eyes glittering with happy surprise.

"Kenton! Dalton!" he exclaimed. "Both alive! Both well!"

It was young Julien de Langeais, the kinsman of Lieutenant-Colonel Hector St. Hilaire, and he too was unhurt. The lads returned his grasp warmly. They could not have kept from liking him had they tried, and they certainly did not wish to try.

"You don't know how it rejoices me to see you," said Julien, speaking very fast. "I was sad! very sad! Some of my best friends have perished back there in those inhospitable Pennsylvania hills, and while the band was playing it made me think of the homes they will never see any more! Don't think I'm effusive and that I show grief too much, but my heart has been very heavy! Alas, for the brave lads!"

"Come, come, de Langeais," said Harry, putting his hand on his shoulder. "You've no need to apologize for sorrow. God knows we all have enough of it, but a lot of us are still alive and here's an army ready to fight again, whenever the enemy says the word."

"True! True!" exclaimed de Langeais, changing at once from shadow to sunshine. "And when we're back in Virginia we'll turn our faces once more to our foe!"

He took a step or two on the grass in time to the music which was now that of a dance, and the brilliant beams of the setting sun showed a face without a care. Invincible youth and the invincible gayety of the part of the South that was French were supreme again. Dalton, looking at him, shook his Presbyterian head. Yet his eyes expressed admiration.

"I know your feelings," said Harry to the Virginian.

"Well, what are they?"

"You don't approve of de Langeais' lightness, which in your stern code you would call levity, and yet you envy him possession of it. You don't think it's right to be joyous, without a care, and yet you know it would be mighty pleasant. You criticize de Langeais a little, but you feel it would be a gorgeous thing to have that joyous spirit of his."

Dalton laughed.

"You're pretty near the truth," he said. "I haven't known de Langeais so very long, but if he were to get killed I'd feel that I had lost a younger brother."

"So would I."

Two immaculate youths, riding excellent horses, approached them, and favored them with a long and supercilious stare.

"Can the large fair person be Lieutenant Kenton of the staff of the commander-in-chief?" asked St. Clair.

"It can be and it is, although we did not think to see him again so soon," replied Happy Tom Langdon, "and the other -- I do not allude to de Langeais -- is that spruce and devout young man, Lieutenant George Dalton, also of the staff of the commander-in-chief."

"Why do we find them in such humble plight, walking on weary feet in a path beside the road?"

"For the most excellent reason in the world, Arthur."

"And what may that reason be, Tom?"

"Because at last they have come down to their proper station in life, just as surely as water finds its level."

"But we'll not treat them too sternly. We must remember that they also serve who walk and wait."

But St. Clair and Langdon, their chaff over, gave them happy greeting, and told them that the two colonels would be rejoiced to see them again, if they could spare a few minutes before rejoining their commander.

"And here is an orderly with both your horses," said St. Clair, "so, under the circumstances, we'll sink our pride and let you ride with us."

De Langeais, with a cheerful farewell until the next day, returned to his command, and Harry and Dalton, mounting, were in a few minutes beside the Invincibles. Colonel Leonidas Talbot and Lieutenant-Colonel Hector St. Hilaire turned their horses from the road into the path and saluted them with warmth.

"We caught a glimpse of you just after our departure, Harry," said Colonel Talbot, "but we did not know what had happened since. There is always a certain amount of risk attending the removal of a great army."

"I am glad, Leonidas, that you used the word 'removal' to describe our operations after our great victory at Gettysburg," said Lieutenant-Colonel St. Hilaire. "I have been feeling about for the right word or phrase myself, but you have found it first."

"Do you think it was a victory, sir?" asked Harry.

"Undoubtedly. We have won several vast and brilliant triumphs, but this is the greatest of them all. We have gone far into the enemy's country, where we have struck him a terrible blow, and now, of our own choice -- understand it is of our own choice -- we withdraw and challenge him to come and repeat on our own soil our exploit if he can. It is like a skilled and daring prize fighter who leaps back and laughingly bids his foe come on. Am I not right, Leonidas?"

"Neither Aristotle nor Plato was ever more right, Hector, old friend. Usually there is more to a grave affair than appears upon the surface. We could have gone on, after the battle, to Philadelphia, had we chosen, but it was not alone a question of military might that General Lee had to decide. He was bound to give weight to some very subtle considerations. You boys remember your Roman history, do you not?"

"Fragments of it, sir," replied Harry.

"Then you will recall that Hannibal, a fine general, to be named worthily with our great Lee so far as military movements are concerned, after famous victories over greatly superior numbers of Romans, went into camp at Capua, crowded with beauty, wine and games, and the soldiers became enervated. Their fiber was weakened and their bodies softened. They were quicker to heed the call to a banquet than the call to arms."

"Unless it was the arms of beauty, Leonidas."

"Well spoken, Hector. The correction is most important, and I accept it. But to take up again the main thread of my discourse. General Lee undoubtedly had the example of the Carthaginian army and Capua in mind when he left Gettysburg and returned toward the South. Philadelphia is a great city, far larger and richer than any in our section. It is filled with magnificent houses, beautiful women, luxury of every description, ease and softness. Our brave lads, crowned with mighty exploits and arriving there as conquerors, would have been received with immense admiration, although we are official enemies. And the head of youth is easily turned. The Army of Northern Virginia, emerging from Philadelphia, to achieve the conquest of New York and Boston would not be the army that it is to-day. It would lack some of that fire and dash, some of the extraordinary courage and tenacity which have enabled it to surpass the deeds of the veterans of Hannibal and Napoleon."

"But, sir, I've heard that the people of Philadelphia are mostly Quakers, very sober in dress and manner."

"Harry, my lad, when you've lived as long as I have you will know that a merry heart may beat beneath a plain brown dress, and that an ugly hood cannot wholly hide a sweet and saucy face. The girls -- God bless 'em -- have been the same in all lands since the world began, and will continue so to the end. While this war is on you boys cannot go a-courting, either in the North or South. Am I not right, Hector, old friend?"

"Right, as always, Leonidas. I perceive, though, that the sun is about to set; not a new thing, I admit, but we must not delay our young friends, when the general perhaps needs them."

"Well spoken again, Hector. You are an unfailing fount of wisdom. Good night, my brave lads. Not many of the Invincibles are left, but every one of them is a true friend of you both."

As they rode across the darkening fields Harry and Dalton knew that the colonel spoke the truth about the Invincibles.

"I like a faith such as theirs," said Dalton.

"Yes, it can often turn defeat into real victory."

They quickly found the general's headquarters, and as usual, whenever the weather permitted, he had made arrangements to sleep in the open air, his blankets spread upon soft boughs. Harry and Dalton, having slept all day, would be on night duty, and after supper they sat at a little distance, awaiting orders.

Coolness had come with the dark. A good moon and swarms of bright stars rode in the heavens, turning the skies to misty silver, and softening the scars of the army, which now lay encamped over a great space. Lee was talking with Stuart, who evidently had just arrived from a swift ride, as an orderly near by was holding his horse, covered with foam. The famous cavalryman was clothed in his gorgeous best. His hat was heavy with gold braid, and the broad sash about his waist was heavy with gold, also. Dandy he was, but brilliant cavalryman and great soldier too! Both friend and foe had said so.

Harry, sitting on the grass, with his back against a tree, watched the two generals as they talked long and earnestly. Now and then Stuart nervously switched the tops of his own high riding boots with the little whip that he carried, but the face of Lee, revealed clearly in the near twilight, remained grave and impassive.

After a long while Stuart mounted and rode away, and Sherburne, who had been sitting among the trees on the far side of the fire, came over and joined Harry and Dalton. He too was very grave.

"Do you know what has happened?" he said in a low tone to the two lads.

"Yes, there was a big battle at Gettysburg, and as we failed to win it we're now retreating," replied Harry.

"That's true as far as it goes, but it's not all. We've heard -- and the news is correct beyond a doubt -- that Grant has taken Vicksburg and Pemberton's army with it."

"Good God, Sherburne, it can't be so!"

"It shouldn't be so, but it is! Oh, why did Pemberton let himself be trapped in such a way! A whole army of ours lost and our greatest fortress in the West taken! Why, the Yankee men-of-war can steam up the Mississippi untouched, all the way from the Gulf to Minnesota."

Harry and Dalton were appalled, and, for a little while, were silent.

"I knew that man Grant would do something terrible to us," Harry said at last. "I've heard from my people in Kentucky what sort of a general he is. My father was at Shiloh, where we had a great victory on, but Grant wouldn't admit it, and held on, until another Union army came up and turned our victory into defeat. My cousin, Dick Mason, has been with Grant a lot, and I used to get a letter from him now and then, even if he is in the Yankee army. He says that when Grant takes hold of a thing he never lets go, and that he'll win the war for his side."

"Your cousin may be right about Grant's hanging on," said Dalton with sudden angry emphasis, "but neither he nor anybody else will win this war for the Yankees. We've lost Vicksburg, and an army with it, and we've retreated from Gettysburg, with enough men fallen there to make another army, but they'll never break through the iron front of Lee and his veterans."

"Hope you're right," said Sherburne, "but I'm off now. I'm in the saddle all night with my troop. We've got to watch the Yankee cavalry. Custer and Pleasanton and the rest of them have learned to ride in a way that won't let Jeb Stuart himself do any nodding."

He cantered off and the lads sat under the trees, ready for possible orders. They saw the fire die. They heard the murmur of the camp sink. Lee lay down on his bed of boughs, other generals withdrew to similar beds or to tents, and the two boys still sat under the trees, waiting and watching, and never knowing at what moment they would be needed.



Chapter II

The Northern Spy


But the night remained very quiet. Harry and Dalton, growing tired of sitting, walked about the camp, and looked again to their horses, which, saddled and bridled, were nevertheless allowed to nip the grass as best they could at the end of their lariats. The last embers of the fire went out, but the moon and stars remained bright, and they saw dimly the sleeping forms of Lee and his generals. Harry, who had seen nothing strange in Meade's lack of pursuit, now wondered at it. Surely when the news of Vicksburg came the exultant Army of the Potomac would follow, and try to deliver a crushing blow.

It was revealed to him as he stood silent in the moonlight that a gulf had suddenly yawned before the South. The slash of Grant's sword in the West had been terrible, and the wound that it made could not be cured easily. And the Army of Northern Virginia had not only failed in its supreme attempt, but a great river now flowed between it and Virginia. If the Northern leaders, gathering courage anew, should hurl their masses upon Lee's retreating force, neither skill nor courage might avail to save them. He suddenly beheld the situation in all its desperation; he shivered from head to foot.

Dalton saw the muscles of Harry's face quivering, and he noticed a pallor that came for an instant.

"I understand," he said. "I had thought of it already. If a Northern general like Lee or Stonewall Jackson were behind us we might never get back across the Potomac. It's somewhat the same position that we were in after Antietam."

"But we've no Stonewall Jackson now to help us."

Again that lump rose in Harry's throat. The vision of the sober figure on Little Sorrel, leading his brigades to victory, came before him, but it was a vision only.

"It's strange that we've not come in contact with their scouts or cavalry," he said. "In that fight with Pleasanton we saw what horsemen they've become, and a force of some kind must be hanging on our rear."

"If it's there, Sherburne and his troop will find it."

"I think I can detect signs of the enemy now," said Harry, putting his glasses to his eyes. "See that hill far behind us. Can't you catch the gleam of lights on it?"

"I think I can," replied Dalton, also using glasses. "Four lights are there, and they are winking, doubtless to lights on another hill too far away for us to see."

"It shows that the enemy at least is watching, and that while we may retreat unattacked it will not be unobserved. Hark! do you hear that, George? It's rifle shots, isn't it?"

"Yes, and a lot of 'em, but they're a long distance away. I don't think we could hear 'em at all if it were not night time."

"But it means something! There they go again! I believe it's a heavy skirmish and it's in the direction in which Sherburne rode."

"The general's up. It's likely that one of us will be sent to see what it's all about."

General Lee and his whole staff had risen and were listening attentively. The faint sound of many shots still came, and then a sharper, more penetrating crash, as if light field guns were at work. The commander beckoned to Harry.

"Ride toward it," he said briefly, "and return with a report as soon as you can."

Harry touched his cap, sprang upon his horse and galloped away. He knew that other messengers would be dispatched also, but, as he had been sent first, he wished to arrive first. He found a path among the trees along which he could make good speed, and, keeping his mind fixed on the firing, he sped forward.

Thousands of soldiers lay asleep in the woods and fields on either side of him, but the thud of the horse's hoofs awakened few of them. Nor did the firing disturb them. They had fought a great battle three days long, and then after a tense day of waiting under arms, they had marched hard. What to them was the noise made by an affair of outposts, when they had heard so long the firing of a hundred and fifty thousand rifles and three or four hundred big guns? Not one in a hundred stood up to see.

The country grew rougher, and Harry was compelled to draw his horse down to a walk. But the firing, a half-mile or more ahead, maintained its volume, and as he approached through thick underbrush, being able to find no other way, he dismounted and led his horse. Presently he saw beads of flame appearing among the bushes, seen a moment, then gone like a firefly, and as he went further he heard voices. He had no doubt that it was the Southern pickets in the undergrowth, and, calling softly, he received confirmatory replies.

A rifleman, a tall, slender fellow in ragged butternut, appeared beside him, and, recognizing Harry's near-gray uniform as that of an officer, said:

"They're dismounted cavalry on the other side of a creek that runs along over there among the bushes. I don't think they mean any real attack. They expect to sting us a little an' find out what we're about."

"Seems likely to me too. They aren't strong enough, of course, for an attempt at rushing us. What troops are in here in the woods on our side?"

"Captain Sherburne's cavalry, sir. They're a bit to our right, an' they're dismounted too. You'll find the captain himself on a little knoll about a hundred yards away."

"Thanks," said Harry, and leading his horse he reached the knoll, to find the rifleman's statement correct. Sherburne was kneeling behind some bushes, trying with the aid of glasses and moonlight to pick out the enemy.

"That you, Harry?" he said, glancing back.

"Yes, Captain. The general has sent me to see what you and the rest of you noisy fellows are doing."

"Shooting across a creek at an enemy who first shot at us. It's only under provocation that we've roused the general and his staff from sleep. Use your glasses and see what you can make out in those bushes on the other side! Keep down, Harry! For Heaven's sake keep down! That bullet didn't miss you more than three inches. You wouldn't be much loss to the army, of course, but you're my personal friend."

"Thanks for your advice. I intend to stay so far down that I'll lie almost flat."

He meant to keep his word, too. The warning had been a stern one. Evidently the sharpshooters who lay in the thickets on the Union side of the creek were of the first quality.

"There's considerable moonlight," whispered Sherburne, "and you mustn't expose an inch of your face. I take it that we have Custer's cavalry over there, mixed with a lot of scouts and skirmishers from the Northwest, Michigan and Wisconsin, most likely. They're the boys who can use the rifles in the woods. Had to do it before they came here, and they're a bad lot to go up against."

"It's a pretty heavy fire for a mere scouting party. If they want to discover our location they can do it without wasting so much powder and lead."

"I think it's more than a scout. They must have discovered long since just where we are. I imagine they mean to shake our nerve by constant buzzing and stinging. I fancy that Meade and his generals after deciding not to pursue us have changed their minds, perhaps under pressure from Washington, and mean to cut us off if they can."

"A little late."

"But not too late. We're still in the enemy's country. The whole population is dead against us, and we can't make a move that isn't known within an hour to the Union leaders. I tell you, Harry, that if we didn't have a Lee to lead I'd be afraid that we'd never get out of Pennsylvania."

"But we have a Lee and the question is settled. What a volley that was! Didn't you feel the twigs and leaves falling on your face?"

"Yes, it went directly over our heads. It's a good thing we're lying so close. Perhaps they intend to force a passage of the creek and stampede at least a portion of our camp."

"And you're here to prevent it."

"I am. They can't cross that creek in face of our fire. We're good night-hawks. Every boy in the South knows the night and the woods, and here in the bush we're something like Indians."

"I'm the descendant of a famous Indian fighter myself," said Harry. And there, surrounded by deep gloom and danger, the spirit of his mighty ancestor, the great Henry Ware, descended upon him once more. An orderly had taken their horses to the rear, where they would be out of range of the bullets, and, as they crouched low in the bushes, Sherburne looked curiously at him.

Harry's face as he turned from the soldier to the Indian fighter of old had changed. To Sherburne's fascinated gaze the eyes seemed amazingly vivid and bright, like those of one who has learned to see in the dark. The complexion was redder -- Henry Ware had always burned red instead of brown -- like that of one who sleeps oftener in the open air than in a house. His whole look was dominant, compelling and fierce, as he leaned on his elbows and studied the opposing thickets through his glasses.

The glasses even did not destroy the illusion. To Sherburne, who had learned Harry's family history, the great Henry Ware was alive, and in the flesh before him. He felt with all the certainty of truth that the Union skirmishers in the thicket could not escape the keen eyes that sought them out.

"I can see at least twenty men creeping about among the bushes, and seeking chances for shots," whispered Harry.

"I knew that you would see them."

It was Harry's turn to give a look of curiosity.

"What do you mean, Captain?" he asked.

"I knew that you had good eyes and I believed that with the aid of the glasses you would be able to trace figures, despite the shelter of the bushes. Study the undergrowth again, will you, Harry, and tell me what more you can see there?"

"I don't need to study it. I can tell at one look that they're gathering a force. Maybe they mean to rush the creek at a shallow place."

"Is that force moving in any direction?"

"Yes, it's going down the creek."

"Then we'll go down the creek with it. We mustn't be lacking in hospitality."

Sherburne drew a whistle from his pocket and blew a low call upon it. Scores of shadowy figures rose from the undergrowth, and followed his lead down the stream. Harry was still able to see that the force on the other side was increasing largely in numbers, but Sherburne reminded him that his duties, as far as the coming skirmish was concerned, were over.

"General Lee didn't send you here to get killed," he said. "He wants you instead to report how many of us get killed. You know that while the general is a kind man he can be stern, too, and you're not to take the risk. The orderly is behind that hill with your horse and mine."

Harry, with a sigh, fell back toward the hill. But he did not yet go behind it, where the orderly stood. Instead he lay down among the trees on the slope, where he could watch what was going forward, and once more his face turned to the likeness of the great Indian fighter.

He saw Sherburne's dismounted troop and others, perhaps five hundred in all, moving slowly among the bushes parallel with the stream, and he saw a force which he surmised to be of about equal size, creeping along in the undergrowth on the other side. He followed both bodies with his glasses. With long looking everything became clearer and clearer. The moonlight had to him almost the brilliancy of day.

His eyes followed the Union force, until it came to a point where the creek ran shallow over pebbles. Then the Union leader raised his sword, uttered a cry of command, and the whole force dashed at the ford. The cry met its response in an order from Sherburne, and the thickets flamed with the Southern rifles.

The advantage was wholly with the South, standing on the defense in dark undergrowth, and the Union troop, despite its desperate attempts at the ford, was beaten back with great loss.

Harry waited until the result was sure, and then he walked slowly over the hill toward the point, where the orderly was waiting with the horses. The man, who knew him, handed him the reins of his mount, saying at the same time:

"I've a note for you, sir."

"For me?"

"Yes, sir. It was handed to me about fifteen minutes ago by a large man in our uniform, whom I didn't know."

"Probably a dispatch that I'm to carry to General Lee."

"No, sir. It's addressed to you."

The note was written in pencil on a piece of coarse gray paper, folded several times, but with a face large enough to show Harry's name upon it. He wondered, but said nothing to the sentinel, and did not look at the note again, until he had ridden some distance.

He stopped in a little glade where the moonlight fell clearly. He still heard scattered firing behind him, but he knew that the skirmish was in reality over, and he concluded that no further attempt by Union detachments to advance would be made in the face of such vigilance. He could report to General Lee that the rear of his army was safe. So he would delay and look at the letter that had come to him out of the mysterious darkness.

The superscription was in a large, bold hand, and read:


Lieutenant Harry Kenton, Staff Of General Robert E. Lee, C. S. A., Commander-In-Chief, Army Of Northern Virginia.


He felt instinctively that something uncommon was coming, and, as most people do when they are puzzled at the appearance of a letter, he looked at it some seconds before opening it. Then he read:

Mr. Kenton:

I have warned you twice before, once when Jefferson Davis was inaugurated at Montgomery, and once again in Virginia. I told you that the South could never win. I told you that she might achieve brilliant victories, and she may achieve them even yet, but they will avail her nothing. Victories permit her to maintain her position for the time being, but they do not enable her to advance. A single defeat causes her to lose ground that she can never regain.

I tell you this as a warning. Although your enemy, I have seen you more than once and talked with you. I like you and would save your life if I could. I would induce you, if I could, to leave the army and return to your home, but that I know to be impossible. So, I merely tell you that you are fighting for a cause now lost. Perhaps it is pride on my part to remind you that my early predictions have come true, and perhaps it is a wish that the thought I may plant in your mind will spread to others. You have lost at Gettysburg a hope and an offensive that you can never regain, and Grant at Vicksburg has given a death blow to the Western half of the Confederacy.

As for you, I wish you well.

William J. Shepard.


Harry stared in amazement at this extraordinary communication, and read it over two or three times. He was not surprised that Shepard should be near, and that he should have been inside the Confederate lines, but that he should leave a letter, and such a letter, for him was uncanny. His first feeling, wonder, was succeeded by anger. Did Shepard really think that he could influence him in such a way, that he could plant in his mind a thought that would spread to others of his age and rank and weaken the cause for which he fought? It was a singular idea, but Shepard was a singular man.

But perhaps pride in recalling the prediction that he had made long ago was Shepard's stronger motive, and Harry took fire at that also. The Confederacy was not beaten. A single defeat -- no, it was not a defeat, merely a failure to win -- was not mortal, and as for the West, the Confederacy would gather itself together there and overwhelm Grant!

Then came a new emotion, a kind of gratitude to Shepard. The man was really a friend, and would do him a service, if it could be done, without injuring his own cause! He could not feel any doubt of it, else the spy would not have taken the risk to send him such a letter. He read it for the last time, then tore it into little pieces which he entrusted to the winds.

The firing behind him had died completely, and there was no sound but the rustle of dry leaves in the light wind, nothing to tell that there had been sharp fighting along the creek, and that men lay dead in the forest. The moon and the stars clothed everything in a whitish light, that seemed surcharged with a powerful essence, and this essence was danger.

The spirit of the great forest ranger descended upon him once more, and he read the omens, all of which were sinister. He foresaw terrible campaigns, mighty battles in the forest, and a roll of the dead so long that it seemed to stretch away into infinity.

Then he shook himself violently, cast off the spell, and rode rapidly back with his report. Lee had risen and was standing under a tree. He was fully dressed and his uniform was trim and unwrinkled. Harry thought anew as he rode up, what a magnificent figure he was. He was the only great man he ever saw who really looked his greatness. Nothing could stir that calm. Nothing could break down that loftiness of manner. Harry was destined to feel then, as he felt many times afterward, that without him the South had never a chance. And the choking came in his throat again, as he thought of him who was gone, of him who had been the right arm of victory, the hammer of Thor.

But he hid all these feelings as he quickly dismounted and saluted the commander-in-chief.

"What have you seen, Lieutenant Kenton?" asked Lee.

"A considerable detachment of the enemy tried to force the passage of the creek in our right rear. They were met by Captain Sherburne's troop dismounted, and three companies of infantry, and were driven back after a sharp fight."

"Very good. Captain Sherburne is an alert officer."

He turned away, and Harry, giving his horse to an orderly, again resumed his old position under a tree, out of hearing of the generals, but in sight. Dalton was not there, but he knew that skirmishing had occurred in other directions, and doubtless the Virginian had been sent on an errand like his own.

He had a sense of rest and realization as he leaned back against the tree. But it was mental tension, not physical, for which relief came, and Shepard, much more than the battle at the creek, was in his thoughts.

The strong personality of the spy and his seeming omniscience oppressed him again. Apparently he was able to go anywhere, and nothing could be hidden from him. He might be somewhere in the circling shadows at that very moment, watching Lee and his lieutenants. His pulses leaped. Shepard had achieved an extraordinary influence over him, and he was prepared to believe the impossible.

He stood up and stared into the bushes, but sentinels stood there, and no human being could pass their ring unseen. Presently Dalton came, made a brief report to General Lee and joined his comrade. Harry was glad of his arrival. The presence of a comrade brought him back to earth and earth's realities. The sinister shadows that oppressed him melted away and he saw only the ordinary darkness of a summer night.

The two sat side by side. Dalton perhaps drew as much strength as Harry from the comradeship, and they watched other messengers arrive with dispatches, some of whom rolled themselves in their blankets at once, and went to sleep, although three, who had evidently slept in the day, joined Harry and Dalton in their vigil.

Harry saw that the commander-in-chief was holding a council at that hour, nearer morning than midnight. A general kicked some of the pieces of burned wood together and fanned them into a light flame, enough to take away the slight chill that was coming with the morning. The men stood around it, and talked a long time, although it seemed to Harry that Lee said least. Nevertheless his tall figure dominated them all. Now and then Harry saw his face in the starshine, and it bore its habitual grave and impassive look.

The youth did not hear a word that was said, but his imaginative power enabled him to put himself in the place of the commander-in-chief. He knew that no man, however great his courage, could fail to appreciate his position in the heart of a hostile country, with a lost field behind him, and with superior numbers hovering somewhere in his rear or on his flank. He realized then to the full the critical nature of their position and what a mighty task Lee had to save the army.

One of his young comrades whispered to him that the Potomac, the barrier between North and South, was rising, flooded by heavy rains in both mountains and lowlands, and that a body of Northern cavalry had already destroyed a pontoon bridge built by the South across it. They might be hemmed in, with their backs to an unfordable river, and an enemy two or three times as numerous in front.

"Don't you worry," whispered Dalton, with sublime confidence. "The general will take us to Virginia."

Harry projected his imagination once more. He sought to put himself in the place of Lee, receiving all the reports and studying them, trying to measure space that could not be measured, and to weigh a total that could not be weighed. Greatness and responsibility were compelled to pay thrice over for themselves, and he was glad that he was only a young lieutenant, the chief business of whom was to fetch and carry orders.

Shafts of sunlight were piercing the eastern foliage when the council broke up, and shortly after daylight the Southern army was again on the march, with Northern cavalry and riflemen hanging on its flanks and rear. Harry was permitted to rejoin, for a while, his friends of the Invincibles and he found Colonel Leonidas Talbot and Lieutenant-Colonel Hector St. Hilaire riding very erect, a fine color in their faces.

"You come from headquarters, Harry, and therefore you are omniscient," said Colonel Talbot. "We heard firing in the night. What did it mean?"

"Only skirmishers, Colonel. I think they wanted to annoy us, but they paid the price."

"Inevitably. Our general is as dangerous in retreat as in advance. I fancy that General Meade will not bring up his lagging forces until we near the Potomac."

"They say it's rising, sir, and that it will be very hard to cross."

"That creates a difficulty but not an impossibility. Ordinary men yield to difficulties, men like our commander-in-chief are overcome only by impossibilities. But the further we go, Harry, the more reconciled I grow to our withdrawal. I have seen scarcely a friendly face among the population. I would not have us thrust ourselves upon people who do not like us. It would go very hard with our kindly Southern nature to have to rule by force over people who are in fact our brethren. Defensive wars are the just wars, and perhaps it will be really better for us to retire to Virginia and protect its sacred soil from the tread of the invader. Eh, Hector?"

"Right, as usual, Leonidas. The reasons for our retirement are most excellent. We have already spoken of the fact that Philadelphia might prove a Capua for our young troops, and now we are relieved from the chance of appearing as oppressors. It can never be said of us by the people of Pennsylvania that we were tyrants. It's an invidious task to rule over the unwilling, even when one rules with justice and wisdom. It's strange, perhaps, Leonidas, but it's a universal truth, that people would rather be ruled by themselves in a second rate manner than by the foreigner in a first rate manner. Now, the government of our states is attacked by Northern critics, but such as it is, it is ours and it's our first choice. Do we bore you, Harry?"

"Not at all, sir. I never listen to either you or Colonel Talbot without learning something."

The two colonels bowed politely.

"I have wished for some time to speak to you about a certain matter, Hector," said Colonel Talbot.

"What is it, Leonidas?"

"During the height of that tremendous artillery fire from Little Round Top I was at a spot where I could see the artillerymen very well whenever the smoke lifted. Several times, I noticed an officer directing the fire of the guns, and I don't think I could have been mistaken in his identity."

"No, Leonidas, you were not. I too observed him, and we could not possibly be mistaken. It was John Carrington, of course."

"Dear old John Carrington, who was with us at West Point, the greatest artilleryman in the world. And he was facing us, when the fortunes of the South were turning on a hair. If any other man had been there, directing those guns, we might have taken Cemetery Hill."

"That's true, Leonidas, but it was not possible for any other man to be in such a place at such a time. Granting that such a crisis should arise and that it should arise at Gettysburg you and I would have known long before that John would be there with the guns to stop us. Why, we saw that quality in him all the years we were with him at West Point. The world has never seen and never will see another such artilleryman as John Carrington."

"Good old John. I hope he wasn't killed."

"And I hope so too, from the bottom of my heart. But we'll know before many days."

"How will you find out?" asked Harry curiously.

Both colonels laughed genially.

"Because he will send us signs, unmistakable signs," replied Colonel Talbot.

"I don't understand, sir."

"His signs will be shells, shrapnel and solid shot. We may not have a battle this week or next week, but a big one is bound to come some time or other and then if any section of the Northern artillery shows uncommon deadliness and precision we'll know that Carrington is there. Why, we can recognize his presence as readily as the deer scents the hunter. We'll have many notes to compare with him when the war is over."

Harry sincerely hoped that the three would meet in friendship around some festive table, and he was moved by the affection and admiration the two colonels held for Carrington. Doubtless the great artilleryman's feelings toward them were the same.

They went into camp once more that night in a pleasant rolling country of high hills, rich valleys, scattered forests, and swift streams of clear water. Harry liked this Northern land, which was yet not so far from the South. It was not more beautiful than his own Kentucky, but it was much trimmer and neater than the states toward the Gulf. He saw all about him the evidences of free labor, the proof that man worked more readily, and with better results, when success or failure were all his own.

He was too young to spend much time in concentrated thinking, but as he looked upon the neat Pennsylvania houses and farms and the cultivated fields he felt the curse of black slavery in the South, but he felt also that it was for the South itself to abolish it, and not for the armed hand of the outsider, an outsider to whom its removal meant no financial loss and dislocation.

Despite himself his mind dwelt upon these things longer than before. He disliked slavery, his father disliked it, and nearly all their friends and relatives, and here they were fighting for it, as one of the two great reasons of the Civil War. He felt anew how strangely things come about, and that even the wisest cannot always choose their own courses as they wish them.

A fire, chiefly for cooking purposes, had been built for the general and his staff in a cove surrounded by trees. A small cold spring gushed from the side of a hill, flowed down the center of the cove, and then made its way through the trees into the wider world beyond. It was a fine little spring, and before the general came, the younger members of the staff knelt and drank deeply at it. It brought thoughts of home to all these young rovers of the woods, who had drunk a thousand times before at just such springs as this.

Soon Lee and his generals sat there on the stones or on the moss. Longstreet, Stuart, Pickett, Alexander, Ewell, Early, Hill and many others, some suffering from wounds, were with their commander, while the young officers who were to fetch and carry sat on the fringe in the woods, or stretched themselves on the turf.

Harry was in the group, but except in extreme emergency he would not be on duty that night, as he had already been twenty-four hours in the saddle. Nevertheless he was not yet sleepy, and lying on his blanket, he watched the leaders confer, as they had conferred every other night since the Battle of Gettysburg. He was aware, too, that the air was heavy with suspense and anxiety. He breathed it in at every breath. Cruel doubt was not shown by words or actions, but it was an atmosphere which one could not mistake.

Word had been brought in the afternoon by hard riders of Stuart that the Potomac was still rising. It could not be forded and the active Northern cavalry was in between, keeping advanced parties of the Southern army from laying pontoons. Every day made the situation more desperate, and it could not be hidden from the soldiers, who, nevertheless, marched cheerfully on, in the sublime faith that Lee would carry them through.

Harry knew that if the Army of the Potomac was not active in pursuit its cavalrymen and skirmishers were. As on the night before, he heard the faint report of shots, and he knew that rough work was going forward along the doubtful line, where the fringes of the two armies almost met. But hardened so much was he that he fell asleep while the generals were still in anxious council, and the fitful firing continued in the distant dark.



Chapter III

The Flooded River


Harry and Dalton were aroused before daylight by Colonel Peyton of Lee's staff, with instructions to mount at once, and join a strong detachment, ready to go ahead and clear a way. Sherburne's troop would lead. The Invincibles, for whom mounts had been obtained, would follow. There were fragments of other regiments, the whole force amounting to about fifteen hundred men, under the command of Sherburne, who had been raised the preceding afternoon to the rank of Colonel, and whose skill and valor were so well known that such veterans as Colonel Talbot and Lieutenant Colonel St. Hilaire were glad to serve under him. Harry and Dalton would represent the commander-in-chief, and would return whenever Colonel Sherburne thought fit to report to him.

Harry was glad to go. While he had his periods of intense thought, and his character was serious, he was like his great ancestor, essentially a creature of action. His blood flowed more swiftly with the beat of his horse's hoofs, and his spirits rose as the free air of the fields and forests rushed past him. Moreover he was extremely anxious to see what lay ahead. If barriers were there he wanted to look upon them. If the Union cavalry were trying to keep them from laying bridges across the Potomac he wanted to help drive them away.

Harry and Dalton had a right as aides and messengers of Lee to ride with Sherburne, but before they joined him they rode among the Invincibles, who were in great feather, because they too, for the time being, rode, and toiled in neither dust nor mud.

"Colonel Sherburne may think a good deal of his own immediate troop," said St. Clair to Harry, "but if the men of the Invincibles could achieve so much on foot they'll truly deserve their name on horseback. Where is this enemy of ours? Lead us to him."

"You'll find him soon enough," said Harry. "You South Carolina talkers have learned many times that the Yankees will fight."

"Yes, Harry, I admit it freely. But you must admit on your part that the South Carolinians will fight as well as talk, although at present most of the South Carolinians in this regiment are Virginians."

"But not our colonel and lieutenant-colonel," said Happy Tom. "Real old South Carolina still leads."

"May they always lead!" said Harry heartily, looking at the two gray figures.

"Tell Colonel Sherburne," said Happy Tom, who was in splendid spirits, "that we congratulate him on his promotion and are ready to obey him without question."

"All right. He'll be glad to know that he has your approval."

"He might have the approval of worse men. I feel surging within me the talents of a great general, but I'm too young to get 'em recognized."

"You'll have to wait until the sections are not fighting each other, but are united against a common foe. But meanwhile I'll tell Colonel Sherburne that if he gets into a tight pinch not to lose heart as you are here."

Saluting Colonel Talbot and Lieutenant-Colonel St. Hilaire, Harry and Dalton rode to the head of the column, where Sherburne led. They ate their breakfast on horseback, and went swiftly down a valley in the general direction of the Potomac. The dawn had broadened into full morning, clear and bright, save for a small cloud that hung low in the southwest, which Sherburne noticed with a frown.

"That's a little cloud and it looks innocent," he said to Harry, "but I don't like it."

"Why not?"

"Because in the ten minutes that I've been watching it I've been able to notice growth. I'm weather-wise and we may have more rain. More rain means a higher Potomac. A higher Potomac means more difficulty in crossing it. More difficulty in crossing it means more danger of our destruction, and our destruction would mean the end of the Confederacy."

He spoke with deadly earnestness as he continued to look at the tiny dusky spot on the western sky. Harry had a feeling of awe. Again he realized that such mighty issues could turn upon a single hair. The increase or decrease of that black splotch might mean the death or life of the Confederacy. As he rode he watched it.

His heart sank slowly. The little baby cloud, looking so harmless, was growing. He said to himself in anger that it was not, but he knew that it was. Black at the center, it radiated in every direction until it became pale gray at the edges, and by and by, as it still spread, it gave to the southwest an aspect that was distinctly sinister.

Sherburne shook his head and the gravity of his face increased. As the cloud grew alarm grew with it in his mind.

"Maybe it will pass," said Harry hopefully.

"I don't think so. It's not moving away. It just hangs there and grows and grows. You're a woodsman, Harry, and you ought to feel it. Don't you think the atmosphere has changed?"

"I didn't have the courage to say so until you asked me, but it's damper. If I were posing as a prophet I should say that we're going to have rain."

"And so should I. Usually at this period of the year in our country we want rain, but now we dread it like a pestilence. At any other time the Potomac could rise or fall, whenever it pleased, for all I cared, but now it's life and death."

"Our doubts are decided and we've lost. Look, sir the whole southwest is dark now!"

"And here come the first drops!"

Sherburne sent hurried orders among the men to keep their ammunition and weapons dry, and then they bent their heads to the storm which would beat almost directly in their faces. Soon it came without much preliminary thunder and lightning. The morning that had been warm turned cold and the rain poured hard upon them. Most of the horsemen were wet through in a short time, and they shivered in their sodden uniforms, but it was a condition to which they were used, and they thought little of themselves but nearly all the while of the Potomac.

Few words were spoken. The only sounds were the driving of the rain and the thud of many hoofs in the mud. Harry often saw misty figures among the trees on the hills, and he knew that they were watched by hostile eyes as the Northern armies in Virginia, were always watched with the same hostility. It was impossible for Lee's men to make any secret march. The population, intensely loyal to the Union, promptly carried news of it to Meade or his generals.

Twice he pointed out the watchers to Sherburne who merely shrugged his shoulders.

"I might send out men and cut off a few of them," he said, "but for what good? Hundreds more would be left and we'd merely be burdened with useless prisoners. Here's a creek ahead, Harry, and look how muddy and foamy it is! It's probably raining harder higher up in the hills than it is here, and all these creeks and brooks go to swell the Potomac."

The swift water rose beyond their stirrups and there was a vast splashing as fifteen hundred men rode through the creek. It was a land of many streams, and a few miles farther on they crossed another, equally swollen and swift.

They had hoped that the rain, like the sudden violence of a summer shower, would pass soon, but the skies remained a solid gray and it settled into a steady solemn pour, cold and threatening, and promising to continue all day long. They could see that every stream they crossed was far above its normal mark, and the last hope that they might find the Potomac low enough for fording disappeared.

The watchers on the hills were still there, despite the rain, but they did no sharpshooting. Nor did the Southern force do damage to anybody or anything, as it passed. Near noon Sherburne resolved to build a fire in a cove protected by cliffs and heavy timber, and give his men warm food lest they become dispirited.

It was a task to set the wet wood, but the men of his command, used to forest life, soon mastered it. Then they threw on boughs and whole tree trunks, until a great bonfire blazed and roared merrily, thrusting out innumerable tongues of red and friendly flame.

"Is there anything more beautiful than a fine fire at such a time?" said St. Clair to Harry. "As it blazes and eats into the wood it crackles and those crackling sounds are words."

"What do the words say?"

"They say, 'Come here and stand before me. So long as you respect me and don't come too close I'll do you nothing but good. I'll warm you and I'll dry you. I'll drive the wet from your skin and your clothes, and I'll chase the cold out of your body and bones. I'll take hold of your depressed and sunken heart and lift it up again. Where you saw only gray and black I'll make you see gold and red. I'll warm and cook your food for you, giving you fresh life and strength. With my crackling coals and my leaping flames I'll change your world of despair into a world of hope.'"

"Hear! Hear!" said Happy Tom. "Arthur has turned from a sodden soldier into a giddy poet! Is any more poetry left in the barrel, Arthur?"

"Plenty, but I won't turn on the tap again to-day. I've translated for you. I've shown you where beauty and happiness lie, and you must do the rest for yourself."

They crowded about the huge fire which ran the entire length of the cove, and watched the cooks who had brought their supplies on horseback. Great quantities of coffee were made, and they had bacon and hard biscuits.

Although the rain still reached them in the cove they forgot it as they ate the good food -- any food was good to them -- and drank cup after cup of hot coffee. Youthful spirits rose once more. It wasn't such a bad day after all! It had rained many times before and people still lived. Also, the Potomac had risen many times before, but it always fell again. They were riding to clear the way for Lee's invincible army which could go wherever it wanted to go.

"Men on horseback looking at us!" hailed Happy Tom. "About fifty on a low hill on our right. Look like Yankee cavalrymen. Wonder what they take us for anyway!"

Harry, St. Clair, Langdon and Dalton walked to the edge of the cove, every one holding a cup of hot coffee in his hand. Sherburne was already there and with his glasses was examining the strange group, as well as he could through the sweeping rain.

"A scouting party undoubtedly," he said, "but weather has made their uniforms and ours look just about alike. It's equally certain though that they're Yankees. No troop of ours so small would be found here."

Harry was also watching them through glasses, and he took particular note of one stalwart figure mounted upon a powerful horse. The distance was too great to recognize the face, but he knew the swing of the broad shoulders. It was Shepard and once more he had the uneasy feeling winch the man always inspired in him. He appeared and reappeared with such facility, and he was so absolutely trackless that he had begun to appear to him as omniscient. Of course the man knew all about Sherburne's advance and could readily surmise its purpose.

"They're an impudent lot to sit there staring at us in that supercilious manner," said Colonel Talbot. "Shall I take the Invincibles, sir, and teach them a lesson?"

Sherburne smiled and shook his head.

"No, Colonel," he said, "although I thank you for the offer. They'd melt away before you and we'd merely waste our energies. Let them look as much as they please, and now that the boys have eaten their bread and bacon and drunk their coffee, and are giants again, we'll ride on toward the Potomac."

"Do we reach it to-day, sir?" asked Colonel Talbot.

"Not before to-morrow afternoon, even if we should not be interrupted. This is the enemy's country and we may run at any time into a force as large as our own if not larger."

"Thank you for the information, Colonel Sherburne. My ignorance of geography may appear astonishing to you, although we had to study it very hard at West Point. But I admit my weakness and I add, as perhaps some excuse, that I have lately devoted very little attention to the Northern states. It did not seem worth my time to spend much study on the rivers, and creeks and mountains of what is to be a foreign country -- although I may never be able to think of John Carrington and many other of my old friends in the army as the foreigners they're sure to become. Has the thought ever occurred to you, Colonel, that by our victories we're making a tremendous lot of foreigners in America?"

"It has, Colonel Talbot, but I can't say that the thought has ever been a particularly happy one."

"It's the Yankees who are being made into foreigners," said Lieutenant-Colonel St. Hilaire. "The gallant Southern people, of course, remain what they are."

"They're going," said Harry. "They've seen enough of us."

The distant troop disappeared over the crest of the hill. Harry had noticed that Shepard led the way as if he were the ruling spirit, but he did not consider it necessary to say anything to the others about him. The trumpet blew and Sherburne's force, mounting, rode away from the cove. Harry cast one regretful glance back at the splendid fire which still glowed there, and then resigned himself to the cold and rain.

They did not stop again until far in the night. The rain ceased, but the whole earth was sodden and the trees on the low ridge, on which Sherburne camped, dripped with water. Spies might be all around them, but for the sake of physical comfort and the courage that he knew would come with it, he ordered another big fire built. Vigilant riflemen took turns in beating up the forests and fields for possible enemies, but the young officers once more enjoyed the luxury of the fire. Their clothing was dried thoroughly, and their tough and sinewy frames recovered all their strength and elasticity.

"To enjoy being dry it is well to have been wet," said Dalton sententiously.

"That's just like you, you old Presbyterian," said Happy Tom. "I suppose you'll argue next that you can't enjoy Heaven unless you've first burned in the other place for a thousand years."

"There may be something in that," said Dalton gravely, "although the test, of course, would be an extremely severe one."

"I know which way you're headed, George."

"Then tell me, because I don't know myself."

"As soon as this war is over you'll enter the ministry, and no sin will get by you, not even those nice little ones that all of us like to forgive."

"Maybe you're right, Happy, and if I do go into the ministry I shall at once begin long and earnest preparation for the task which would necessarily be the most difficult of my life."

"And may I make so bold as to inquire what it is, George?"

"Your conversion, Happy."

Langdon grinned.

"But why do you want to convert me, George? I'm perfectly happy as I am."

"For your own well being, Tom. Your happiness is nothing to me, but I want to make you good."

Both laughed the easy laugh of youth, but Harry looked long at Dalton. He thought that he detected in him much of the spirit of Stonewall Jackson, and that here was one who had in him the makings of a great minister. The thought lingered with him.

St. Clair was carefully smoothing out his uniform and brushing from it the least particle of mud. His first preoccupation always asserted itself at the earliest opportunity, and in a very short time he was the neatest looking man in the entire force. Harry, although he often jested with him about it, secretly admired this characteristic of St. Clair's.

"You boys sleep while you can," said Sherburne, "because we can't afford to linger in this region. Our safety lies in rapid marching, giving the enemy no chance to gather a large force and trap us. Make the best of your time because we're up and away an hour after midnight."

The young officers were asleep within ten minutes, but the vigilant riflemen patrolled the country in a wide circuit about them. Sherburne himself, although worn by hard riding, slept but little. Anxiety kept his eyes open. He knew that his task to find a passage for the army across the swollen Potomac was of the utmost importance and he meant to achieve it. He understood to the full the dangerous position in which the chief army of the Confederacy stood. His own force might be attacked at any moment by overwhelming numbers and be cut off and destroyed or captured, but he also knew the quality of the men he led, and he believed they were equal to any task.

As he sat by the fire thinking somberly, a figure in the brush no great distance away was watching him. Shepard, the spy, in the darkness had passed with ease between the sentinels, using the skill of an Indian in stalking or approaching, and now, lying well hidden, almost flat upon his stomach, he surveyed the camp. He looked at Sherburne, sitting on a log and brooding, and he made out Harry's figure wrapped in a blanket and lying with his feet to the fire.

Shepard's mind was powerfully affected. An intense patriot, something remote and solitary in his nature had caused him to undertake this most dangerous of all trades, to which he brought an intellectual power and comprehension that few spies possess. As Harry had discovered long since, he was a most uncommon man.

Now Shepard as he gazed at this little group felt no hatred for them or their men. He had devoted his life to the task of keeping the Union intact. His work must be carried out in obscure ways. He could never hope for material reward, and if he perished it would be in some out-of-the-way corner, perhaps at the end of a rope, a man known to so few that there would be none to forget him. And yet his patriotism was so great and of such a fine quality that he viewed his enemies around the fire as his brethren. He felt confident that the armies of the North would bring them back into the Union, and when that occurred they must come as Americans on an equal footing with other Americans. They could not be in the Union and not of it.

But Shepard's feeling for his official enemies would not keep him from acting against them with all the skill, courage and daring that he possessed in such supreme measure. He knew that it was Sherburne's task to open a way for the Army of Northern Virginia to the Potomac and to find a ford, or, in cooperation with some other force, to build a bridge. It was for him to defeat the plan if he could.

While the rain all the day before had brought gloom to the hearts of Sherburne and his men it had filled his with joy, as he thought of the innumerable brooks and creeks that were pouring their swollen waters into the Potomac, already swollen too. He meant now to follow Sherburne's force, see what plan it would attempt, what point, perhaps, it would select for the bridge, and then bring the Union brigades in haste to defeat it.

It is said that men often feel when they are watched, although the watcher is invisible, but it was not so in Sherburne's case. He did not in the least suspect the presence of Shepard or of any foe, and the spy, after he had seen all he wished, withdrew, with the same stealth that had marked his coming.

An hour after midnight all were awakened and they rode away. The next day they reached the Potomac near Williamsport, where their pontoon bridge had been destroyed, and looked upon the wide stream of the Potomac, far too deep for fording.

"If General Lee is attacked on the banks of this river by greatly superior forces," said Sherburne, "he'll have no time to build bridges. If we didn't happen to be victorious our forces would have to scatter into the mountains, where they could be hunted down, man by man."

"But such a thing as that is unthinkable, sir," said Harry. "We may not win always, but here in the East we never lose. Remember Antietam and the river at our back."

"Right you are, Harry," said Sherburne more cheerfully. "The general will get us out of this, and here is where we must cross. The river may run down enough in two or three days to permit of fording. God grant that it will!"

"And so say I!" repeated Harry with emphasis.

"I mean to hold this place for our army," continued Sherburne.

"A reserved seat, so to speak."

"Yes, that's it. We must keep the country cleared until our main force comes up. It shouldn't be difficult. I haven't heard of any considerable body of Union troops between us and the river."

They made camp rapidly in a strong position, built their fires for cooking, set their horses to grazing and awaited what would come. It was a dry, clear night, and Harry, who had no duties, save to ride with a message at the vital moment, looked at once for his friends, the Invincibles.

St. Clair met him and held up a warning hand, while Happy touched his lip with his finger. Before the double injunction of silence and caution, Harry whispered:

"What's happened?"

"A tragedy," replied St. Clair.

"And a victory, too," said Happy Tom.

"I don't understand," said Harry.

"Then look and you will," said St. Clair.

He pointed to a small clear space in which Colonel Leonidas Talbot and Lieutenant-Colonel Hector St. Hilaire sat on their blankets facing each other with an empty cracker box between them, upon which their chess men were spread. The firelight plainly revealed a look of dismay upon the face of Colonel Talbot, and with equal plainness a triumphant expression upon that of Lieutenant-Colonel St. Hilaire.

"Colonel Talbot has lost his remaining knight," whispered St. Clair. "I don't know how it came about, but when the event occurred we heard them both utter a cry. Listen!"

"I fail even yet, Hector, to see just how it occurred." said Colonel Talbot.

"But it has occurred, Leonidas, and that's the main thing. A general in battle does not always know how he is whipped, but the whipping hurts just as much."

"You should not show too much elation over your triumph, Hector. Remember that he laughs best who laughs last."

"I take my laugh whenever I can, Leonidas, because no one knows who is going to laugh last. It may be that he who laughs in the present will also laugh at the end. What do you mean by that move, Leonidas?"

"That to you is a mystery, Hector. It's like one of Stonewall Jackson's flanking marches, and in due time the secret will be revealed with terrible results."

"Pshaw, Leonidas, you can't frighten a veteran like me. That for your move, and here's mine in reply."

The two gray heads bent lower over the board as the colonels made move after move. The youths standing in the shadow of the trees watched until the second time that night the two uttered a simultaneous cry. But they were very different in quality. Now Colonel Talbot's expressed victory and Lieutenant-Colonel St. Hilaire's consternation.

"Your bishop, Hector!" exclaimed Colonel Talbot. "Pious and able gentleman as he is, an honor to his cloth, he is nevertheless my captive."

"I admit that it was most unexpected, Leonidas. You have matched my victory with one of yours. It was indeed most skillful and I don't yet see what led to it."

"Did I not warn you a little while ago that you couldn't frighten me? I prepared a trap for you, and thus I rise from defeat to victory."

"At any rate we are about even on the evening's work, Leonidas, and we have made more progress than for the whole six months preceding. It seems likely now that we can finish our game soon."

A sudden crash of rifle fire toward the east and from a point not distant told them no. They rose to their feet, but they put the chessmen away very deliberately, while the young officers hastened to their posts. The fire continued and spread about them in a half circle, accompanied now and then by the deeper note of a light field gun. Sherburne made his dispositions rapidly. All the men remained on foot, but a certain number were told off to hold the horses in the center of the camp.

"We're attacked by a large force," said Sherburne, "Our scouts gave us warning in time. Evidently they wish to drive us away from here because this will be the ford in case the river falls in time."

"Then you look for a sharp fight?"

"Without question. And remember that you're to avoid all risk if you can. It's not your business to get shot here, but it is your business, and your highly important business, to ride back to General Lee with the news of what's happening. In order to do that it's necessary for you to remain alive."

"I obey orders," said Harry reluctantly.

"Of course you do. Keep back with the men who are holding the horses. That fire is growing fast! I'm glad we were able to find a camp so defensible as this hill."

He hurried away to watch his lines and Harry remained at his station near the horses, where Dalton was compelled by the same responsibility to stay with him. It was the first time that Harry had been forced to remain a mere spectator of a battle raging around him, and while not one who sought danger for danger's sake, it was hard work to control himself and remain quiet and unmoved.

"I suspect they're trying to cut us off completely from our own army," he said to Dalton.

"Seems likely to me, too," said Dalton. "Wipe us out here, and hold the river for themselves. Our scouts assured us that there was no large force of the enemy in this region. It must have been gathered in great haste."

"In whatever way it was gathered, it's here, that's sure."

There was a good moon now, and, using his glasses, Harry saw many details of the battle. The attack was being pressed with great vigor and courage. He saw in a valley numerous bodies of cavalry, firing their carbines, and he saw two batteries, of eight light guns each, move forward for a better range. Soon their shells were exploding near the hill on which Harry stood, and the fire of the rifles, unbroken now, grew rapidly in volume.

But the men under Sherburne, youthful though most of them might be, were veterans. They knew every trick of war, and columns of infantry swept forward to meet the attack, preceded by the skirmishers, who took heavy toll of the foe.

"If they'd been able to make it a surprise they might have rushed us," said Harry.

"Nobody catches Sherburne sleeping," said Dalton.

"That's true, and because they can't they won't be able to overcome him here. Now there go our rifles! Listen to that crash. I fancy that about a thousand were fired together, and they weren't fired for nothing."

"No," said Dalton, "but the Yankees don't give way. You can see by their line of fire that they're still coming. Look there! A powerful body of horse is charging!"

It was unusual to see cavalry attack at night, and the spectacle was remarkable, as the moonlight fell on the raised sabers. But the defiant rebel yell, long and fierce, rose from the thicket, and, as the rifles crashed, the entire front of the charging column was burned away, as if by a stroke of lightning. But after a moment of hesitation they came on, only to ride deeper into a rifle fire which emptied saddles so fast that they were at last compelled to turn and gallop away.

"Brave men," said Harry. "A gallant charge, but it had to meet too many Southern rifles, aimed by men who know how to shoot."

"But their infantry are advancing through that wood," said Dalton. "Hear them cheering above the rifle fire!"

The Northern shout rang through the forest, and the rebel yell, again full of defiance, replied. The cavalry had been driven off, but the infantry and artillery were far from beaten. The sixteen guns of the two batteries were massed on a hill and they began to sweep the Southern lines with a storm of shells and shrapnel. The forest and the dark were no protection, because the guns searched every point of the Southern line with their fire. Sherburne's men were forced to give ground, before cannon served with such deadly effect.

"What will the colonel do?" asked Dalton. "The big guns give the Yankees the advantage."

"He'll go straight to the heart of the trouble," said Harry. "He'll attack the guns themselves."

He did not know actually in what manner Sherburne would proceed, but he was quite sure that such would be his course. The wary Southern leader instantly detailed a swarm of his best riflemen to creep through the woods toward the cannon. In a few minutes the gunners themselves were under the fire of hidden marksmen who shot surpassingly well. The gunners, the cannoneers, the spongers, the rammers and the ammunition passers were cut down with deadly certainty.

The captain of the guns, knowing that the terrible rifle fire was coming from the thickets, deluged the woods and bushes with shells and shrapnel, but the riflemen lay close, hugging the ground, and although a few were killed and more wounded, the vast majority crept closer and closer, shooting straight and true in the moonlight. The fire from the batteries became scattered and wild. Their crews were cut down so fast that not enough men were left to work the guns, and their commander reluctantly gave the order to withdraw to a less exposed position.

"Rifles triumphant over artillery," said Harry, who studied everything through his glasses; "but of course the dusk helped the riflemen."

"That's true," said Dalton, "but it takes good men like Sherburne to use the favoring chances. Now our boys are charging!"

The tremendous rebel yell swelled through the forest, and the Southern infantry rushed to the attack. Harry saw that the charge was successful, and his ears told him so too. The firing moved further and further away, and soon declined in volume.

"They've been beaten off," said Harry.

"At least for the time," said Dalton, "but I've an idea they'll hang on our front and may attack again in a day or so."

"How then are you and I to get through and tell General Lee that this is the place to bridge the Potomac, if it's to be bridged at all?"

Dalton shook his head.

"I don't know," he replied, "and I won't think about it until Colonel Sherburne gives his orders."

The sounds of battle died in the distant woods. The last shot, whether from cannon or rifle, was fired, and the Southern troops returned to their positions, which they began to fortify strongly. Sherburne appeared presently, his uniform cut by bullets in two or three places, but his body untouched. He drew Harry and Dalton aside, where their words could not be heard by anybody else.

"You two," he said, "were to report to General Lee when I thought fit. Well, the time has come; Harry, you go first, and, at a suitable moment, George will follow. We have news of surpassing importance. We took a number of prisoners in that battle and we were also lucky enough to rescue several of our men who had been held as captives. We've learned from them that General Meade, after making up his mind to pursue, followed straight behind us for a while, but he has now turned and gone southward in the direction of Frederick. He will cross South Mountain, advance toward Sharpsburg, and attempt to smash us here, with our backs to this swollen river. Why, some of the Federal leaders consider the Army of Northern Virginia as good as destroyed already!"

He spoke with angry emphasis.

"But it isn't," said Harry.

"No, it isn't. Doubtless General Lee will learn from scouts of his own of General Meade's flanking movement, but we mustn't take the chance. Moreover, we must tell him that this is the place for our army to cross. If the river runs down in two or three days we'll have a ford here."

"I'm ready to go at any moment," said Harry. "Night helping me, I may be able to ride through the lines of our enemies out there."

"No, Harry, you must not go that way. They're so vigilant that you would not have any possible chance. Nor can you ride. You must leave your horse behind."

"What way then must I go, sir?"

"By the river. We have gathered up a few small boats, used at the crossing here. You can row, can't you?"

"Fairly well, sir."

"'Twill do, because you're not to stay in the boat long. I want you to drop down the stream until you're well beyond the Federal lines. Then leave the boat and strike out across the country for General Lee. You know the way. You can buy or seize a horse, and you must not fail."

"I will not fail," said Harry confidently.

"You'll succeed if anybody will, and now you must be off. Your pistols are loaded, Harry? You may have to use them."

They did not delay a minute, going down the shelving shore to the Potomac, where a man held a small boat against the bank.

"Get in, Harry," said Sherburne. "You'd better drop down three or four miles, at least. Good-by and good luck."

He shook hands with his colonel and Dalton, took the oars and pulled far out into the stream.



Chapter IV

A Herald To Lee


When he swept out upon the sullen bosom of the Potomac, Harry looked back only once. He saw two dim figures going up the bank, and, at its crest, a line of lights that showed the presence of the Southern force. There was no sound of firing, and he judged that the enemy had withdrawn to a distance of two or three miles.

The night had turned darker since the battle ceased, and not many stars were out. Clouds indicated that flurries of rain might come, but he did not view them now with apprehension. Darkness and rain would help a herald to Lee. The current was strong, and he did not have to pull hard, but, observing presently that the far shore was fringed with bushes, he sent the boat into their shadow.

He did not anticipate any danger from the southern shore, but the old inherited caution of the forest runners was strong within him. Under the hanging bushes he was well hidden, but, in some places, the flood in the river had turned the current back upon itself, and he was compelled to pull with vigor on the oars.

The clouds that had threatened did not develop much, and while the forests were dark, the surface of the river showed clearly in the faint moonlight. Any object upon it could be seen from either bank, and Harry was glad that he had sought the shelter of the overhanging bushes. He realized now that in this region, which was really the theater of war, many scouts and skirmishers must be about.

The bank above him was rather high and quite steep, for which he was glad, as it afforded protection. A half mile farther down he came to the mouth of a creek coming in from the South, and just as he passed it he heard voices on the bank. He held his boat among the bushes on the cliff and listened. Several men were talking, but he judged them to be farmers, not soldiers. Yet they talked of the battle that night, and Harry surmised that they were looking at the lights in the Southern camp which might yet be visible from the high point on which they stood. He could not gather from their words whether they were Northern or Southern sympathizers, but it did not matter, as he had no intention of speaking to them, hoping only that they would go away in a few minutes and let him continue his journey unseen.

His hope speedily came to pass. He heard their voices sinking in the distance, and leaving the shelter of the bushes he pulled down the stream once more. Then he found that he had deceived himself about the clouds. If they had retired, they had merely recoiled, to use the French phrase, in order to gather again with greater force.

During his short stay among the bushes at the foot of the cliff the whole heavens had blackened and the air was surcharged with the heavy damp and tensity that betoken a coming storm. The lightning blazed across the river thrice, and he heard a mutter which was not that of cannon. Then came rain and a rushing wind and the surface of the river was troubled grievously. It rose up in waves like those of a lake, and Harry's boat rocked and tumbled so badly that in a few minutes it was half-full of water.

Fearing he might sink, carrying with him his great message, he pulled again, but fiercely now, for the southern bank and the shelter of the bushes, which, fortunately for him, grew here in the water's edge. He shoved his boat with all his might among them, as their tops snapped and crackled in the hurricane. But he knew he was safe there, and he continued to push until it reached the edge of the land.

The river would be swollen by another storm, but for the present it did not bother him greatly. He was more immediately concerned with his wish to get back to Lee as soon as possible, and he was grateful for that dense clump of bushes, growing in the very water's edge, because the wind was blowing like a hurricane and the waves were chasing one another on the Potomac, like the billows on a lake. He was a fair oarsman, but it would have taken greater skill than his to have kept his boat afloat in the tempestuous river.

The bushes formed an absolute protection. His boat swayed with them, which saved it from being damaged, and the overhanging lee of the cliff kept most of the rain from him. He also wrapped about his body the pair of blankets that he always carried, and he sat there not only in safety, but with a certain physical pleasure.

Once more amid surroundings with the like of which Henry Ware had been so familiar, the soul of his great ancestor seemed to have descended upon him. Most young officers, no matter how brave or how skilled in war, would have been awed and alarmed. He had no comrades at his elbow. There was no light, no friendly sound to encourage him, he was as truly alone, so far as his present situation was concerned, as any pioneer had ever been in the heart of the wilderness. But for him there was pleasure at that moment in being alone. He did not quiver when the thunder rolled and crashed above his head, and the lightning blazed in one Titanic sword slash after another across the surface of the river. Rather, the wilderness and majesty of the scene appealed to him. Leaning well back in his boat with his blankets closely wrapped about him, he watched it, and his soul rose with the storm.

Harry knew from its sudden violence that the rain would soon pass, and if the waves abated a little he would certainly take his boat into the river and try his fortunes again. Yet a precious hour was lost, and nothing could replace it. The thunder ceased by and by and there was only dim lightning on the far horizon. The waves began to abate, and, taking off his blankets, he pushed his boat once more into the stream.

It rocked prodigiously and shipped water, but by strenuous effort he kept it afloat, and as the wind sank still further he decided that he would seek the northern shore and disembark as soon as possible. It would be easier to steal through the thickets than to navigate what amounted to a wild sea. But the banks were yet too high and steep for a landing, and he continued to row, keeping now near the middle of the stream.

Wind and rain were dying fast, and he heard a sound behind uncommonly like the distant swish of oars. It sent an unpleasant thrill through him, because he wished to be alone on the river at that particular time, but his eyes, tracing a course through all the dusk and gloom, rested upon another boat, about two hundred yards away, containing a single occupant.

A farmer or a riverman, Harry thought, but to his great astonishment the man suddenly raised himself up a little and shouted to him in a tremendous voice to halt. Harry had not the least idea of stopping for anybody. He bent to his oars and rowed swiftly on. Again came that shout to halt, and it seemed more insolent to him than before. He put a few more ounces of strength into his arms and shoulders and increased his speed.

The pursuer, suddenly drawing in his oars, raised a rifle from the bottom of his boat, and fired point blank at the fugitive. The bullet whistled so near Harry that he felt his ear burn, and at first thought he was hit. He would have been glad to fire back, but his pistols could not carry like his enemy's rifle, and there was nothing to do but flee. Once again he sought to draw a few more ounces of energy from his body. But the man behind him was a much greater oarsman than he and gained rapidly. The stranger, shouting another command to halt, to which no attention was paid, fired a second time, and the bullet went through the side of Harry's boat, barely scraping his knee as it passed.

His rage became intense. He had been shot at many times in battle, and many times he had fired his pistols into the opposing masses, but here upon this river a man sought his life, as the savages of old sought the hunter. Another glance showed him that pursuer had closed up half the distance between them, and, snatching one of the pistols from his belt, he fired. He knew that he had missed, as he saw the water spurt up beside the boat, but he thought that his bullet and the probability of more might delay the pursuit. Nevertheless the man came on as boldly and as fast as ever. If he fired a third time he could scarcely miss at such short range.

It seemed to Harry the gift of Heaven, that a whole pack of clouds should drift above them at that moment, deepening the obscurity and making the pursuing boat, although it was so near, a shapeless form in the mist. He could not see the features of the man, but he was able to discern his large and powerful figure, and he noticed the rhythmic manner in which his arms and shoulders worked at the oars. Obviously he had no chance to escape him by flight, and drawing his second pistol he fired. The bullet struck the boat but did no damage. The man came on faster than ever. Harry took a desperate resolution, and, whirling his boat about, he rowed it straight at his pursuer, who was now almost level with him. He intended to ram and take his chances. His movement was so quick and unexpected that it succeeded. The bow of his boat, helped perhaps by a wave, struck the other with such violence that both were shattered and sank instantly.

Harry went down with his craft, but in a few seconds came up again, his mouth and eyes full of muddy water. He was a splendid swimmer, and his eyes clearing in a moment he looked toward the northern shore, seeking an easy place for landing. They encountered ten feet away a large sun-browned face and two burning eyes.

"Shepard!" Harry gasped.

"And so it was you, Lieutenant Kenton. Perhaps if I had known it was you I wouldn't have fired upon you."

"Don't let that deter you. We're enemies."

"I merely said 'perhaps!' I like you, but that wouldn't keep me from stopping you by any method I could from reaching Lee."

"I'm sure it wouldn't. I like you, too, Mr. Shepard, but we're enemies here in this river, deadly enemies, and I mean to beat you off."

"One may mean to do a thing and yet not do it. I'm the larger and the more powerful. Besides, I'm toughened by superior age. You'd better surrender, Mr. Kenton. I don't want to do you any bodily harm."

"I admit that you're larger and stronger, but on land only. I'm the better swimmer. We're both floating now, but if you'll make a comparison, Mr. Shepard, you'll find that I'm doing it with the greatest ease. Take my advice, and swim to the southern bank of the river while I go to the northern. I say it in all good faith."

"I've no doubt of that, but the young are likely to over-estimate their powers. I'm a good swimmer, and you can't escape me."

"The important point is not whether I can escape you, but whether you can escape me. Since you have lost your boat and your rifle and we're in such a treacherous and unstable element as water, I occupy the superior position. The young may indeed over-estimate their powers, but in swimming at least I'm a competent critic. For instance, you're holding your shoulders too high, and you kick too much. You're splashing water, a useless waste of energy. Now observe me. The surface of this river is rough. Little waves are yet running upon it, but I float as easily as a fish, come up to see by the moon what time it is. It is not egotism on my part, merely a recognition of the facts, but I warn you, Mr. Shepard, to swim to the other shore and let me alone."

The two were not ten feet apart, and, despite the lightness of their talk, their eyes burned with eagerness and intensity. Harry knew that Shepard would not dream of turning back. Yet in the water he awaited the result with a confidence that he would not have felt on land.

"It's your move, Mr. Shepard," he said.

The intensity of Shepard's gaze increased, and Harry never took his eyes from those of his enemy. He intended like a prize fighter to read there what the man's next effort would be.

"I don't see that it's my move," said Shepard, as he floated calmly.

"You're following me for the purpose of capturing me."

"To capture you, or delay you. Meanwhile, it seems to me that I'm delaying you very successfully. I can't see that you're making much progress towards Lee."

"That depends upon which way this river is flowing. You note that we float gently with the stream."

"It's a poor argument. The Potomac flows directly by Washington, and if we were to float on we'd float into the heart of great Northern fortresses instead of Lee's camp."

"That's true as far as it goes, but it doesn't go far enough. I'm leaving the river soon. You can have it all then."

"Thanks, but I think I'll go with you, Lieutenant Kenton."

"Then come to the bottom!" exclaimed Harry, as he dived forward like a flash, seized Shepard by the ankles and headed for the bottom of the river with him. The water gurgled in his eyes and ears and nose, but he held on for many seconds, despite the man's desperate struggles. Then he was forced to let go and rise.

As his head shot above the stream he saw another shooting up in the same manner about fifteen feet away. Both were choked and gasping, but Harry managed to say:

"I didn't intend for you to come up so soon."

"I suppose not, but perhaps you didn't pause to think that when you rose I'd rise with you."

"Yes, that's true. It seems to me that matters grow complicated. Can't you persuade yourself, Mr. Shepard, to go and leave me alone? I really have no use for you here."

"I'd like to oblige you, Lieutenant Kenton, but I intend to see that you don't reach General Lee."

"Still harping upon that? It seems to me that you're a stupidly stubborn man. Don't you know that I'm going anyhow?"

Harry had never ceased to watch his eyes, and he saw there the signal of a coming movement. Shepard dived suddenly for him, intending to repeat his own trick, but the youth was like a fish in the water, and he darted to the right. The man came up grasping nothing. Harry laughed. The chagrin of Shepard compelled his amusement, although he liked the man.

"I wish you'd go away, Mr. Shepard," he said. "On land you could, perhaps, overpower me, but in the water I think I'm your master. All through my boyhood I devoted a great deal of my time to swimming. Dr. Russell of the Pendleton Academy -- but you never knew him -- used to say that if I would swim less and study more I could make greater pretensions to scholarship."

Shepard, swimming rather easily, regarded him thoughtfully.

"While we talk to each other in this more or less polite manner, Mr. Kenton," he said, "we must not forget that we're in deadly earnest. I mean to take you, and our scouts mean to take every other messenger who goes out from Colonel Sherburne's camp. You know, and I know, that if the Army of Northern Virginia does not reach in a few days that camp, where there is a ford in ordinary weather, it will be driven up against the Potomac and we can accumulate such great forces against it that it cannot possibly escape. Even at Sherburne's place its escape is more than doubtful, if it has to linger long."

"Yes, I know these things quite well, Mr. Shepard. I know also, as you do, that General Meade's army is not in direct pursuit, and, that in a flanking movement, he is advancing across South Mountain and toward Sharpsburg. It is a march well calculated and extremely dangerous to General Lee, if he does not hear of it in time. But he will hear of it soon enough. A comrade of mine, George Dalton, will tell him. Others from Colonel Sherburne's camp will tell him, and I mean to tell him too. I hope to be the first to do so."

Harry never deceived himself for a moment. He knew that although Shepard liked him, he would go to the uttermost to stop him, and as for himself, while he had a friendly feeling for the spy, he meant to use every weapon he could against him. Realizing that he could not linger much longer, as the chill of the water was already entering his body, he swam closer to Shepard, still staring directly into his eyes. How thankful he was now for those innumerable swimmings in the little river that ran near Pendleton! Everything learned well justifies itself some day.

Although there was but little moonlight they were so close together that they could see the eyes of each other clearly, and Harry detected a trace of uneasiness in those of Shepard. A good swimmer, the water nevertheless was not his element, and although a man of great physique and extraordinary powers, he longed for the solid earth under his feet.

Harry drew himself together as if he were going to dive, but instead of doing so suddenly raised himself in the water and shot forth his clenched tight fist with all his might. Shepard was taken completely by surprise and he sank back under the water, leaving a blood stain on its surface. Harry watched anxiously, but Shepard came up again in a moment or two, gasping and swimming wildly. The point of his jaw was presented fairly and Harry struck again as hard as he could in the water. Shepard with a choked cry went under and Harry, diving forward, seized his body, bringing it to the surface.

Shepard was senseless, but getting an arm under his shoulders Harry was able to swim with him to the northern shore, although it took nearly all his strength. Then he dragged him out upon the bank, and sank down, panting, beside him.

The great Civil War in America, the greatest of all wars until nearly all the nations of Europe joined in a common slaughter, was a humane war compared with other wars approaching it in magnitude. It did not occur to Harry to let Shepard drown, nor did he leave him senseless on the bank. As soon as his own strength returned he dragged him into a half-sitting position, and rubbed the palms of his hands. The spy opened his eyes.

"Good-by, Mr. Shepard," said Harry. "I'm bound to leave before you recover fully because then I wouldn't be your match. I'm sorry I had to hit you so hard, but there was nothing else to do."

"I don't blame you. It was man against man."

"The water was in my favor. I'm bound to admit that on land you'd have won."

"At any rate I thank you for dragging me out of the river."

"You'd have done as much for me."

"So I would, but our personal debts of gratitude can't be allowed to interfere with our military duty."

"I know it. Therefore I take a running start. Good-by."

"We'll meet again."

"But not on this side of the Potomac. It may happen when the Army of Northern Virginia and the Army of the Potomac go into battle on the other side of the river."

Harry darted into the forest, and ran for a half-hour. He meant to put as much distance as possible between Shepard and himself before the latter's full strength returned. He knew that Shepard would follow, if he could, but it was not possible to trail one who had a long start through dark and wet woods.

He came through the forest and into a meadow surrounded by a rail fence, on which he sat until his breath came back again. He had forgotten all about his wet uniform, but the run was really beneficial to him as it sent the blood leaping through his veins and warmed his body.

"So far have I come," said Harry, "but the omens promise a hard march."

He had his course fixed very clearly, and a veteran now in experience, he could guide himself easily by the moon and stars. The clouds were clearing away and a warm wind promised him dry clothing, soon. Long afterward he thought it a strange coincidence that his cousin, Dick Mason, in the far South should have been engaged upon an errand very similar in nature, but different in incident.

He crossed the meadow, entered an orchard and then came to a narrow road. The presence of the orchard indicated the proximity of a farmhouse, and it occurred to Harry that he might buy a horse there. The farmer was likely to be hostile, but risks must be taken. He drew his pistols. He knew that neither could be fired after the thorough wetting in the river, but the farmer would not know that. He saw the house presently, a comfortable two-story frame building, standing among fine shade trees. Without hesitation he knocked heavily on the door with the butt of a pistol.

He was so anxious to hasten that his blows would have aroused the best sleeper who ever slept, and the door was quickly opened by an elderly man, not yet fully awake.

"I want to buy a horse."

"Buy a horse? At this time of the night?"

He was about to slam the door, but Harry put his foot over the sill and the muzzle of his pistol within six inches of the man's nose.

"I want to buy a horse," he repeated, "and you want to sell one to me. I think you realize that fact, don't you?"

"Yes, I do," replied the man, looking down the muzzle of the big horse pistol.

"Come outside and close the door behind you. I know you haven't on many clothes, but the night's warm, and you need fresh air."

The man with the muzzle of the pistol still near his nose, obeyed. But as he looked at the weapon he also had a comprehensive view of the one who held it.

"Wet ain't you?" he said.

"Do you think it necessary to put it in the form of a question?"

"I don't like to say, unless I'm shore."

"Where do you keep your horses?"

"In the barn here to the left. What kind of a horse did you think you'd keer fur most, stranger?"

"The biggest, the strongest and fastest you've got"

"I thought mebbe you'd want one with wings, you 'pear to be in such a pow'ful hurry. I wish you wouldn't keep that pistol so near to my nose. 'Sides, you've gethered so much mud an' water 'bout you that you ain't so very purty to look at!"

"It's your own mud and water. I didn't bring it into this country with me."

"Which means that you don't belong in these parts. I reckon lookin' at you that you wuz one o' them rebels that went to Gettysburg and then come back ag'in."

"Exactly right, Mr. Farmer. I'm an officer in General Lee's army."

"Then I wuz right 'bout you needin' a horse with wings. An' I guess all the men in your army need horses with wings. Don't be in such a tarnal hurry. You're goin' to stay right up here with us, boarders, so to speak, till the war is over."

Harry laughed.

"Kind of you," he said, "but here is the stable and do you open the stall doors one by one, and let me see the horses. At the first sign of any trick I pull the trigger."

"Well, as I don't like violence I'll show you the horses. Here's the gray mare, five years old, swift but can't last long. This is old Rube, nigh onto ten, mighty strong, but as balky as a Johnny Reb hisself. Don't want him! No? Then I think that's about all."

"No it's not! You open that last stall door at once!"

The farmer made a wry face, and threw back the door with a slam. Harry still covering the man with the pistol that couldn't go off, saw a splendid bay horse about four years old.

"Holding out on me, were you?" he said. "Did you think a Confederate officer could be fooled in that manner?"

"I reckon I oughtn't to have thought so. I've always heard that the rebels had mighty good eyes for Yankee horseflesh."

"I'll let that pass, because maybe it's true. Now, saddle and bridle him quicker than ever before in your life."

The farmer did so, and Harry took care to see that the girth was secure.

"At how much did you value this horse?" he asked.

"I did put him down at two hundred dollars, but I reckon he's worth nothin' to me now."

"Here's your money. When General Lee goes through the enemy's country he pays for what he takes."

He thrust a roll of good United States bills into the astonished man's hand, and sprang upon the horse. Then he turned from the stable and rode swiftly up the road, but not so swiftly that he did not hear a bullet singing past his ears. A backward glance showed him an elderly farmer in his night clothes standing on his porch and reloading his rifle.

"Well, I can't blame you, I suppose," said Harry. "You can guess pretty well what I am, and it's your business to stop me."

But he rode fast enough to be far beyond the range of a second bullet, and maintained a good pace for a long time, through hilly and wooded country. His uniform dried upon him, and his hardy form felt no ill result from the struggle in the river. The horse was strong and spirited, and Harry knew that he could carry him without weariness to Lee. He looked upon his mission as already accomplished, but his ambition to reach the commander-in-chief first was yet strong.

He rode throughout the rest of the night and dawn and the pangs of hunger came together. But he decided that he would not turn from his path to seek food. He would go on straight for Lee and let hunger have its way. He had a splendid horse under him and he was faring quite as well as he had a right to expect. He thought of Shepard, and felt pity for him. The man had only striven to do his duty, and while he had used force he had been very courteous and polite about it. Harry was bound to acknowledge that his had been a very chivalrous enemy and only his superiority in swimming had enabled him to win over Shepard. He was glad that he had saved him and had left him on the bank, so to speak, to dry.

Then Shepard faded away with the mists and vapors that were retreating before a brilliant dawn. The country was high, rolling, and the foliage, although much browned by the July sun, which was unusually hot that year, was still dense. Most of the hills were heavy with forest, but all the valleys between were fertile and well cultivated. With the dew of the morning fresh upon it the whole region was refreshing and soothing to the eye with a look of peace, where in reality there was no peace. Many thin columns of smoke lying blue against the silver sky told where farmhouses stood, and hunger suddenly seized upon Harry again.

Hunger is natural to youth, and his severe exertions all through the night had greatly increased it. It became both a pain and a weakness. His shoulders drooped with fatigue, and he felt that he must have food or faint by the way.

He was ashamed of his physical weakness, but he knew that unless he found food his faintness would increase, and hunger alone would stop him, where so able a man as Shepard could not. His uniform, faded anyhow, was so permeated with the dried mud of the river that it would take a keen eye to tell whether it was Federal or Confederate, and he need not disclose his identity in this region, which was so strongly for the Union. He made up his mind quickly and rode for the nearest farmhouse.

Harry knew that he was inviting risks. His pistols were still useless but they would be handy for threats, and he should be able to take care of himself at a farmhouse.

The house that he had chosen was only a few hundred yards away, its white walls visible among trees, and the clatter of his horse's hoofs brought a man from a barn in the rear. Harry noted him keenly. He was youngish, stalwart and the look out of his blue eyes was fearless. He came forward slowly, examining his visitor, and his manner was not altogether hospitable. Harry decided that he had to deal with a difficult customer but he had no idea of turning back.

"Good morning," he said politely.

"Good morning."

"I wish some breakfast and I will pay. I've ridden all night in our service."

"You've so much dried mud on you that you look as if you'd been passin' through a river."

"Correct. That's exactly what happened."

"But there's none on your horse."

"He didn't pass with me. I'm willing to answer any reasonable number of questions, but, as I told you before, I ride on an important service. I must have breakfast at once, and I'll pay."

"Whose service? Ours or Reb's?"

"A military messenger can't answer the chance questions of those by the roadside. I tell you I want breakfast at once."

"Fine horse you ride, stranger. How long have you had him?"

"All this year."

"Funny. When I saw him last week he belonged to Jim Kendall down by the Potomac, an' livin' on this very road, too."

"It isn't half as funny as you think. Hands up! Now call to your wife as loud as you can to bring me coffee and food at the gate! I know they're ready in the kitchen. I can smell 'em here. Out with it, call as fast as and as loud as you can, or off goes the top of your head!"

Although a horse pistol held in a firm hand was thrust under his nose, the man's blue eyes glared hate and defiance, and his mouth did not open. Harry, in his excitement and anger, forgot that the charge in his weapon was ruined and hence it was no acting with him when his own eyes blazed down at the other and he fairly shouted:

"I give you until I can count ten to call your wife! One! two! three! four! five! six! seven! eight! nine! -- "

"Sophy! Sophy!" cried the farmer, who saw death flaming in the eyes that looked into his, "Come! Come a-runnin'!"

A good looking young woman threw open a door and ran, frightened, toward the gate, where she saw her husband under the pistol muzzle of a wild and savage looking man on horseback.

"Sophy," said the farmer, "bring this infernal rebel a cup of coffee and a plate of bread and meat. If it weren't for his pistol I'd drag him off his horse and carry him to General Meade, but he's got the drop on me!"

"And Sophy," said Harry, who was growing cooler, "you make it a big tin cup of coffee and you see that the plate is piled high with meat and bread. Now don't you make one mistake. Don't you come back with any weapon in your hand in place of food, and don't you fire on me from the house with the family rifle. You're young and you're good looking, and, doubtless the widow of our friend here with the upraised hands, wouldn't have to wait long for another husband just as good as he is."

The woman paled a little, and Harry knew that some thought of the family rifle had been in her mind. The husband's glare became ferocious.

"You can take your hands down," said Harry. "I've no wish to torture you, and I'm satisfied now that you're not armed."

The man dropped his arms and the woman hurried to the kitchen. Harry did not watch her, but kept his eyes continually upon the man, who he knew would take advantage of his first careless moment, and spring for him like a tiger. A pistol that he couldn't fire wouldn't be of much use to him then.

But the woman returned with a big tin cup of smoking coffee and a plate piled high with bread and bacon and beefsteak. It was a welcome sight. The aspect of the whole world became brighter at once, and the pulse of hope beat high. But happiness did not make him relax caution.

"Stand back about ten feet more," he said to the man, "I don't like your looks."

"What's the matter with my looks?"

"It's not exactly your looks I mean, though they're scarcely worthy of the lady, your wife, but it's rather your attitude or position which reminds me of a lion or a tiger about to spring upon something it hates."

The man, with a savage growl, withdrew a little.

"I'd like to put a bullet through you," he said.

"I've no doubt of it, your eyes show it, but before I take a polite leave of you I want to tell you that I did not steal this horse from your friend, Jim Kendall. I paid for it at his own valuation."

"Confederate money that won't be worth a dollar a bale before long."

"Oh, no, bills that were made and stamped at Washington, and I pay for this breakfast in silver."

He dropped it into the hand of the woman, as he took the huge cup of coffee from her. Then he drank deep and long, and again and again, draining the last drop of the brown liquid.

"I hope it's burnt the lining out of your throat," said the man savagely.

"It was warm, but I like it that way. It was good indeed, and I'm sorry, Madame, that you have such a violent and ill-tempered husband. Maybe your next will be a much better man."

"John is neither violent nor ill-tempered. He's never said a harsh word to me since we were married. But he hates the rebels dreadfully."

"That's too bad. I don't hate him and I'm glad you can give him a good character. A man's own wife knows best. Now, I'm going to eat this breakfast as I ride on. You'll find the plate on the fence a quarter of a mile ahead."

He bowed to both, and still keeping a wary eye on the man, thrust his pistol into his belt, and as his horse moved forward at a swift and easy gait he began to eat with a ravenous appetite.

A backward glance showed husband and wife still gazing at him. But it was only for a moment. They ran into the house and a little further on Harry looked back again. They had reappeared and he almost expected to hear again the whistle of a rifle shot, fired from a window. But the distance was much too great, and he devoted renewed attention to the demands of hunger.

When he had finished his breakfast he put the plate upon the fence as he had promised, and, looking back for the last time, he saw an American flag wave to and fro on the roof of the house. He felt a thrill of alarm. It must be a signal concerning him and it could be made only to his enemies. Speaking sharply to his horse, he urged him into a gallop.



Chapter V

The Dangerous Road


The road led in the general direction of Lee's army and Harry knew that if he followed it long enough he was bound to reach his commander, but the two words "long enough" might defeat everything. Undoubtedly a Federal force was near, or the farmer and his wife would not be signaling from the roof of their house.

A plucky couple they were and he gave them all credit, but he was aware that while he had secured breakfast from them they had put the wolves upon his trail. There were high hills on both the right and left of the road, and, as he galloped along he examined them through his glasses for flags answering the signal on the house. But he saw nothing and the thickness of the forest indicated that even if the signals were made there it was not likely he could see them.

Now he wisely restrained the speed of his horse, so full of strength and spirit that it seemed willing to run on forever, and brought him down to a walk. He had an idea that he would soon be pursued, and then a fresh horse would be worth a dozen tired ones.

The road continued to run between high, forested hills, splendid for ambush, and Harry saw what a danger it was not to have knowledge of the country. He understood how the Union forces in the South were so often at a loss on ground that was strange to them.

The road now curved a little to the left, and a few hundred yards ahead another from the east merged with it. Along this road the forest was thinner, and upon it, but some distance away, he saw bobbing heads in caps, twenty, perhaps, in number. He knew at once that they were the enemy, called by the signal, and leaning forward he spoke in the ear of his good horse.

"You and I haven't known each other long," he said, "but we're good friends. I paid honest and sufficient money for you, when I could have ridden away on you without paying a cent. I know you have a powerful frame and that your speed is great. I really believe you're the fastest runner in all this part of the state. Now, prove it!"

The horse stretched out his neck, and the road flew behind him, his body working like a mighty machine perfectly attuned, even to its minutest part. Harry's words had met a true response. He heard a cry on the cross road, and the bobbing heads came forward much faster. Either they had seen him or they had heard the swift beat of his horse's hoofs. Loud shouts arose, but he saw the uniforms of the men, and he knew that they belonged to the Northern army.

He went past the junction of the roads, as if he were flying, but he was not a bit too soon, as he heard the crack of rifles, and bullets struck in the earth behind him. He knew that they would follow, hang on persistently, but he had supreme confidence in the speed and strength of his horse, and youth rode triumphant. It was youth more than anything else that made him raise himself a little in his saddle, look back to his pursuers and fling to them a long, taunting cry, just as Henry Ware more than once had taunted his Indian pursuers before disappearing in a flight that their swiftest warriors could not match.

But the little band of Union troopers clung to the chase. They too had good horses, and they knew that the man before them was a Southern messenger, and in those hot July days of 1863 all military messages carried on the roads north of the Potomac were important. The fate of an army or a nation might turn upon any one of them, and the lieutenant who led the little Union troop was aware of it. He was a man of intelligence and a consuming desire to overtake the lone horseman lay hold of him. He knew, as well as any general, that since Gettysburg the fate of the South was verily trembling in the balance, and the slightest weight somewhere might decide the scales. So he resolved to hang on through everything and the chances were in his favor. It was his own country. The Federal troops were everywhere, and any moment he might have aid in cutting off the fugitive.

When Harry eased his horse's flight he saw the troop, very distant but still pursuing, and he read the mind of the Union leader. He was saving his mounts, trailing merely, in the hope that Harry would exhaust his own horse, after which he and his men would come on at great speed.

Harry looked down at his horse and saw that he was heaving with his great effort. He knew that he had made a mistake in driving him so hard at first, and with the courage of which only a young veteran would have been capable he brought the animal almost to a walk, and resolutely kept him there, while the enemy gained. When they were almost within rifle shot he increased his speed again, but he did not seek for the present to increase his gain.

As long as their bullets could not reach him his horse should merely go stride for stride with theirs, and when the last stretch was reached, he would send forward the brave animal at his utmost speed. His were the true racing tactics drawn from his native state. He had no doubt of his ability to leave his pursuers far behind when the time came, but his true danger was from interference. He too knew that many Union cavalry troops were abroad, and he watched on either flank for them as he rode on. At the crest of every little hill he swept the whole country, but as yet he saw nothing but peaceful farmhouses.

The day was clear and bright, not so warm as its predecessors, and he calculated by the sun that he was going straight toward Lee. He knew that a great army always marched slowly, and he was able to reckon with accuracy just how far the Army of Northern Virginia had come since Gettysburg. He should reach it in the morning, with full information about the Potomac, and the best place for a crossing.

He arrived at the crest of a hill higher than the others, and saw the Union troop, about a quarter of a mile behind, stop beside a clump of tall trees. Their action surprised Harry, who had thought they would never quit as long as they could find his trail. To his further surprise he saw one of the men dismount and begin to climb the tallest of the trees. Then he brought his glasses into play.

He saw the climber go up, up, until he had reached the last bough that would support him. Then he drew some thing from his pocket which he unrolled and began to wave rapidly. It was a flag and through his powerful glasses Harry clearly saw the Stars and Stripes. It was evident that they were signaling, but when one signals one usually signals to somebody. His breath shortened for a moment. He believed that the man in the tree was talking with his flag about the fugitive. Where was the one to whom he was talking?

He looked to both left and right, searching the fields and the forests, and saw nothing. Then, as he was sweeping his glasses again in a half curve he caught a glimpse of something straight ahead that made the great pulse in his throat beat hard. About a mile in front of him another man in a tree was waving a flag and beneath the tree were horsemen.

Harry knew now that the two flags were talking about the Confederate messenger between. The one behind said: "Look out! He's young, riding a bay horse and he's coming directly toward you," to which the one in front replied, "We're waiting. He can't escape us. There are fields with high fences on either side of the road and if he manages to break through the fence he's an easy capture in the soft and muddy ground there."

Harry thought hard and fast, while the two flags talked so contemptuously about him. The fields were unquestionably deep with mud from the heavy rains, but he must try them. It was lucky that he had seen the flags while both forces were out of rifle shot. He decided for the western side, sprang from his horse and threw down a few rails. In a half minute he was back on his horse, leaped him over the fence, and struck across the field.

It had been lately plowed and the going was uncommonly heavy. It would be just as heavy however for his pursuers, and his luck in seeing their signals would put him out of range before they reached the field. But it was a wide field and his horse's feet sank so deep in the mud that he dismounted and led him. When he was two-thirds of the way across a shout told him that the two forces had met, and had discovered the ruse of the fugitive. It did not take much intelligence to understand what he had done, because he was yet in plain sight, and a few of the cavalrymen took pot shots at him, their bullets falling far short. Harry in his excited condition laughed at these attempts. Almost anything was a triumph now. He shook his fist at them and regretted that he could not send back a defiant shot.

The cavalrymen conferred a little. Then a part pursued across the field, and two detachments rode along its side, one to the north and the other to the south. Harry understood. If the mud held him back sufficiently they might pass around the field and catch him on the other side. He continued to lead his horse, encouraging him with words of entreaty and praise.

"Come on!" he cried. "You won't let a little mud bother you. You wouldn't let yourself be overtaken by a lot of half-bred horses not fit to associate with you?"

The brave animal responded nobly, and what had been the far edge of the field was rapidly coming nearer. Beyond it lay woods. But the flanking movement threatened. The two detachments were passing around the field on firm ground, and Harry knew that he and his good horse must hasten. He talked to him continually, boasting about him, and together they reached the fence, which he threw down in all haste. Then he led his weary horse out of the mud, sprang upon his back and galloped into the bushes.

He knew that the horses passing around the field on firm ground would be fresh, and that he must find temporary hiding, at least as soon as he could. He was in deep thickets now and he galloped on, careless how the bushes scratched him and tore his uniform. The Union cavalry would surely follow, but he wanted a little breathing time for his horse, and in eight or ten minutes he stopped in the dense undergrowth. The horse panted so hard that any one near would have heard him, but there was no other sound in the thicket. The rest was valuable for both. Harry was able to concentrate his mind and consider, while the panting of the horse gradually ceased, and he breathed with regularity. The young lieutenant patted him on the nose and whispered to him consolingly.

"Good, old boy," he said, "you've brought me safely so far. I knew that I could trust you."

Then he stood quite still, with his hand stroking the horse's nose to keep him silent. He had heard the first sounds of search. To his right was the distant beat of hoofs and men's voices. Evidently they were going to make a thorough search for him, and he decided to resume his flight, even at the risk of being heard.

He led the horse again, because the forest was so dense that one could scarcely ride in it, and he thought, for a while, that he had thrown off the pursuit, but the voices came again, and now on his left. They had never relaxed the hunt for an instant. They had a good leader, and Harry admitted that in his place he would have done the same.

The country grew rougher, being so steep and hilly that it was not easy of cultivation, and hence remained clothed in dense forest and undergrowth. Twice more Harry heard the sound of pursuing voices and hoofs, and then the noise of running water came to his ears. Twenty yards farther and he came to a creek flowing between high banks, on which the forest grew so densely that the sun was scarcely able to reach the water below.

The creek at first seemed to be a bar to his advance, but thinking it over he led his horse carefully down into the stream, mounted him and rode with the current, which was not more than a foot deep. Fortunately the creek had a soft bottom and there was no ringing of hoofs on stones.

He went slowly, lest the water splash too much, and kept a wary watch on the banks above, which were growing higher. He did not know where the creek led, but it offered both a road and concealment, and it seemed that Providence had put it there for his especial help.

He rode in the bed of the stream fully an hour, and then emerged from the hills into a level and comparatively bare country. It was a region utterly unknown to him, but with his splendid idea of direction and the sun to guide him he knew his straight course to Lee. The country before him seemed to be given up wholly to grass, as he noticed neither corn nor wheat. He saw several farm hands, but decided to keep away from them. That was no country for the practice of horsemanship by a lone Confederate soldier, nor did he like to be the fox in a fox hunt.

Yet the fox he was. He chose a narrow road leading between cedars, and when he had advanced upon it a few hundred yards he heard the sound of a trumpet behind him, and at the edge of the woods that he had left. He saw horsemen in blue emerging and he had no doubt that they were the same men whom he had eluded in the thickets.

"Their pursuit of me is getting to be a habit," he said to himself with the most intense annoyance. "It's a good thing, my brave horse, that you've had a long rest."

He shook up the reins and began to gallop. He heard a faint shout in the distance and saw the troopers in pursuit. But he did not fear them now. Numerous fences would prevent them from flanking him, and he saw that the road led on, straight and level. He shook the reins again and the horse lengthened his stride.

He felt so exultant that he laughed. It would be easy enough now to distance this Union troop. Then the laugh died suddenly on his lips. A bullet whistled so near his face that it almost took away his breath. An elderly farmer standing in his own door had fired it, and Harry snatched one of the pistols from his own belt, remembering then with rage that it could not be fired. He shouted to his horse and made him run faster.

A bullet struck the pommel of his saddle and glanced off. A boy in an orchard had fired it. A load of bird-shot, a handful it seemed to Harry, flew about his ears. A bent old man who ought to have been sitting on a porch in a rocking chair had discharged it from the edge of a wood. A squirrel hunter on a hill took a pot shot at him and missed.

Harry was furious with anger. Decidedly this was no place for a visitor from the South. He did not detect the faintest sign of hospitality. Men and women alike seemed to dislike him. A powerful virago hurled a stone at his head, which would have struck him senseless had it not missed, and a farmer standing by a fence had a shotgun cocked and ready to be fired as he passed, but Harry, snatching one of the useless pistols from his belt, hurled it at him with all his might. It struck the man a glancing blow on the head, felling him as if he had been shot, and then Harry, thinking quickly, acted with equal quickness.

He reined in his horse with such suddenness that he nearly shot from the saddle. Then he leaped down, seized the shotgun from under the hands of the fallen man, sprang on his horse and was away again, sending back a cry of defiance.

Harry had never before in his life been so furious. To be hunted thus by a whole countryside, as if he were a mad dog, was intolerable. It was not only a threat to one's life, it was also an insult to one's dignity to be treated as an animal. Although he was armed now the insult continued. The call of the trumpet sounded almost without ceasing, and the Union troopers uttered many shouts as do those who chase the fox, although Harry knew that their cries were intended to rouse the farmers who might head him off.

The chase grew hotter, but he felt better with the shotgun. It was a fine double-barreled weapon of the latest make, and he hoped that it was loaded with buckshot. He was a sharpshooter, and he could give a good account of any one who came too near.

Yet with the trumpet shrilling continually behind him the huntsmen gathered fast on either flank. It was yet the day when nearly every house in America, outside a town, contained a rifle, and bullets fired from a distance began to patter around Harry and his horse. The riflemen were too far away to be reached with the shotgun, and it seemed inevitable to him that in time a bullet would strike him. He was truly the fox, and he knew that nothing could save him but forest.

It was in his favor that the country was so broken and wooded so heavily, and fixing his eyes on trees a half-mile ahead he raced for them. If none of this yelling pack dragged him down he felt sure that he might escape again in the forest. The trees swiftly came nearer, but the shots on either flank increased. More than ever he felt like the fox with the hounds all about him, and just one slender chance to reach the burrow ahead.

He felt his horse shake and knew that he had been hit. Yet the brave animal ran on as well as ever, despite the triumphant shout behind, which showed that he must be leaving a trail of blood. But the woods, thick and inviting, were near, and he believed that he would reach them. The horse shook again, much more violently than before, and then fell to his knees. Harry leaped off, still clutching the shotgun, just as the brave animal fell over on his side and began to breathe out his life.

He heard again that shout of triumph, but he was one who never gave up. He had alighted easily on his feet. The trees were not more than fifteen yards away and he disappeared among them as bullets clipped bark and twigs about him.

He breathed a deep sigh of thankfulness when he entered the forest. It was so dense, and there was so much undergrowth that the horsemen could not follow him there. If they came on foot, and spread out, as they must, to hunt him, he had the double-barreled shotgun and it was a deadly weapon. The fox had suddenly become the panther, alert, powerful, armed with claws that killed.

Harry went deep into the thickets before he sat down. He had no doubt that they would follow him, but at present he was out of their sight and hearing. He felt a mixture of elation and sadness, elation over his temporary escape, and sadness over the loss of his gallant horse. But one could not dwell long on regrets at such a time, and, advancing a little farther, he sat down among the densest bushes that he could find with the shotgun across his knees.

Now Harry saw that the horse had really done all that it was possible for him to do. He had brought him to the wood, and within he would have been a drawback. A man on foot could conceal himself far more easily. Everything favored him. There were bushes and vines everywhere and he could be hidden like a deer in its covert.

He looked up at the sun shining through the tops of the trees and saw that he had kept to his true course. His flight had taken him directly toward Lee at a much faster pace than he would have come otherwise. The enemy had driven him on his errand at double speed. He felt that he could spare a little time now, while he waited to see what the pursuit would do.

His feeling of exultation was now unalloyed. Deep in the forest with his foes looking for him in vain, the spirit of Henry Ware was once more strong within him. He was the reincarnation of the great hunter. He lay so still, clasping the shotgun, that the little creatures of the woods were deceived. A squirrel ran up the trunk of an oak six feet away, and stood fearlessly in a fork with his bushy tail curved over his back. A small gray bird perched on a bough just over Harry's head and poured out a volume of song. Farther away sounded the tap tap of a woodpecker on the bark of a dead tree.

Harry, although he did not move, was watching and listening with intense concentration, but his ears now would be his surest signals. He could not see deep in the thickets, but he could hear any movement in the underbrush a hundred yards away. So far there was nothing but the hopping of a rabbit. The bird over his head sang on. There was no wind among the branches, not even the flutter of leaves to distract his attention from anything that might come on the ground.

He rejoiced in this period of rest, of the nerves, rather than purely physical. He had been keyed so high that now he relaxed entirely, and soon lay perfectly flat, but with the shotgun still clasped in his arms. He had a soft couch. Under him were the dead leaves of last year, and over him was the pleasant gloom of thick foliage, already turning brown. The bird sang on. His clear and beautiful note came from a point directly over his head, but Harry could not see his tiny body among the leaves. He became, for a little while, more interested in trying to see him than in hearing his pursuers.

It was annoying that such a volume of sound should come from a body that could be hidden by a leaf. If a man could shout in proportion to his own size he might be heard eight to ten miles away. It was an interesting speculation and he pursued it. While he was pursuing it his mind relaxed more and more and traveled farther and farther away from his flight and hiding. Then his heavy eyelids pulled down, and, while his pursuers yet searched the thickets for him, he slept.

But his other self, which men had thought of as far back as Socrates, kept guard. When he had slept an hour a tiny voice in his ear, no louder than the ticking of a watch, told him to awake, that danger was near. He obeyed the call, sleep was lifted from him and he opened his eyes. But with inherited caution he did not move. He still lay flat in his covert, trusting to his ears, and did not make a leaf move about him.

His ears told him that leaves were rustling not very far away, not more than a hundred feet. His power of hearing was great, and the forest seemed to make it uncommonly sensitive and delicate.

He knew that the rustling of the leaves was made by a man walking. By and by he heard his footfalls, and he knew that he wore heavy boots, or his feet would not have crushed down in such a decisive manner. He was looking for something, too, because the footfalls did not go straight on, but veered about.

Harry was well aware that it was a Union soldier, and that he was the object of his search. He was a clumsy man, not used to forests, because Harry heard him stumble twice, when his feet caught on vines. Nor was any comrade near, or he would have called to him for the sake of companionship. Harry judged that he was originally a mill hand, and he did not feel the least alarm about him, laughing a little at his clumsiness and awkwardness, as he trod heavily among the bushes, tripped again on the vines, and came so near falling that he could hear the rifle rattle when it struck a tree. He did not have the slightest fear of the man, and at last, raising his head, he took a look.

All his surmises were justified. He saw a great hulking youth of heavy and dull countenance, carrying a rifle awkwardly, his place obviously around some town and not in the depths of a forest, looking for a wary enemy, who knew more of the wilderness than he could ever learn in all his life. Harry saw that he was perspiring freely and that he looked more like the hunted than the hunter. His eyes expressed bewilderment. He was obviously lonely and apprehensive, not because he was a coward, but because the situation was so strange to him.

Besides his rifle he carried a large knapsack, so much distended that Harry knew it to be full of food. It was this that decided him. A soldier, like an army, must travel on his stomach, and he wanted that knapsack. Moreover he meant to get it. He leveled his shotgun and called in a low tone, but a tone so sharp that it could be heard distinctly by the one to whom it was addressed:

"Throw up your hands at once!"

The man threw them up so abruptly that the rifle fell from his shoulder into the bushes, and he turned around, staring face toward the point from which the command had come. Harry saw at once that he was of foreign birth, probably. The features inclined to the Slav type, although Slavs were not then common in this country, even in the mill towns of the North.

"Are you an American?" asked Harry, standing up.

"All but two years of my life."

"The first two years then, as I see you speak good English. What's your name?"

"Michael Stanislav."

"Do you think that anybody named Michael Stanislav has the right to interfere in the quarrel of the Northern and Southern states? Don't the Stanislavs have trouble enough in the country where the Stanislavs grow?"

The big youth stared at him without understanding.

"Do you know who I am?" asked Harry, severely.

"The running rebel that we all look for."

"Rebels don't run. Besides, there are no rebels. Anyway I'm not the man you're looking for. My name is Robin Hood."

"Robin Hood?"

"Yes, Robin Hood! Didn't you ever hear of him?"

"Never."

"Then you have the honor of hearing of him and meeting him at the same time. As I said, my name is Robin Hood and my trade is that of a benevolent robber. I lie around in the greenwood, and I don't work. I've a lot of followers, Friar Tuck and others, but they're away for a while. They're as much opposed to work as I am. That's why they're my followers. We're the friends of the poor, because they have nothing we want, and we're the enemies of the rich because they have a lot we do want and that we often take. Still, we couldn't get along very well, if there were no rich for us to rob. It's like taking sugar water from a maple tree. We won't take too much, because it would kill the tree and we want to take its sugar water again, and many times. Do you understand?"

"Yes," replied the big youth, but Harry knew he didn't. Harry meanwhile was listening keenly to all that was passing in the forest, and he was sure that no other soldier had wandered near. It was perhaps partly a feeling of loneliness on his own part that caused him to linger in his talk with Michael Stanislav.

"Michael," he continued, "you appreciate our respective positions, don't you?"

"Ah!" said Michael, in a puzzled voice.

"I've explained carefully to you that I'm Robin Hood, and you at the present moment represent the rich."

"I am not rich. Before I turn soldier I work in a mill at Bridgeport."

"That's all very well, but you can't get out of it by referring to your past. Just now you are a proxy of the rich, and it's my duty to rob you."

The mouth of the big fellow expanded into a wide grin.

"You won't rob me," he said. "I have not a cent."

"But I'm going to rob you just the same. Don't you dare to drop a hand toward the pistols in your belt. If you do I'll blow your head off. I'm covering you with a double-barreled shotgun. Each barrel contains about twenty buckshot, and at close range their blast would be so terrific that you'd make an awful looking corpse."

"I hold up my hands a long time. Don't want to be any kind of a corpse."

"That's the good boy. Steady now. Don't move a muscle. I'm going to rob you. It's a brief and painless operation, much easier than pulling a tooth."

He deftly removed the two pistols and the accompanying ammunition from the man's belt, placing them in his own. His belt of cartridges he put on the ground beside the fallen rifle, and then as he felt a glow of triumph he passed the well-filled knapsack from the stalwart shoulders of the other to his own shoulders, equally stalwart.

"Is everything in it first class, Michael?" he demanded with much severity.

"The best. Our army feeds well."

"It's a good thing for you that it's so. Robin Hood is never satisfied with anything second class, and he's likely to be offended if you offer it to him. On the whole, Michael, I think I like you and I'm glad you came this way. But do you care for good advice?"

"Yes, sir."

"That's right. Say 'sir' to me. It pleases my robber's heart. Then, my advice to you is never again to go into the woods alone. All the forest looks alike to those who don't know it, and you're lost in a minute. Besides, it's filled with strange and terrible creatures, Robin Hood -- that's me, though I have some redeeming qualities -- the Erymanthean boar, the Hydra-headed monster, Medusa of the snaky locks, Cyclops, Polyphemus with one awful eye, the deceitful Sirens, the Old Man of the Mountain, Wodin and Osiris, and, last and most terrible of all, the Baron Munchausen."

A flicker of fear appeared in the eyes of the captive.

"But I'll see that none of these monsters hurt you," said Harry consolingly. "The open is directly behind you, about a mile. Right about! Wheel! Well done! Now, you won't see me again, but you'll hear me giving commands. Forward, march! Quit stumbling! No true forester ever does! Nor is it necessary for you to run into more than three trees! Keep going! No, don't curve! Go straight ahead, and remember that if you look back I shoot!"

Michael walked swiftly enough. He deemed that on the whole he had fared well. The great brigand, Robin Hood, had spared his life and he had lost nothing. The army would replace his weapons and ammunition and he was glad enough to escape from that terrible forest, even if he were driven out of it.

Harry watched him until he was out of sight, and then picking up the rifle and belt of cartridges he fled on soundless feet deeper into the forest. Two or three hundred yards away he stopped and heard a great shouting. Michael, no longer covered by a gun, had realized that something untoward had happened to him, and he was calling to his comrades. Harry did not know whether Michael would still call the man who had held him up, Robin Hood, nor did he care. He had secured an excellent rifle which would be much more useful to him than a shotgun, and his course still led straight toward the point where he should find Lee's army on the march. He felt that he ought to throw away the shotgun, as two weapons were heavy, but he could not make up his mind to do so.

A hundred yards farther and he heard replies to Michael's shouts, and then several shots, undoubtedly fired by the Union troops themselves, as signals of alarm. He laughed to himself. Could such men as these overtake one who was born to the woods, the great grandson of Henry Ware, the most gifted of the borderers, who in the woods had not only a sixth sense, but a seventh as well? And his great grandson had inherited many of his qualities.

Harry, in the forest, felt only contempt for these youths of Central Europe who could not tell one point of the compass from another. He guided his own course by the sun, and continued at a good pace until he could hear shouts and shots no longer. Then in the dense woods, where the shadows made a twilight, he came to a tiny stream flowing from under a rock. He knelt and drank of the cool water, and then he opened Michael's knapsack. It was truly well filled, and he ate with deep content. Then he drank again and rested by the side of the pool.

As he reflected over his journey Harry concluded that Providence had watched over him so far, but there was much yet to do before he reached Lee. Providence had a strange way of watching over a man for a while, and then letting him go. He would neglect no precaution. The forest would not continue forever and then he must take his chances in the open.

Still burning with the desire to be the first to reach Lee, he put the rifle and the shotgun on either shoulder, and set off at as rapid a pace as the thickets would permit. But he soon stopped because a sound almost like that of a wind, but not a wind, came to his ears. There was a breeze blowing directly toward him, but he paid no attention to it, because to him most breezes were pleasant and friendly. But the other sound had in it a quality that was distinctly sinister like the hissing of a snake.

Harry paused in wonder and alarm. All his instincts warned him that a new danger was at hand. The breath of the wind suddenly grew hot, and sparks carried by it blew past him. He knew, in an instant, that the forest was on fire behind him and that tinder dry, it would burn fast and furious. Changing from a walk to a run, he sped forward as swiftly as he could, while the flames suddenly sprang high, waved and leaped forward in chase.



Chapter VI

Tests Of Courage


Harry did not know how the woods had been set on fire, and he never knew. He did not credit it to the intent of Michael and his comrades, but he thought it likely that some of these men, ignorant of the forest, had built a campfire. His first thought was of himself, and his second was regret that so fine a stretch of timber should be burned over for nothing.

But he knew that he must hurry. Nor could he choose his way. He must get out of that forest even if he ran directly into the middle of a Union brigade. The wind was bringing the fire fast. It leaped from one tree to another, despite the recent rains, gathering volume and power as it came. Sparks flew in showers, and fragments of burned twigs rained down. Twice Harry's face was scorched lightly and he had a fear that one of the blazing twigs would set his hair on fire. He made another effort, and ran a little faster, knowing full well that his life was at stake.

The fire was like a huge beast, and it reached out threatening red claws to catch him. He was like primeval man, fleeing from one of the vast monsters, now happily gone from the earth. He was conscious soon that another not far from him was running in the same way, a man in a faded blue uniform who had dropped his rifle in the rapidity of his flight.

Harry kept one eye on him but the stranger did not see him until they were nearly out of the wood. Then Harry, with a clear purpose in view, veered toward him. He saw that they would escape from the fire. Open fields showed not far ahead, and while the sparks were numerous and sometimes scorched, the roaring red monster behind them would soon be at the end of his race. He could not follow them into the open fields.

When the two emerged from the forest Harry was not more than fifteen feet from the stranger, who evidently took him for a friend and who was glad to have a comrade at such a time. They raced across fields in which the wheat had been cut, and then sank down four or five hundred yards from the fire, which was crackling and roaring in the woods with great violence, and sending up leaping flames.

"I was glad enough to get out of that. Do you think the rebels set it on fire?"

"I don't think so, but I was as pleased as you to escape from it, Mr. Haskell."

"Why, how did you know my name?" exclaimed the man in wonder.

"Why should I forget you? I've seen you often enough. Your name is John Haskell and you belong to the Fifth Pennsylvania."

"That's right, but I don't seem to recall you."

"It takes a lot of us some time to clear up our minds wholly after such a battle as Gettysburg. In some ways I've been in a sort of confused state myself. I dare say you've seen me often enough."

"That's likely."

"Pity you had your horse shot under you, Mr. Haskell. A man who is carrying important messages at a time like this can't do very well without his horse."

"How did you know I'd lost my horse?"

"Oh, I'm a mind reader. I can tell you a lot now. You carry your dispatch in the left-hand pocket of your waistcoat, just over your heart. And it hasn't been long, either, since you lost your horse, perhaps not more than an hour."

Haskell stared at him, but Harry's face was innocent. Nevertheless he had read Haskell's name and regiment on his canteen, cut there with his own knife. It was a mere guess that he was a dispatch bearer, but he had located the dispatch, because at the mention of the word "message" the man's hand had involuntarily gone to his left breast to see if the dispatch were still there. Boots with little dirt on them indicated that he had been riding.

"A mind reader!" said Haskell, with suspicion. "What business has a mind reader in this war?"

"He could be of enormous value. If he were a real mind reader he could tell his general exactly what the opposing general intended to do. I'm employed at a gigantic salary for that particular purpose."

"I guess you're trying to be funny. Why do you carry both a rifle and a shotgun?"

"In order to hit the target with one, if the other misses. I always use the rifle first, because if the bullet doesn't get home the shotgun, spreading its charge over a much wider area, is likely to do something."

"Now I know you're trying to be funny. As I'm going about my business as fast as I can, I'll leave you here."

"I like you so well that I can't bear to see you go. Don't move. My rifle covers your heart exactly and you are not more than ten feet away. I shall have no possible need of the shotgun. Keep your hands away from your belt. You're in a dangerous position, Mr. Haskell."

"I believe you're an infernal rebel."

"Take out the objectionable adjective 'infernal' and you're right. Keep those hands still, I tell you."

"What do you want?"

"Your dispatches! Oh, I must have 'em. Unbutton your coat and waistcoat and hand 'em to me at once. I hate to take human life, but war demands a terrible service, and I mean what I say!"

His voice rang with determination. The man slowly unbuttoned his waistcoat and took out a folded dispatch.

"Put it on the ground in front of you. That's right, and don't you reach for it again. Now, lay your canteen beside it!"

"What in thunder do you want with my canteen? It's empty!"

"I can fill it again. This is a well watered country. That's right; put it beside the dispatch. Now you walk about one hundred yards to the right with your back to me. If you look around at all I fire, and I'm a good marksman. Stand there ten minutes, and then you can move on! That's right! Now march!"

The man walked away slowly and when he had gone about half the distance Harry, picking up the dispatch, took flight again across the fields. Climbing a fence, he looked back and saw the figure of John Haskell, standing motionless on a hill. He knew that the man was not likely to remain in that position more than half the allotted time. It was certain that he would soon turn, despite the risk, but Harry was already beyond his reach.

He leaped from the fence, crossed another field and entered a wood. There he paused among the trees and saw Haskell returning. But when he had come a little distance, he shook his head doubtfully, and then walked toward the north.

"A counsel of wisdom," chuckled Harry, who was going in quite another direction. "I think I'll read my dispatch now."

He opened it and blessed his luck. It was from Meade to Pleasanton, directing him to cut in with all the cavalry he could gather on the enemy's flank. The Potomac was in great flood and the Army of Northern Virginia could not possibly cross. If it were harried to the utmost by the Union cavalry the task of destroying it would be much easier.

"So it would," said Harry to himself. "But Pleasanton won't get this dispatch. Providence has not deserted me yet; and it's true that fortune favors the brave. I'm John Haskell of the Fifth Pennsylvania and I can prove it."

He had put the canteen over his shoulder and the name upon it was a powerful witness in his favor. The dispatch itself was another, and his faded uniform told nothing.

Harry had passed through so much that a reckless spirit was growing upon him, and he had succeeded in so much that he believed he would continue to succeed. Regretfully he threw the shotgun away, as it would not appear natural for a messenger to carry it and a rifle too.

He went forward boldly now, and, when an hour later he saw a detachment of Union cavalry in a road, he took no measures to avoid them. Instead he went directly toward the horsemen and hailed them in a loud voice. They stopped and their leader, a captain, looked inquiringly at Harry, who was approaching rapidly.

Harry held up both hands as a sign that he was a friend, and called in a loud voice:

"I want a horse! And at once, if you please, sir!"

He had noticed that three led horses with empty saddles, probably the result of a brush with the enemy, and he meant to be astride one of them within a few minutes.

"You're a cool one," said the captain. "You come walking across the field, and without a word of explanation you say you want a horse. Don't you want a carriage too?"

"I don't need it. But I must have a horse, Captain. I ride with a message and it must be of great importance because I was told to go with it at all speed and risk my life for it. I've risked my life already. My horse was shot by a band of rebels, but luckily it was in the woods and I escaped on foot."

As he spoke he craftily moved the canteen around until the inscription showed clearly in the bright sunlight. The quick eyes of the captain caught it at once.

"You do belong to the Fifth Pennsylvania," he said. "Well, you're a long way from your regiment. It's back of that low mountain over there, a full forty miles from here, I should say."

Harry felt a throb of relief. It was his only fear that these men themselves should belong to the Fifth Pennsylvania, a long chance, but if it should happen to go against him, fatal to all his plans.

"I don't want to join my regiment," he said. "I'm looking for General Pleasanton."

"General Pleasanton! What can you happen to want with him?"

Harry gave the officer a wary and suspicious look, and then his eyes brightened as if he were satisfied.

"I told you I was riding with a message," he said, "and that message is for General Pleasanton. It's from General Meade himself and it's no harm for me to show it to so good a patriot as you."

"No, I think not," said the captain, flattered by the proof of respect and confidence.

Harry took the letter from his pocket. It had been sealed at first, but the warmth of the original bearer's body with a little help from Harry later had caused it to come open.

"Look at that," said Harry proudly as he took out the paper.

The captain read it, and was mightily impressed. He was, as Harry had surmised, a thoroughly staunch supporter of the Union. He would not only furnish this valiant messenger with a good horse, but he would help him otherwise on his way.

"Dexter," he called to an orderly, "bring the sorrel mare. She was ridden by a good man, Mr. Haskell, but he met a sharpshooter's bullet. Jump up."

Harry sprang into the saddle, and, astride such a fine piece of horseflesh, he foresaw a speedy arrival in the camp of General Lee.

"I'll not only mount you," said the captain, "but we'll see you on the way. General Pleasanton is on Lee's left flank and, as our course is in that direction, we'll ride with you, and protect you from stray rebel sharpshooters."

Harry could have shouted aloud in anger and disappointment. While the captain trusted him fully, he would not be much more than a prisoner, nevertheless.

"Thank you very much, Captain," he said, "but you needn't trouble yourself about me. Perhaps I'd better go on ahead. One rides faster alone."

"Don't be afraid that we'll hold you back," said the captain, smiling. "We're one of the hardest riding detachments in General Pleasanton's whole cavalry corps, and we won't delay you a second. On the contrary, we know the road so well that we'll save you wandering about and losing time."

Harry did not dare to say more. And so Providence, which had been watching over him so well, had decided now to leave him and watch over the other fellow. But he had at least one consolation. Pleasanton was on Lee's flank and their ride did not turn him from the line of his true objective. Every beat of his horse's hoofs would bring him nearer to Lee. Invincible youth was invincibly in the saddle again, and he said confidently to the captain:

"Let's start."

"All right. You keep by my side, Haskell. You appear to be brave and intelligent and I want to ask you questions."

The tone, though well meant, was patronizing, but Harry did not resent it.

"This troop is made up of Massachusetts men, and I'm from Massachusetts too," continued the captain. "My name is Lester, and I had just graduated from Harvard when the war began."

"Good stock up there in Massachusetts," said Harry boldly, "but I've one objection to you."

"What's that?"

"Everything wonderful in our history was done by you. No chance was left for anybody else."

"Well, not everything, but almost everything. Good old Massachusetts! As Webster said, 'There she stands!'"

"It was mostly New York and Pennsylvania that stood at Gettysburg."

"Yes, you did very well there."

"Don't you think, Captain, that a nation or a state is often lucky in its possession of writers?"

"I don't catch your drift exactly."

"I'll make an illustration. I've often wondered what were the Persian accounts of Marathon and Thermopylae, of Salamis and Plataea. Now most of our history has been written by Massachusetts men."

"And you insinuate that they have glorified my state unduly?"

"The expression is a trifle severe. Let's say that they have dwelled rather long upon the achievements of Massachusetts and not so long upon those of New York and Pennsylvania."

"Then let New York and Pennsylvania go get great writers. No state can be truly great without them. There's another detachment of ours just ahead, but we'll talk to them only a minute or two."

The second detachment reported that Pleasanton, with a heavy cavalry force, was about six miles farther west and that there was a fair road all the way. They should overtake him in an hour.

Harry's heart beat hard. Unless something happened within that hour he would never reach Lee, and his brain began to work with extraordinary activity. Plans passed in review before it as rapidly as pictures on a film, but all were rejected. He was in despair. They were trotting rapidly down a smooth road. A quarter of an hour passed and then a half-hour. A low bare hill appeared immediately on their right, and Harry saw beyond it the tops of trees.

"Captain Lester," he said, "suppose that you and I ride to the crest of the hill. You have strong glasses, so have I, and we may see something worth while. The men will ride on, but we can easily overtake them."

"Not a bad idea, Haskell," said the captain, still in that slightly patronizing tone. "I judge by your speech that you're a well educated man, and you appear to think."

They rode quickly to the summit, and Lester, putting his glasses to his eyes, gazed westward over a vast expanse of cultivated country. But Harry looking immediately down the slope, saw the forest that he wished.

Lester swept the glasses in a wide circle, looking for Union troops. His own troop was about a hundred yards ahead and the hoofbeats were growing fainter. Then Harry's courage almost failed him, but necessity was instant and cruel. Still he modified the blow, nor did he use any weapon, save one that nature had given him.

"Look out!" he cried, and as Lester turned in astonishment he struck him on the point of the jaw. Even as his fist flashed forward he held back a little and his full strength was not in the blow.

Nevertheless it was sufficient to strike Lester senseless, and he slid from his horse. Harry caught him by the shoulder and eased him in his fall. Then he lay stretched on his back in the grass like one asleep, with his horse staring at him. Harry knew that he would revive in a minute or two, and with a "Farewell, Captain Lester," he galloped down the slope and into the covering woods.

He knew that Lester's men, finding that they did not follow, would quickly come back, and he raced his horse among the trees as fast as he dared. A couple of miles between him and the hill and he felt safe, at least so far as the troop of Captain Lester was concerned. Fortune seemed to have made him a favorite again, but he knew that dangers were still as thick around him as leaves in Vallombrosa.

He tied his horse, climbed a tree, and used his glasses. Two miles to the west the bright sun flashed on long lines of mounted men, obviously the horsemen of Pleasanton. How was he to get through that cavalry screen and reach Lee? He did not see a way, but he knew that to find, one must seek. His desire to get through, intense as it always had been, was now doubled. He not only carried the news to Lee about the possible ford, but he also bore Meade's dispatch to Pleasanton, directing a movement which, if successful, must be most dangerous to the Army of Northern Virginia.

He descended the tree and waited a while in the forest. He found a spring at which he drank, and he filled the canteen. It was a precious canteen with the name of John Haskell engraved upon it, and he meant that it should carry him through all dangers into his camp. But he did not mean to use it yet. If he rode into Pleasanton's ranks they would merely take his letter to the general, and that would be the failure of his real mission.

Night was now not far distant, and, concluding that he had a much better chance to run the gantlet under its cover, he still waited in the wood until the twilight came.

Wrapped in a coil of dangers he was ready to risk anything. Quickness, resource and boldness, of which the last had been most valuable, had brought him so far, and, encouraged by success, he rode forward full of confidence.

On his right was a small house standing among the usual shade trees, and, approaching it without hesitation, he spoke to a man who stood in the yard.

"Which way is General Pleasanton?" he asked.

The man hesitated.

"I belong to the Fifth Pennsylvania," said Harry, pointing to the name on the canteen, still visible in the twilight. The man's eyes brightened and he replied:

"Down there," pointing toward the southwest.

"I've a message for him and I don't want to run into any of the rebel raiders."

"Then you keep away from there," he said, pointing due west.

"What's the trouble in that direction?"

"Jim Hurley was here about an hour ago. The whole country is terribly excited about these big armies marching over it, and he said that our cavalry was riding on fast. A lot of it was ahead of the rebel army, but straight there in the west some of the rebel horsemen had spread out on their own flank. If you went that way in the night you'd be sure to run right into a nest of 'em."

"So the Johnnies are west of us, your friend Hurley said. Tell me again what particular point I have to watch in order to keep away from them."

"Almost as straight west as you can make it. A valley running east and west cuts in there and it's full of the rebels. It's the only place all along here where they are."

"And consequently the only place for me to avoid. Thanks. Your information may save me from capture. Good night."

"Good night and good luck."

Harry rode toward the southwest until a dip in the valley hid him from possible view of the man at the house. Then he turned and rode due west, determined to reach as soon as possible those "rebel raiders" in the valley, but fully aware that he must yet use every resource of skill, courage and patience.

The twilight turned into night, clear, dry and bright. Unless it was raining in the mountains the flood in the Potomac could not be increasing. Here, at last, the conditions were all that he wished. The captured haversack still contained plenty of food, and, as he rode, he ate. He had learned long ago that food was as necessary as weapons to a soldier, and that one should eat when one could. Moreover, he was always hungry.

He kept among trees wherever possible, and, as the night grew, and the stars came out in the dusky blue, he enjoyed the peace. Even though he searched with his glasses he could not see soldiers anywhere, although he knew they were in the hollows and the forests. A pleasant breeze blew, and an owl, reckless of armies, sent forth its lonesome hoot.

But he kept his horse's head straight for the narrow valley where the "rebel raiders" rode. He met presently a small detachment of Connecticut men, but the sight of his canteen and letter was sufficient for them. Again he rode southwest, merely to turn due west once more, after he had passed from their sight, and near the head of the valley he encountered two men in blue on horseback watching. They were alert, well-built fellows and examined Harry closely, a process to which long usage had reconciled him.

"I hear that the rebels are down in that valley, comrade," he said.

"So they are," replied the elder and larger of the men. "We've got to ask you who you are and which way you're going."

"John Haskell, Fifth Pennsylvania, with dispatches from General Meade to General Pleasanton. They're tremendously important, too, and I've got to be in a hurry."

"More haste less speed. You know the old saying. In a time like this it's sometimes better for a man to know where he's going than it is to get there, 'cause he may arrive at the wrong place."

"Good logic, comrade, but I must hurry just the same. Which is my best way to find General Pleasanton?"

"Southwest. But I'm bound to tell you a few things first."

"All right. What are they?"

"You and I must be kinsfolk."

"How do you make that out?"

"Because my name is William Haskell, and I belong to the Fifth Pennsylvania, the same regiment that you do."

"Is that so? It's strange that we haven't met before. But funny things happen in war."

"So they do. Awfully funny. Now my brother's name is John Haskell, and you happen to be carrying his canteen, but you've changed looks a lot in the last few days, Brother John."

Haskell's voice had been growing more menacing, and Harry, with native quickness, was ready to act. When he saw the man's pistol flash from his belt he went over the side of his horse and the bullet whistled where his body had been. His own rifle cracked in reply, but Haskell's horse, not he, took the bullet, and, screaming with pain and fright, ran into the woods as the rider slipped from his back.

Harry, realizing that his peril was imminent and deadly, fired one of his pistols at the second man, who fell from his horse, too badly wounded in the shoulder to take any further part in the fight.

But Harry found in Haskell an opponent worthy of all his skill and courage. The Union soldier threw himself upon the ground and fired at Harry's horse, which instantly jerked the bridle from his hand and fled as the other had done. Harry dropped flat in the grass and leaves and listened, his heart thumping.

But luck had favored him again. He lay in a slight depression and any bullet fired at him would be sure to go over him unless he raised his head. He could not see his enemies, but he could depend upon his wonderful power of hearing, inherited and cultivated, which gave him an advantage over his opponents.

He heard the wounded man groan ever so lightly, and then the other whisper to him, "Are you much hurt, Bill?" The reply came in a moment: "My right shoulder is put out for the time, and I can't help you now." Presently he heard the slight sound of the other crawling toward him. Evidently this Haskell was a fearless fellow, bound to get him, and he called from the shadow in which he lay.

"You'd better stop, Haskell! I've got the best pair of ears in all this region, and I hear you coming! Crawl another step and you meet a bullet! But I want to tell you first that your interesting brother John is all right. I didn't kill him. I merely robbed him."

"Robbed him of what?"

"Oh, of several things."

"What things?"

"They don't concern you, Haskell. These are matters somewhat above you."

"They are, are they? Well, maybe they are, but I'm going to see that you don't get away with the proceeds of your robbery."

Harry didn't like his tone. It was fierce and resolute, and he realized once more that he had a man of quality before him. If Haskell had behaved properly he would have withdrawn with his wounded comrade. But then he was an obstinate Yankee.

He raised up ever so little and glanced across the intervening space, seeing the muzzle of a rifle not many yards away. There could be no doubt that Haskell was watchful and would continue watching. He drew his head back again and said:

"Let's call it a draw. You go back to your army, Mr. Haskell, and I'll go back to mine."

"Couldn't think of it. As a matter of fact, I'm with my army now; that is, I'm in its lines, while you can't reach yours. All I've got to do is to hold you here, and in the course of time some of our people will come along and take you."

"Do you think I'm worth so much trouble?"

"In a way it's a sort of personal affair with me. You admit having robbed my brother, and I feel that I must avenge him. He has been acting as a dispatch rider, and I can make a pretty shrewd guess about what you took from him. So I think I'll stay here."

Harry blamed himself bitterly for his careless and unfortunate expressions. He did not fear the result of a duel with this man, being the master of woodcraft that he was, but he was losing time, valuable time, time more precious than gold and diamonds, time heavy with the fate of armies and a nation. He grew furiously angry at everything, and angriest at Haskell.

"Mr. Haskell," he called, "I'm getting tired of your society, and I make you a polite request to go away."

"Oh, no, you're not tired. You merely think you are, and I couldn't consider conceding to your request. It's for your good more than mine. My society is elevating to any Johnny Reb."

"Then I warn you that I may have to hurt you."

"How about getting hurt yourself?"

Harry was silent. His acute ears brought him the sound of Haskell moving a little in his own particular hollow. The lonesome owl hooted twice more, but there was no sound to betoken the approach of Union troops in the forest. The duel of weapons and wits would have to be fought out alone by Haskell and himself.

He went over everything again and again and he concluded that he must rely upon his superior keenness of ear. He could hear Haskell, but Haskell could not hear him, and there was Providence once more taking him into favor. Summer clouds began to drift before the moon, and many of the stars were veiled. It was possible that Haskell's eyes also were not as keen as his own.

When the darkness increased, he began to crawl from the little shallow. Despite extreme precautions he made a slight noise. A pistol flashed and a bullet passed over him. It made his muscles quiver, but he called in a calm voice:

"Why did you do such a foolish thing as that? You wasted a perfectly good bullet."

"Weren't you trying to escape? I thought I heard a movement in the grass."

"Wasn't thinking of such a thing. I'm just waiting here to see what you'll do. Why don't you come on and attack?"

"I'm satisfied with things as they are. I'll hold you until morning and then our men will be sure to come and pick you up."

"Maybe it will be our men who will come and pick you up."

"Oh, no; they're too busy leaving Gettysburg behind 'em."

Harry nevertheless had succeeded in leaving the shallow and was now lying on its farther bank. Then he resumed the task of crawling forward on his face, and without making any noise, one of the most difficult feats that a human being is ever called upon to do.

At the end of a dozen feet, he paused both to rest and to listen. His acute ears told him that Haskell had not moved from his own place, and his eyes showed him that the darkness was increasing. Those wonderful, kindly clouds were thickening before the moon, and the stars in troops were going out of sight.

But he did not relax his caution. He knew that he could not afford to make any sound that would arouse the suspicions of Haskell, and it was a quarter of an hour before he felt himself absolutely safe. Then he passed around a big tree and arose behind its trunk, appreciating what a tremendous luxury it was to be a man and to stand upon one's own feet.

He had triumphed again! The stars surely were with him. They might play little tricks upon him now and then to tantalize him, but in the more important matters they were on his side. He stretched himself again and again to relieve the terrible stiffness caused by such long and painful crawling, and then, unable to resist an exultant impulse, he called loudly:

"Good-by, Haskell!"

There was a startled exclamation and a bullet fired at random cut the leaves twenty yards away. Harry, making no reply, fled swiftly through the forest toward the valley where the rebel raiders rode.



Chapter VII

In The Wagon


He ran at first, reckless of impediments, and there was a sound of crashing as he sped through the bushes. He was not in the least afraid of Haskell. He had his rifle and pistols and in the woods he was infinitely the superior. He did not even believe that Haskell would pursue, but he wanted to get far beyond any possible Federal sentinels as soon as possible.

After a flight of a few hundred yards he slackened speed, and began to go silently. The old instincts and skill of the forester returned to him. He knew that he was safe from immediate pursuit and now he would approach his own lines carefully. He was grateful for the chance or series of chances that always took him toward Lee. It seemed now that his enemies had merely succeeded in driving him at an increased pace in the way he wanted to go.

He was descending a slope, thickly clothed with undergrowth. A few hundred yards farther his knees suddenly crumpled under him and he sank down, seized at the same time with a fit of nervous trembling. He had passed through so many ordeals that strong and seasoned as he was and high though his spirits, the collapse came all at once. He knew what was the matter and, quietly stretching himself out, he lay still that the spell might pass.

The lonesome owl, probably the same one that he had heard earlier, began to hoot, and now it was near by. Harry thought he could make out its dim figure on a branch and he was sure that the red eyes, closed by day, were watching him, doubtless with a certain contempt at his weakness.

"Old man, if you had been chased by the fowler as often as I have," were the words behind his teeth, addressed to the dim and fluffy figure, "you wouldn't be sitting up there so calm and cocky. Your tired head would sink down between your legs, your feathers would be wet with perspiration and you'd be so tired you'd hardly be able to hang on to the tree."

Came again the lonesome hoot of the owl, spreading like a sinister omen through the forest. It made Harry angry, and, raising himself up a little, he shook his fist again at the figure on the branch, now growing clearer in outline.

"'Bird or devil?'" he quoted.

The owl hooted once more, the strange ominous cry carrying far in the silence of the night.

"Devil it is," said Harry, "and quoth your evil majesty 'never more.' I won't be scared by a big owl playing the part of the raven. It's not 'nevermore' with me. I've many a good day ahead and don't you dare tell me I haven't."

Came the solemn and changeless hoot of the owl in reply.

Harry's exertions and excitement had brought too much blood to his head and he was seeing red. He raised himself upon his elbows and stared at the owl which stared back from red rimmed eyes, cold, emotionless, implacable. He had been terribly shaken, and now a superstitious fright overcame him. The raven and the albatross were in his mind and he murmured under his breath passages from their ominous poems. The scholar had his raven, the mariner had his albatross and now he alone in the forest had his owl, to his mind the most terrible bird of the three.

Came again that solemn and warning cry, the most depressing of all in the wilderness, while the changeless and sinister eyes stared steadily at him. Then Harry remembered that he had a rifle, and he sat up. He would slay this winged monster. There was light enough for him to draw a bead, and he was too good a marksman to miss.

He dropped the muzzle of the rifle in a sudden access of fear as he remembered the albatross. A shiver ran through every nerve and muscle, and so heavily was he oppressed that he felt as if he had just escaped committing murder. He rubbed his hand across his damp forehead and the act brought him out of that dim world in which he had been living for the last ten or fifteen minutes.

"Bird of whatever omen you may be, I'll not shoot you. That's certain," he said, "but I'll leave you to your melancholy predictions just as soon as I can."

He stood up somewhat unsteadily, and renewed the descent of the slope. Near its foot he came to a brook and bathing his face plentifully in the cool water he felt wonderfully refreshed. All his strength was flowing back swiftly.

Then he entered the valley, pressing straight toward the west, and soon heard the tread of horses. He knew that they must be the cavalry of his own army, but he withdrew into the bushes until he was assured. A dozen men riding slowly and warily came into view, and though the moonlight was wan he recognized them at once. When they were opposite him he stepped from his ambush and said:

"A happy night to you, Colonel Talbot."

Colonel Leonidas Talbot was a brave man, but seldom in his life had he been so shaken.

"Good God, Hector!" he cried. "It's Harry Kenton's ghost!"

Lieutenant-Colonel Hector St. Hilaire turned pale.

"I don't believe in ghosts, Leonidas," he said, "but this one certainly looks like that of Harry Kenton."

"Colonel Talbot," called Harry, "I'm not a ghost. I'm the real Harry Kenton, hunting for our army."

"Pale but substantial," said St. Clair, who rode just behind the two colonels. "He's our old Harry himself, and I'd know him anywhere."

"No ghost at all and the Yankee bullets can't make him one," said Happy Tom.

A weakness seized Harry and a blackness came before his eyes. When he recovered St. Clair was holding him up, and Colonel Talbot was trying to pour strong waters down his throat.

"How long have I been this way?" he asked anxiously.

"About sixty seconds," replied Colonel Talbot, "but what difference does it make?"

"Because I'm in a big hurry to get to General Lee! Oh! Colonel! Colonel! You must speed me on my way! I've got a message from Colonel Sherburne to General Lee that means everything, and on the road I captured another from General Meade to General Pleasanton. Put me on a horse, won't you, and gallop me to the commander-in-chief!"

"Are you strong enough to ride alone?"

"I'm strong enough to do anything now."

"Then up with you! Here, on Carter's horse! Carter can ride behind Hubbell! St. Clair, you and Langdon ride on either side of him! You should reach the commander-in-chief in three-quarters of an hour, Harry!"

"And there is no Yankee cavalry in between?"

"No, they're thick on the slopes above us! You knew that, but here you're inside our own lines. Judging by your looks you've had quite a time, Harry. Now hurry on with him, boys!"

"So I have had, Colonel, but the appearance of you, Lieutenant-Colonel St. Hilaire and the boys was like a light from Heaven. Good-by!"

"Good-by!" the two colonels called back, but their voices were already dying in the distance as Harry and his comrades were now riding rapidly down the valley, knee to knee, because St. Clair and Langdon meant to keep very close to him. They saw that he was a little unsteady, and that his eyes were unnaturally bright. They knew, too, that if he said he had great news for General Lee he told the truth, and they meant that he should get there with it in the least time possible.

The valley opened out before them, broadening considerably as they advanced. The night was far gone, there was not much moonlight, but their eyes had grown used to the dark, and they could see well. They passed sentinels and small detachments of cavalry, to whom St. Clair and Langdon gave the quick password. They saw fields of wheat stubble and pastures and crossed two brooks. The curiosity of Langdon and St. Clair was overwhelming but they restrained it for a long time. They could tell by his appearance that he had passed through unimaginable hardships, but they were loath to ask questions.

An owl on their right hooted, and both of them saw Harry shiver.

"What makes an owl's cry disturb you so, Harry?" asked Langdon.

"Because one of them tried to put the hoodoo on me as they say down in your country, Happy. I was lying back there in the forest on the hill and the biggest and reddest-eyed owl that was ever born sat on a bough over head, and kept telling me that I was finished, right at the end of my rope. But he was a liar, because here I am, with you fellows on either side of me, inside our lines and riding to the camp of the commander-in-chief."

"I think you're a bit shaky, Harry," said St. Clair, "and I don't wonder at it. If I had been through all I think you've been through I'd tumble off that horse into the road and die."

"Has any messenger come from Colonel Sherburne at the river to General Lee?"

"Not that I've heard of. No, I'm sure that none's come," replied St. Clair.

"Then I'll get to him first. Don't think, Arthur, it's just a foolish ambition of mine to lead, but the sooner some one reaches the general the better."

"We'll see that you're first old man," said Langdon. "It's not more than a half-hour now."

But Harry reeled in his saddle. The singular weakness that he had felt a while back returned, and the road grew dark before him. With a mighty effort he steadied himself in the saddle and St. Clair heard him say in a fierce undertone: "I will go through with it!" St. Clair looked across at Langdon and the signaling look of Happy Tom replied. They drew in just a little closer. Now and then they talked to him sharply and briskly, rousing him again and again from the lethargy into which he was fast sinking.

"Look! In the woods over there, Harry!" exclaimed St. Clair. "See the men stretched asleep on the grass! They're the survivors of Pickett's brigades that charged at Gettysburg."

"And I was there!" said Harry. "I saw the greatest charge ever made in the history of the world!"

He reeled a little toward St. Clair, who caught him by the shoulder and straightened him in the saddle.

"Of course you had a pleasant, easy ride from the Potomac," said Happy Tom, "but I don't understand how as good a horseman as you lost your horse. I suppose he ran away while you were picking berries by the roadside."

"Me pick berries by the roadside, while I'm on such a mission!" exclaimed Harry indignantly, rousing himself up until his eyes flashed, which was just what Happy wished. "I didn't see any berries! Besides I didn't start on a horse. I left in a boat."

"A boat? Now, Harry, I know you've turned romancer. I guess your mystic troubles with the owl -- if you really saw an owl -- have been a sort of spur to your fancy."

"Do you mean to say, Tom Langdon, that I didn't see an owl and talk with him? I tell you I did, and his conversation was a lot more intelligent than yours, even if it was unpleasant."

"Of course it was," said St. Clair. "Happy's chief joy in life is talking. You know how he chatters away, Harry. He hates to sleep, because then he loses good time that he might use in talk. I'll wager you anything against anything, Harry, that when the Angel Gabriel blows his horn Happy will rise out of his grave, shaking his shroud and furious with anger. He'll hold up the whole resurrection while he argues with Gabriel that he blew his horn either too late or too early, or that it was a mighty poor sort of a horn anyhow."

"I may do all that, Harry," said Happy, "but Arthur is sure to be the one who will raise the trouble about the shroud. You know how finicky he is about his clothes. He'll find fault with the quality of his shroud, and he'll say that it's cut either too short or too long. Then he'll insist, while all the billions wait, on draping the shroud in the finest Greek or Roman toga style, before he marches up to his place on the golden cloud and receives his harp."

Harry laughed.

"That'll be old Arthur, sure," he said. Then his head drooped again. Fatigue was overpowering him. St. Clair and Langdon put a hand on either shoulder and held him erect, but Harry was so far sunk in lethargy that he was not conscious of their grasp. Men looked curiously at the three young officers riding rapidly forward, the one in the center apparently held on his horse by the other two.

St. Clair took prompt measures.

"Harry Kenton!" he called sharply.

"Here!"

"Do you know what they do with a sentinel caught asleep?"

"They shoot him!"

"What of a messenger, bearing great news who has ridden two or three days and nights through a thousand dangers, and then becomes unconscious in his saddle within five hundred yards of his journey's end?"

"The stake wouldn't be too good for him," replied Harry as with a mighty effort he shook himself, both body and mind. Once more his eyes cleared and once more he sat erect in his saddle without help.

"I won't fail, Arthur," he said. "Show the way."

"There's a big tree by the roadside almost straight ahead," said St. Clair. "General Lee is asleep under that, but he'll be as wide awake as any man can be a half-minute after you arrive."

They sprang from their horses, St. Clair spoke quickly with a watching officer who went at once to awaken Lee. Harry dimly saw the form of the general who was sleeping on a blanket, spread over small boughs. Near him a man in brilliant uniform was walking softly back and forth, and now and then impatiently striking the tops of his high yellow-topped boots with a little riding whip. Harry knew at once that it was Stuart, but the cavalry leader had not yet noticed him.

Harry saw the officer bend over the commander-in-chief, who rose in an instant to his feet. He was fully dressed and he showed gray in the dusky light, but he seemed as ever calm and grave. Harry felt instantly the same swell of courage that the presence of Jackson had always brought to him. It was Lee, the indomitable, the man of genius, who could not be beaten. He heard him say to the officer who had awakened him, "Bring him immediately!" and he stepped forward, strengthening himself anew and filled with pride that he should be the first to arrive, as he felt that he certainly now was.

"Lieutenant Kenton!" said Lee.

"Yes, sir," said Harry, lifting his cap.

"You were sent with Colonel Sherburne to see about the fords of the Potomac."

"I was, sir."

"And he has sent you back with the report?"

"He has, sir. He did not give me any written report for fear that I might be captured. He did me the honor to say that my verbal message would be believed."

"It will. I know you, as I do the other members of my staff. Proceed."

"The Potomac is in great flood, sir, and the bridge is destroyed. It can't be crossed until it runs down to its normal depth."

Harry saw other generals of high rank drawing near. One he recognized as Longstreet. They were all silent and eager.

"Colonel Sherburne ordered me to say to you, sir," continued Harry, "that the best fords would be between Williamsport and Hagerstown when the river ran down."

"When did you leave him?"

"Nearly two days ago, sir."

"You have made good speed through a country swarming with our enemy. You are entitled to rest."

"It's not all, sir?"

"What else?"

"On my way I captured a messenger with a letter from General Meade to General Pleasanton. I have the message, sir."

He brought forth the paper from his blouse and extended it to General Lee, who took it eagerly. Some one held up a torch and he read it aloud to his generals.

"And so Meade means to trap me," he said, "by coming down on our flank!"

"Since the river is unfordable he'll have plenty of time to attack us there," said Longstreet.

"But will he dare to attack?" said Stuart defiantly. "He was able to hold his own in defense at Gettysburg, but it's another thing to take the offensive. We hear that General Meade is cautious and that he makes many complaints to his government. A complainer is not the kind of man who can destroy the Army of Northern Virginia."

"Sometimes it's well to be cautious, General," said Lee.

Then he turned to Harry and said:

"Again I commend you."

Harry saluted proudly, and then fell unconscious at the feet of General Lee.

When the young staff officer awoke, he was lying in a wagon which was moving slowly, with many jolts over a very rough road. It was perhaps one of these jolts that awoke him, because his eyes still felt very heavy with sleep. His position was comfortable as he lay on a heap of blankets, and the sides of the wagon looked familiar. Moreover the broad back of the driver was not that of a stranger. Moving his head into a higher place on the blankets he called.

"Hey you, Dick Jones, where are you taking me?"

Jones turned his rubicund and kindly face.

"Don't it beat all how things come about?" he said. "This wagon wasn't built for passengers, but I have you once and then I have you twice, sleepin' like a prince on them blankets. I guess if the road wasn't so rough you'd have slept all the way to Virginia. But I'm proud to have you as a passenger. They say you've been coverin' yourself with glory. I don't know about that, but I never before saw a man who was so all fired tuckered out."

"Where did you find me?"

"I didn't exactly find you myself. They say you saluted General Lee so deep and so strong that you just fell down at his feet an' didn't move, as if you intended to stay there forever. But four of your friends brought you to my wagon feet foremost, with orders from General Lee if I didn't treat you right that I'd get a thousand lashes, be tarred an' feathered, an' hung an' shot an' burned, an' then be buried alive. For all of which there was no need, as I'm your friend and would treat you right anyway."

"I know you would," laughed Harry. "You can't afford to lose your best passenger. How long have I been sleeping in this rough train of yours?"

"Since about three o'clock in the morning."

"And what time might it be now."

"Well it might be ten o'clock in the morning or it might be noon, but it ain't either."

"Well, then, what time is it?"

"It's about six o'clock in the afternoon, Mr. Kenton, and I judge that you've slept nigh on to fifteen hours, which is mighty good for a man who was as tired as you was."

"And what has the army been doing while I slept?"

"Oh, it's been marchin' an' marchin' an' marchin'. Can't you hear the wagons an' the cannons clinkin' an' clankin'? An' the hoofs of the horses beatin' in the road? An the feet of forty or fifty thousand men comin' down ker-plunk! ker-plunk! an' all them thousands talkin' off an' on? Yes, we're still marchin', Mr. Kenton, but we're retreatin' with all our teeth showin' an' our claws out, sharpened specially. Most of the boys don't care if Meade would attack us. They'd be glad of the chance to get even for Gettysburg."

There was a beat of hoofs and St. Clair rode up by the side of the wagon.

"All right again, Harry?" he said cheerfully. "I'm mighty glad of it. Other messengers have got through from Sherburne, confirming what you said, but you were the first to arrive and the army already was on the march because of the news you brought. Dalton arrived about noon, dead beat. Happy is coming with a horse for you, and you can rejoin the staff now."

"Before I leave I'll have to thank Mr. Jones once more," said Harry. "He runs the best passenger service that I know."

"Welcome to it any time, either you or your friend," said Jones, saluting with his whip.



Chapter VIII

The Crossing


Harry left the wagon at midnight and overtook the staff, an orderly providing him with a good horse. Dalton, who had also been sleeping in a wagon, came an hour or two later, and the two, as became modest young officers, rode in the rear of the group that surrounded General Lee.

Although the darkness had come fully, the Army of Northern Virginia had not yet stopped. The infantry flanked by cavalry, and, having no fear of the enemy, marched steadily on. Harry closely observed General Lee, and although he was well into his fifties he could discern no weakness, either physical or mental, in the man who had directed the fortunes of the South in the terrific and unsuccessful three days at Gettysburg and who had now led his army for nearly a week in a retreat, threatened, at any moment, with an attack by a veteran force superior in numbers. All the other generals looked worn and weary, but he alone sat erect, his hair and beard trimmed neatly, his grave eye showing no sign of apprehension.

He seemed once more to Harry -- youth is a hero-worshiper -- omniscient and omnipotent. The invasion of the North had failed, and there had been a terrible loss of good men, officers and soldiers, but, with Lee standing on the defensive at the head of the Army of Northern Virginia, in Virginia, the South would be invincible. He had always won there, and he always would win there.

Harry sighed, nevertheless. He had two heroes, but one of them was gone. He thought again if only Stonewall Jackson had been at Gettysburg. Lee's terrible striking arm would have smitten with the hammer of Thor. He would have pushed home the attack on the first day, when the Union vanguard was defeated and demoralized. He would have crushed the enemy on the second day, leaving no need for that fatal and terrific charge of Pickett on the third day.

"You reached the general first," said Dalton, "but I tried my best to beat you."

"But I started first, George, old fellow. That gave me the advantage over you."

"It's fine of you to say it. The army has quickened its pace since we came. A part of it, at least, ought to arrive at the river to-morrow, though their cavalry are skirmishing continually on our flanks. Don't you hear the rifles?"

Harry heard them far away to right and left, like the faint buzzing of wasps, but he had heard the same sound so much that it made no impression upon him.

"Let 'em buzz," he said. "They're too distant to reach any of us, and the Army of Northern Virginia is passing on."

Those were precious hours. Harry knew much, but he did not divine the full depths of the suspense, suffered by the people beyond the veil that clothed the two armies. Lincoln had been continually urging Meade to pursue and destroy his opponent, and Meade, knowing how formidable Lee was, and how it had been a matter of touch and go at Gettysburg, pursued, but not with all the ardor of one sure of triumph. Yet the man at the White House hoped continually for victory, and the Southern people feared that his hopes would come true.

It became sure the next day that they would reach the Potomac before Meade could attack them in flank, but the scouts brought word that the Potomac was still a deep and swollen river, impossible to be crossed unless they could rebuild the bridges.

Finally the whole army came against the Potomac and it seemed to Harry that its yellow flood had not diminished one particle since he left. But Lee acted with energy. Men were set to work at once building a new bridge near Falling Waters, parts of the ruined pontoon bridges were recovered, and new boats were built in haste. But while the workmen toiled the army went into strong positions along the river between Williamsport and Hagerstown.

Harry found himself with all of his friends again, and he was proud of the army's defiant attitude. Meade and the Army of the Potomac were not far away, it was said, but the youthful veterans of the South were entirely willing to fight again. The older men, however, knew their danger. The disproportion of forces would be much greater than at Gettysburg, and even if they fought a successful defensive action with their back to the river the Army of the Potomac could bide its time and await reinforcements. The North would pour forth its numbers without stint.

Harry rode to Sherburne with a message of congratulation from General Lee, who told him that he had selected the possible crossing well, and that he had shown great skill and valor in holding it until the army came up. Sherburne's flush of pride showed under his deep tan.

"I did my best," he said to Harry, who knew the contents of the letter, "and that's all any of us can do."

"But General Lee has a way of inspiring us to do our best."

"It's so, and it's one of the reasons why he's such a great general. Watch those bridge builders work, Harry! They're certainly putting their souls and strength into it."

"And they have need to do so. The scouts say that the Army of the Potomac will be before us to-morrow. Don't you think the river has fallen somewhat, Colonel?"

"A little but look at those clouds over there, Harry. As surely as we sit here it's going to rain. The rivers were low that we might cross them on our march into the North, just smoothing our way to Gettysburg, and now that Gettysburg has happened they're high so we can't get back to the South. It looks as if luck were against us."

"But luck has a habit of changing."

Harry rode back to headquarters, whence he was sent with another dispatch, to Colonel Talbot, whom he found posted well in advance with the Invincibles.

"This note," said the colonel, "bids us to watch thoroughly. General Meade and his army are expected on our front in the morning, and there must be no chance for a surprise in the night, say a dash by their cavalry which would cut up our rear guard or vanguard -- upon my soul I don't know which to call it. Harry, as you can see by the note itself, you're to remain with us until about midnight, and then make a full report of all that you and I and the rest of us may have observed upon this portion of the front or rear, whichever it may be. Meanwhile we share with you our humble rations."

Harry was pleased. He was always glad when chance or purpose brought him again into the company of the Invincibles. St. Clair and Langdon were his oldest comrades of the war, and they were like brothers to him. His affection for the two colonels was genuine and deep. If the two lads were like brothers to him, the colonels were like uncles.

"Is the Northern vanguard anywhere near?" asked Harry.

"Skirmishing is going on only four or five miles away," replied Colonel Leonidas Talbot. "It is likely that the sharp shooters will be picking off one another all through the night, but it will not disturb us. That is a great curse of war. It hardens one so for the time being. I'm a soldier, and I've been one all my life, and I suppose soldiers are necessary, but I can't get over this feeling. Isn't it the same way with you, Hector?"

"Exactly the same, Leonidas," replied Lieutenant-Colonel Hector St. Hilaire. "You and I fought together in Mexico, Leonidas, then on the plains, and now in this gigantic struggle, but under whatever guise and, wherever it may be, I find its visage always hideous. I don't think we soldiers are to blame. We don't make the wars although we have to fight 'em."

"Increasing years, Hector, have not dimmed those perceptive faculties of yours, which I may justly call brilliant."

"Thanks, Leonidas, you and I have always had a proper conception of the worth of each other."

"If you will pardon me for speaking, sir," said St. Clair, "there is one man I'd like to find, when this war is over."

"'What is the appearance of this man, Arthur?" asked Colonel Talbot.

"I don't know exactly how he looks, sir, though I've heard of him often, and I shall certainly know him when I meet him. You understand, sir, that, while I've not seen him, he has very remarkable characteristics of manner."

"And what may those be, Arthur? Are they so salient that you would recognize them at once?"

"Certainly, sir. He has an uncommonly loud voice, which he uses nearly all the time and without restraint. Words fairly pour from his tongue. Facts he scorns. He soars aloft on the wings of fancy. Many people who have listened to him have felt persuaded by his talk, but he is perhaps not so popular now."

"An extraordinary person, Arthur. But why are you so anxious to find him?"

"Because I wish, sir, to lay upon him the hands of violence. I would thrash him and beat him until he yelled for mercy, and then I would thrash him and beat him again. I should want the original pair of seven-leagued boots, not that I might make such fast time, but that I might kick him at a single kick from one county to another, and back, and then over and over past counting. I'd duck him in a river until he gasped for breath, I'd drag him naked through a briar patch, and then I'd tar and feather him, and ride him on a rail."

"Heavens, Arthur! I didn't dream that your nature contained so much cruelty! Who is this person over whose torture you would gloat like a red Indian?"

"It is the man who first said that one Southerner could whip five Yankees."

"Arthur," said Colonel Talbot, "your anger is just and becomes you. When the war is over, if we all are spared we'll form a group and hunt this fellow until we find him. And then, please God, if the gallows of Haman is still in existence, we'll hang him on it with promptness and dispatch. I believe in the due and orderly process of the law, but in this case lynching is not only justifiable, but it's an honor to the country."

"Well spoken, Leonidas! Well spoken!" said Lieutenant-Colonel Hector St. Hilaire. "I'm glad that Arthur mentioned the matter, and we'll bear it in mind. You can count upon me."

"And here is coffee," said Happy Tom. "I made this myself, the camp cook liking me and giving me a chance. I'd really be a wonderful cook if I had the proper training, and I may come to it, if we lose the war. Still, the chance even then is slight, because my father, when red war showed its edge over the horizon, put all his money in the best British securities. So we could do no more than lose the plantation."

"Happy," said Colonel Talbot, gravely rebuking, "I am surprised at your father. I thought he was a patriot."

"He is, sir, but he's a financier first, and I may be thankful for it some day. I'll venture the prediction right now that if we lose this war not a single Confederate bill will be in the possession of Thomas Langdon, Sr. Others may have bales of it, worth less per pound than cotton, but not your humble servant's father, who, I sometimes think, has lots more sense than your humble servant's father's son."

Colonel Leonidas Talbot shook his head slowly.

"Finance is a mystery to me," he said. "In the dear old South that I have always known, the law, the army and the church were and are considered the high callings. To speak in fine, rounded periods was considered the great gift. In my young days, Harry, I went with my father by stage coach to your own State, Kentucky, to hear that sublime orator, the great Henry Clay."

"What was he speaking about, sir?" asked Harry.

"I don't remember. That's not important. But surely he was the noblest orator God ever created in His likeness. His words flowing like music and to be heard by everybody, even those farthest from the speaker, made my pulse beat hard, and the blood leap in my veins. I was heart and soul for his cause, whatever it was, and, yet I fear me, though I do not wish to hurt your feelings, Harry, that the state to which he was such ornament, has not gone for the South with the whole spirit that she should have shown. She has not even seceded. I fear sometimes that you Kentuckians are not altogether Southern. You border upon the North, and stretching as you do a long distance from east to west and a comparatively short distance from north to south, you thus face three Northern States across the Ohio -- Ohio, Indiana and Illinois, and the pull of three against one is strong. You see your position, don't you? Three Yankee states facing you from the north and only one Southern state, Tennessee, lying across your whole southern border, that is three against one. I fear that these odds have had their effect, because if Kentucky had sent all of her troops to the South, instead of two-thirds of them to the North, the war would have been won by us ere this."

"I admit it," said Harry regretfully. "My own cousin, who was more like a brother to me, is fighting on the other side. Kentucky troops on the Union side have kept us from winning great victories, and many of the Union generals are Kentuckians. I grieve over it, sir, as much as you do."

"But you and your people should not take too much blame to yourselves, Harry," said Lieutenant-Colonel Hector St. Hilaire, who had a very soft heart. "Think of the many influences to which you were exposed daily. Think of those three Yankee states sitting there on the other side of the Ohio -- Ohio, Indiana and Illinois -- and staring at you so long and so steadily that, in a way, they exerted a certain hypnotic force upon you. No, my boy, don't feel badly about it, because the fault, in a way, is not so much yours as it is that of your neighbors."

"At any rate," said Happy Tom, with his customary boldness and frankness, "we're bound to admit that the Yankees beat us at making money."

"Which may be more to our credit than theirs," said Colonel Talbot, with dignity. "I have found it more conducive to integrity and a lofty mind to serve as an officer at a modest salary in the army rather than to gain riches in trade."

"But somebody has to pay the army, sir."

"Thomas, I regret to tell you that inquiry can be pushed to the point of vulgarity. I have been content with things as they were, and so should you be. Ah, there are our brave boys singing that noble battle song of the South! Listen how it swells! It shows a spirit unconquerable!"

Along the great battle front swelled the mighty chorus:

"Come brothers! Rally for the right! The bravest of the brave Sends forth her ringing battle cry Beside the Atlantic wave! She leads the way in honor's path; Come brothers, near and far, Come rally round the bonnie blue flag That bears a single star."

"A fine song! A fine song most truly," said Colonel Talbot. "It heartens one gloriously!"

But Harry, usually so quick to respond, strangely enough felt depression. He felt suddenly in all its truth that they had not only failed in their invasion, but the escape of the army was yet a matter of great doubt. The mood was only momentary, however, and he joined with all his heart as the mighty chorus rolled out another verse:

"Now Georgia marches to the front And beside her come Her sisters by the Mexique sea With pealing trump and drum, Till answering back from hill and glen The rallying cry afar, A Nation hoists the bonnie blue flag That bears a single star!"

They sang it all through, and over again, and then, after a little silence, came the notes of a trumpet from a far-distant point. It was played by powerful lungs and the wind was blowing their way but they heard it distinctly. It was a quaint syncopated tune, but not one of the Invincibles had any doubt that it came from some daring detachment of the Union Army. The notes with their odd lilt seemed to swell through the forest, but it was strange to both of the colonels.

"Do any of you know it?" asked Colonel Talbot.

All shook their heads except Harry.

"What is it, Harry?" asked Talbot.

"It's a famous poem, sir, the music of which has not often been heard, but I can translate from music into words the verse that has just been played:

"In their ragged regimentals Stood the old Continentals Yielding not, When the grenadiers were lunging And like hail fell the plunging Cannon shot; When the files of the isles From the smoky night encampment Bore the banner of the rampant Unicorn And grummer, grummer, Rolled the roll of the drummer, Through the morn!"

The bugler played on. It was the same tune, curious, syncopated and piercing the night shrilly. Whole brigades of the South stood in silence to listen.

"What do you think is its meaning?" asked Lieutenant-Colonel St. Hilaire.

"It's in answer to our song and at the same time a reproach," replied Harry, who had jumped at once to the right conclusion. "The bugler intends to remind us that the old Continentals who stood so well were from both North and South, and perhaps he means, too, that we should stand together again instead of fighting each other."

"Then let the North give up at once," snapped Colonel Talbot.

"But in the trumpeter's opinion that means we should be apart forever."

"Then let him play on to ears that will not heed."

But the bugler was riding away. The music came faintly, and then died in one last sighing note. It left Harry grave and troubled, and he began to ask himself new questions. If the South succeeded in forcing a separation, what then? But the talk of his comrades drove the thought from his mind. Colonel Talbot sent St. Clair, Langdon and a small party of horsemen forward to see what the close approach of the daring bugler meant. Harry went with them.

Scouts in the brushwood quickly told them that a troop of Union cavalry had appeared in a meadow some distance ahead of them, and that it was one of their number who had played the song on the bugle. Should they stalk the detachment and open fire? St. Clair, who was in command, shook his head.

"It would mean nothing now," he said, and rode on with his men, knowing that the watchful Southern sharpshooters were on their flanks. It was night now, and a bright moon was coming out, enabling them to use their glasses with effect.

"There they are!" exclaimed Harry, pointing to the strip of forest on the far side of the opening, "and there is the bugler, too."

He was studying the party intently. The brilliant moonlight, and the strength of his glasses made everything sharp and clear and his gaze concentrated upon the bugler. He knew that man, his powerful chest and shoulders, and the well-shaped head on its strong neck. Nor did he deny to himself that he had a feeling of gladness when he recognized him.

"It's none other," he said aloud.

"None other what?" asked St. Clair.

"Our warning bugler was Shepard, the Union spy. I can make him out clearly on his horse with his bugle in his hand. You'll remember my telling you how I had that fight with him in the river."

"And perhaps it would have been better for us all if you had finished him off then."

"I couldn't have done it, Arthur, nor could you, if you had been in my place."

"No, I suppose not, but these Yankees are coming up pretty close. It's sure proof that Meade's whole army will be here in the morning, and the bridge won't be built."

"It may be built, but, if Meade chooses a battle, a battle there will be. Heavy forces must be very near. You can see them now signaling to one another from hill to hill."

"So I do, and this is as far as we ought to go. A hundred yards or two farther and we'll be in the territory of the enemy's sharpshooters instead of our own."

They remained for a while among some bushes, and secured positive knowledge that the bulk of the Army of the Potomac was drawing near. Toward midnight Harry returned to his commander-in-chief and found him awake and in consultation with his generals, under some trees near the Potomac. Longstreet, Rhodes, Pickett, Early, Anderson, Pender and a dozen others were there, all of them scarred and tanned by battle, and most of them bearing wounds.

Harry stood back, hesitating to invade this circle, even when he came with dispatches, but the commander-in-chief, catching sight of him, beckoned. Then, taking off his cap, he walked forward and presented a note from Colonel Talbot. It was brief, stating that the enemy was near, and Lee read it aloud to his council.

"And what were your own observations, Lieutenant Kenton?" asked the commander-in-chief.

"As well as I could judge, sir, the enemy will appear on our whole front soon after daybreak."

"And will be in great enough force to defeat us."

"Not while you lead us, sir."

"A courtier! truly a courtier!" exclaimed Stuart, smoothing the great feather of his gorgeous hat, which lay upon his knee.

Harry blushed.

"It may have had that look," he said, "but I meant my words."

"Don't tease the lad," said the crippled Ewell. "I knew him well on Jackson's staff, and he was one of our bravest and best."

"A jest only," said Stuart. "Don't I know him as well as you, Ewell? The first time I saw him he was riding alone among many dangers to bring relief to a beleaguered force of ours."

"And you furnished that relief, sir," said Harry.

"Well, so I did, but it was my luck, not merit."

"Be assured that you have no better friend than General Stuart," said General Lee, smiling. "You have done your duty well, Lieutenant Kenton, and as these have been arduous days for you you may withdraw, and join your young comrades of the staff."

Harry saluted and retired. Before he was out of ear shot the generals resumed their eager talk, but they knew, even as Harry himself, that there was but one thing to do, stand with their backs to the river and fight, if Meade chose to offer battle.

He slept heavily, and when he awoke the next day Dalton, who was up before him, informed him that the Northern army was at hand. Snatching breakfast, he and Dalton, riding close behind the commander-in-chief, advanced a little distance and standing upon a knoll surveyed the thrilling spectacle before them. Far along the front stretched the Army of the Potomac, horse, foot and guns, come up with its enemy again. Harry was sure that Meade was there, and with him Hancock and Buford and Warren and all the other valiant leaders whom they had met at Gettysburg. It was nine days since the close of the great battle, and doubtless the North had poured forward many reinforcements, while the South had none to send.

Harry appreciated the full danger of their situation, with the larger army in front of them, and the deep and swollen torrent of the Potomac behind them. But he did not believe that Meade would attack. Lee had lost at Gettysburg, but in losing he had inflicted such losses upon his opponent, that most generals would hesitate to force another battle. The one who would not have hesitated was consolidating his great triumph at Vicksburg. Harry often thought afterward what would have happened had Grant faced Lee that day on the wrong side of the Potomac.

His opinion that Meade would not attack came from a feeling that might have been called atmospheric, an atmosphere created by the lack of initiative on the Union side, no clouds of skirmishers, no attacks of cavalry, very little rifle firing of any kind, merely generals and soldiers looking at one another. Harry saw, too, that his own opinion was that of his superior officer. Watching the commander-in-chief intently he saw a trace of satisfaction in the blue eyes. Presently all of them rode back.

Thus that day passed and then another wore on. Harry and Dalton had little to do. The whole Army of Northern Virginia was in position, defiant, challenging even, and the Army of the Potomac made no movement forward. Harry watched the strange spectacle with an excitement that he did not allow to appear on his face. It was like many of those periods in the great battles in which he had taken a part, when the combat died, though the lull was merely the omen of a struggle, soon to come more frightful than ever.

But here the struggle did not come. The hours of the afternoon fell peacefully away, and the general and soldiers still looked at one another.

"They're working on the bridge like mad," said Dalton, who had been away with a message, "and it will surely be ready in the morning. Besides, the Potomac is falling fast. You can already see the muddy lines that it's leaving on its banks."

"And Meade's chance is slipping, slipping away!" said Harry exultingly. "In three hours it will be sunset. They can't attack in the night and to-morrow we'll be gone. Meade has delayed like McClellan at Antietam, and, doubtless as McClellan did, he thinks our army much larger than it really is."

"It's so," said Dalton. "We're to be delivered, and we're to be delivered without a battle, a battle that we could ill afford, even if we won it."

Both were in a state of intense anxiety and they looked many times at the sun and their watches. Then they searched the hostile army with their glasses. But nothing of moment was stirring there. Lower and lower sank the sun, and a great thrill ran through the Army of Northern Virginia. In both armies the soldiers were intelligent men -- not mere creatures of drill -- who thought for themselves, and while those in the Army of Northern Virginia were ready, even eager to fight if it were pushed upon them, they knew the great danger of their position. Now the word ran along the whole line that if they fought at all it would be on their side of the river.

Harry and Dalton did not sleep that night. They could not have done so had the chance been offered. They like others rode all through the darkness carrying messages to the different commands, insuring exact cooperation. As the hours of the night passed the aspect of everything grew better. The river had fallen so fast that it would be fordable before morning.

But after midnight the clouds gathered, thunder crashed, lightning played and the violent rain of a summer storm enveloped them again. Harry viewed it at first with dismay, and then he found consolation. The darkness and the storm would cover their retreat, as it had covered the retreat of their enemy, Hooker, after Chancellorsville.

Harry and Dalton rode close behind Lee, who sat erect on his white horse, supervising the first movement of troops over the new and shaking bridge. Harry noted with amazement that despite his enormous exertions, physical and mental, and an intense anxiety, continuous for many days, he did not yet show signs of fatigue. Word had come that a part of the army was already fording the river, near Williamsport, but this bridge near Falling Waters was the most important point. General Lee and his staff sat there on their horses a long time, while the rain beat unheeded upon them.

Few scenes are engraved more vividly upon the mind of Harry Kenton than those dusky hours before the dawn, the flashes of lightning, the almost incessant rumble of thunder, the turbid and yellow river across which stretched the bridge, a mere black thread in the darkness, swaying and dipping and rising and creaking as horse and foot, and batteries and ammunition wagons passed upon it.

There were torches, but they flared and smoked in the rain and cast a light so weak and fitful that Harry could not see the farther shore. The Army of Northern Virginia marched out upon a shaking bridge and disappeared in the black gulf beyond. Only the lack of an alarm coming back showed that it was reaching the farther shore.

"Dawn will soon be here," said Dalton.

"So it will," said Harry, "and most of the troops are across. Ah, there go the Invincibles! Look how they ride!"

Colonel Leonidas Talbot and Lieutenant-Colonel Hector St. Hilaire at the head of their scanty band were just passing. They took off their hats, and swept a low bow to the great chief who sat silently on his white horse within a few yards of them. Then, side by side, they rode upon the shaking bridge, followed by Langdon, St. Clair and their brave comrades, and disappeared, where the bridge disappeared, in the rain and mist.

"Brave men!" murmured Lee.

Harry, always watching his commander-in-chief, saw now for the first time signs of fatigue and nervousness. The tremendous strain was wearing him down. But while the rain still poured and ran in streams from his gray hair and gray beard, the rear guard of the Army of Northern Virginia passed upon the bridge, and Stuart, all his plumes bedraggled, rode up to his chief, a smoking cup of coffee in his hand.

"Drink this, General, won't you?" he said.

He seized it, drank all of the coffee eagerly, and then handing back the cup, said:

"I never before in my life drank anything that refreshed me so much."

Then he, with his staff, Stuart and some other generals rode over the bridge, disappearing in their turn into the darkness and mist that had swallowed up the others, but emerging, as the others had done, into the safety of the Southern shore.

Meade and his generals had held a council the night before but nearly all the officers advised against attack. This night he made up his mind to move against Lee anyhow, and was ready at dawn, only to find the whole Southern army gone.



Chapter IX

In Society


Harry, when the dawn had fully come, was sent farther away toward the ford to see if the remainder of the troops had passed, and, when he returned with the welcome news, the rain had ceased to fall. The army was rapidly drying itself in the brilliant sunshine, and marched leisurely on. He felt an immense relief. He knew that a great crisis had been passed, and, if the Northern armies ever reached Richmond, it would be a long and sanguinary road. Meade might get across and attack, but his advantage was gone.

The same spirit of relief pervaded the ranks, and the men sang their battle songs. There had been some fighting at one or two of the fords, but it did not amount to much, and no enemy hung on their rear. But no stop was made by the staff until noon, when a fire was made and food was cooked. Then Harry was notified that he and Dalton were to start that night with dispatches for Richmond. They were to ride through dangerous country, until they reached a point on the railroad, wholly within the Southern lines, when they would take a train for the Confederate capital.

They were glad to go. They felt sure that no great battles would be fought while they were gone. Neither army seemed to be in a mood for further fighting just yet, and they longed for a sight of the little city that was the heart of the Confederacy. They were tired of the rifle and march, of cannon and battles. They wished to be a while where civilized life went on, to hear the bells of churches and to see the faces of women.

It seemed to them both that they had lived almost all their lives in war. Even Jeb Stuart's ball, stopped by the opening guns of a great battle, was far, far away, and to Harry, it was at least a century since he had closed his Tacitus in the Pendleton Academy, and put it away in his desk. That old Roman had written something of battles, but they were no such struggles as Chancellorsville and Gettysburg had been. The legions, he admitted in his youthful pride, could fight well, but they never could have beaten Yank or Reb.

He and Dalton slept through the afternoon and directly after dark, well equipped and well-armed, they made their start into the South. But in going they did not neglect to pass the camp of the Invincibles who were now in the apex of the army farthest south. They had found an unusually comfortable place on a grassy plot beside a fine, cool spring, and most of them were lying down. But Colonel Talbot and Lieutenant-Colonel Hector St. Hilaire sat on empty kegs, with a board on an empty box between them. The great game which ran along with the war had been renewed. St. Clair and Langdon sat on the grass beside them, watching the contest.

The two colonels looked up at the sound of hoofs and paused a moment.

"I'm getting his king into a close corner, Harry," said Colonel Talbot, "and he'll need a lot of time for thinking. Where are you two going, or perhaps I shouldn't ask you such a question?"

"There's no secret about it," replied Harry. "We're going to Richmond with dispatches."

"He was incorrect in saying that he was getting my king into a close corner, as I'll presently show him," said Lieutenant-Colonel St. Hilaire; "but you boys are lucky. I suppose you'll stay a while in the capital. You'll sleep in white beds, you'll eat at tables, with tablecloths on 'em. You'll hear the soft voices of the women and girls of the South, God bless 'em!"

"And if you went on to Charleston you'd find just as fine women there," said Colonel Leonidas Talbot.

He sighed and a shade of sadness crossed his face. Harry heard and saw and understood. He remembered a night long, long ago in that heat of rebellion, when he had looked down from the window of his room, and, in the dark, had seen two figures, a man and a woman, upon a piazza, Colonel Talbot and Madame Delaunay, talking softly together. He had felt then that he was touching almost unconsciously upon the thread of an old romance. A thread slender and delicate, but yet strong enough in its very tenderness and delicacy to hold them both. The perfume of the flowers and of the old romance that night in the town so far away came back. He was moved, and when his eyes met Colonel Talbot's some kind of an understanding passed between them.

"The good are never rewarded," said Happy Tom.

"How so?" asked Harry.

"Because the proof of it sits on his horse here before us. Why should a man like George Dalton be sent to Richmond? A sour Puritan who does not know how to enjoy a dance or anything else, who looks upon the beautiful face of a girl as a sin and an abomination, who thinks to be ugly is to be good, who is by temperament and education unfit to enjoy anything, while Thomas Langdon, who by the same measurements is fit to enjoy everything, is left here to hold back the Army of the Potomac. It's undoubtedly a tribute to my valor, but I don't like it."

"Thomas," said Colonel Leonidas Talbot, gravely, "you're entirely too severe with our worthy young friend, Dalton. The bubbles of pleasure always lie beneath austere and solemn exteriors like his, seeking to break a way to the surface. The longer the process is delayed the more numerous the bubbles are and the greater they expand. If scandalous reports concerning a certain young man in Richmond should reach us here in the North, relating his unparalleled exploits in the giddier circles of our gay capital, I should know without the telling that it was our prim young George Dalton."

"You never spoke truer words, Leonidas," said Lieutenant-Colonel Hector St. Hilaire. "A little judicious gallantry in youth is good for any one. It keeps the temperature from going too high. I recall now the case of Auguste Champigny, who owned an estate in Louisiana, near the Louisiana estate of the St. Hilaires, and the estates of those cousins of mine whom I visited, as I told you once.

"But pardon me. I digress, and to digress is to grow old, so I will not digress, but remain young, in heart at least. I go back now. I was speaking of Auguste Champigny, who in youth thought only of making money and of making his plantation, already great, many times greater. The blood in his veins was old at twenty-two. He did not love the vices that the world calls such. But yet there were times, I knew, when he would have longed to go with the young, because youth cannot be crushed wholly at twenty-two. There was no escape of the spirits, no wholesome blood-letting, so to speak, and that which was within him became corrupt. He acquired riches and more riches, and land and more land, and at fifty he went to New Orleans, and sought the places where pleasures abound. But his true blossoming time had passed. The blood in his veins now became poison. He did the things that twenty should do, and left undone the things that fifty should do. Ah! Harry, one of the saddest things in life is the dissipated boy of fifty! He should have come with us when the first blood of youth was upon him. He could have found time then for play as well as work. He could have rowed with us in the slender boats on the river and bayous with Mimi and Rosalie and Marianne and all those other bright and happy ones. He could have danced, too. It was no strain, we never danced longer than two days and two nights without stopping, and the festivals, the gay fete days, not more than one a week! But it was not Auguste's way. A man when he should have been a boy, and then, alas! a boy when he should have been a man!"

"You speak true words, Hector," said Colonel Leonidas Talbot, "though at times you seem to me to be rather sentimental. Youth is youth and it has the pleasures of youth. It is not fitting that a man should be a boy, but middle-age has pleasures of its own and they are more solid, perhaps more satisfying than those of youth. I can't conceive of twenty getting the pleasure out of the noble game of chess that we do. The most brilliant of your young French Creole dancers never felt the thrill that I feel when the last move is made and I beat you."

"Then if you expect to experience that thrill, Leonidas, continue the pursuit of my king, from which you expect so much, and see what will happen to you."

Colonel Talbot looked keenly at the board, and alarm appeared on his face. He made a rapid retreat with one of his pieces, and Harry and Dalton, knowing that it was time for them to go, reached down from their saddles, shook hands with both, then with St. Clair and Happy Tom, and were soon beyond the bounds of the camp.

They rode on for many hours in silence. They were in a friendly land now, but they knew that it was well to be careful, as Federal scouts and cavalry nevertheless might be encountered at any moment. Two or three times they turned aside from the road to let detachments of horsemen pass. They could not tell in the dark and from their hiding places to which army they belonged, and they were not willing to take the delay necessary to find out. They merely let them ride by and resumed their own place on the road.

Harry told Dalton many more details of his perilous journey from the river to the camp of the commander-in-chief, and he spoke particularly of Shepard.

"Although he's a spy," he said, "I feel that the word scarcely fits him, he's so much greater than the ordinary spy. That man is worth more than a brigade of veterans to the North. He's as brave as a lion, and his craft and cunning are almost superhuman."

He did not tell that he might easily have put Shepard forever out of the way, but that his heart had failed him. Yet he did not feel remorse nor any sense of treachery to his cause. He would do the same were the same chance to come again. But it seemed to him now that a duel had begun between Shepard and himself. They had been drifting into it, either through chance or fate, for a long time. He knew that he had a most formidable antagonist, but he felt a certain elation in matching himself against one so strong.

They rode all night and the next day across the strip of Maryland into Virginia and once more were among their own people, their undoubted own. They were now entering the Valley of Virginia where the great Jackson had leaped into fame, and both Harry and Dalton felt their hearts warm at the greetings they received. Both armies had marched over the valley again and again. It was torn and scarred by battle, and it was destined to be torn and scarred many times more, but its loyalty to the South stood every test. This too was the region in which many of the great Virginia leaders were born, and it rejoiced in the valor of its sons.

Food and refreshment were offered everywhere to the two young horsemen, and the women and the old men -- not many young men were left -- wanted to hear of Gettysburg. They would not accept it as a defeat. It was merely a delay, they said. General Lee would march North once more next year. Harry knew in his heart that the South would never invade again, that the war would be for her henceforth a purely defensive one, but he said nothing. He could not discourage people who were so sanguine.

Every foot of the way now brought back memories of Jackson. He saw many familiar places, fields of battle, sites of camps, lines of advance or retreat, and his heart grew sad within him, because one whom he admired so much, and for whom he had such a strong affection, was gone forever, gone when he was needed most. He saw again with all the vividness of reality that terrible night at Chancellorsville, when the wounded Jackson lay in the road, his young officers covering his body with their own to protect him from the shells.

When they reached the strip of railroad entering Richmond they left their horses to be sent later, and each took a full seat in the short train, where he could loosen his belt, and stretch his limbs. It was a crude coach, by the standards of to-day, but it was a luxury then. Harry and Dalton enjoyed it, after so much riding horseback, and watched the pleasant landscape, brown now from the July sun, flow past.

Their coach did not contain many passengers, several wounded officers going to Richmond on furlough, some countrymen, carrying provisions to the capital for sale, and a small, thin, elderly woman in a black dress, to whom Harry assigned the part of an old maid. He noticed that her features were fine and she had the appearance of one who had suffered. When they reached Richmond and their passes were examined, he hastened to carry her bag for her and to help her off the train. She thanked him with a smile that made her almost handsome, and quickly disappeared in the streets of the city.

"A nice looking old maid," he said to Dalton.

"How do you know she's an old maid?"

"I don't know. I suppose it's a certain primness of manner."

"You can't judge by appearances. Like as not she's been married thirty years, and it's possible that she may have a family of at least twelve children."

"At any rate, we'll never know. But it's good, George, to be here in Richmond again. It's actually a luxury to see streets and shop windows, and people in civilian clothing, going about their business."

"Looks the same way to me, Harry, but we can't delay. We must be off to the President, with the dispatches from the Army of Northern Virginia."

But they did not hurry greatly. They were young and it had been a long time since they had been in a city of forty thousand inhabitants, where the shop windows were brilliant to them and nobody on the streets was shooting at anybody else. It was late July, the great heats were gone for the time at least, and they were brisk and elated. They paused a little while in Capitol Square, and looked at the Bell Tower, rising like a spire, from the crest of which alarms were rung, then at the fine structure of St. Paul's Church. They intended to go into the State House now used as the Confederate Capitol, but that must wait until they reported to President Davis.

They arrived at the modest building called the White House of the Confederacy, and, after a short wait in the anteroom, they were received by the President. They saw a tall, rather spare man, dressed in a suit of home-knit gray. He received them without either warmth or coldness. Harry, although it was not the first time he had seen him, looked at him with intense curiosity. Davis, like Lincoln, was born in his own State, Kentucky, but like most other Kentuckians, he did not feel any enthusiasm over the President of the Confederacy. There was no magnetism. He felt the presence of intellect, but there was no inspiration in that arid presence.

A man of Oriental features was sitting near with a great bunch of papers in his hand. Mr. Davis did not introduce Harry and Dalton to him, and he remained silent while the President was asking questions of the messengers. But Harry watched him when he had a chance, interested strongly in that shrewd, able, Eastern face, the descendant of an immemorial and intellectual race, the man who while Secretary of State was trying also to help carry the tremendous burden of Confederate finance. What was he thinking, as Harry and Dalton answered the President's questions about the Army of Northern Virginia?

"You say that you left immediately after our army crossed the Potomac?" asked the President.

"Yes, sir," replied Harry. "General Meade could have attacked, but he remained nearly two days on our front without attempting to do so."

A thin gray smile flitted over the face of the President of the Confederacy.

"General Meade was not beaten at Gettysburg, but I fancy he remembered it well enough."

Harry glanced at Benjamin, but his Oriental face was inscrutable. The lad wondered what was lurking at the back of that strong brain. He was shrewd enough himself to know that it was not always the generals on the battlefield who best understood the condition of a state at war, and often the man who held the purse was the one who measured it best of all. But Benjamin never said a word, nor did the expression of his face change a particle.

"The Army of Northern Virginia is safe," said the President, "and it will be able to repel all invasion of Virginia. General Lee gives especial mention of both of you in his letters, and you are not to return to him at once. You are to remain here a while on furlough, and if you will go to General Winder he will assign you to quarters."

Both Harry and Dalton were delighted, and, although thanks were really due to General Lee, they thanked the President, who smiled dryly. Then they saluted and withdrew, the President and the Secretary of State going at once into earnest consultation over the papers Mr. Benjamin had brought.

Harry felt that he had left an atmosphere of depression and said so, when they were outside in the bright sunshine.

"If you were trying to carry as much as Mr. Davis is carrying you'd be depressed too," said Dalton.

"Maybe so, but let's forget it. We've got nothing to do for a few days but enjoy ourselves. General Winder is to give us quarters, but we're not to be under his command. What say you to a little trip through the capitol?"

"Good enough."

Congress had adjourned for the day, but they went through the building, admiring particularly the Houdon Washington, and then strolled again through the streets, which were so interesting and novel to them. Richmond was never gayer and brighter. They were sure that the hated Yankees could never come. For more than two years the Army of Northern Virginia had been an insuperable bar to their advance, and it would continue so.

Harry suddenly lifted his cap as some one passed swiftly, and Dalton glancing backward saw a small vanishing figure.

"Who was it?" he asked.

"The thin little old maid in black whom we saw on the train. She may have nodded to me when I bowed, but it was such a little nod that I'm not certain."

"I rather like your being polite to an insignificant old maid, Harry. I'd expect you, as a matter of course, to be polite to a young and pretty girl, overpolite probably."

"That'll do, George Dalton. I like you best when you're preaching least. Come, let's go into the hotel and hear what they're talking about."

After the custom of the times a large crowd was gathered in the spacious lobby of Richmond's chief hotel. Among them were the local celebrities in other things than war, Daniel, Bagby, Pegram, Randolph, and a half-dozen more, musicians, artists, poets, orators and wits. People were quite democratic, and Harry and Dalton were free to draw their chairs near the edge of the group and listen. Pegram, the humorist, gave them a glance of approval, when he noticed their uniforms, the deep tan of their faces, their honest eyes and their compact, strong figures.

Harry soon learned that a large number of English and French newspapers had been brought by a blockade runner to Wilmington, North Carolina, and had just reached the capital, the news of which these men were discussing with eagerness.

"We learn that the sympathies of both the French and English governments are still with us," said Randolph.

"But these papers were all printed before the news of Vicksburg and Gettysburg had crossed the Atlantic," said Daniel.

"England is for us," said Pegram, "only because she likes us little and the North less. The French Imperialists, too, hate republics, and are in for anything that will damage them. When we beat off the North, until she's had enough, and set up our own free and independent republic, we'll have both England and France annoying us, and demanding favors, because they were for us in the war. Sympathy is something, but it doesn't win any battles."

"A nation has no real friend except itself," said Bagby. "Whatever the South gets she'll have to get with her own good right arm."

"I can predict the first great measure to be put through by the Southern Government after the war."

"What will it be?"

"The abolition of slavery."

"Why, that's one of the things we're fighting to maintain!"

"Exactly so. You're willing to throw away a thing of your own accord, when you're not willing to throw it away because another orders you to do so. Wars are due chiefly to our misunderstanding of human nature."

Then Pegram turned suddenly to Harry. "You're from the field?" he said. "From the Army of Northern Virginia?"

"Yes," replied Harry. "My name is Kenton and I'm a lieutenant on the staff of General Lee. My friend is George Dalton, also of the commander-in-chief's staff."

"Are you from Kentucky?" asked Daniel curiously.

"Yes, from a little town called Pendleton."

"Then I fancy that I've met a relative of yours. I returned recently from a small town in North Georgia, the name of which I may not give, owing to military reasons, necessary at the present time, and I met while I was there a splendid tall man of middle years, Colonel George Kenton of Kentucky."

"That's my father!" said Harry eagerly. "How was he?"

"I thought he must be your father. The resemblance, you know. I should say that if all men were as healthy as he looked there would be no doctors in the world. He has a fine regiment and he'll be in the battle that's breeding down there. Grant has taken Vicksburg, as we all know, but a powerful army of ours is left in that region. It has to be dealt with before we lose the West."

"And it will fight like the Army of Northern Virginia," said Harry. "I know the men of the West. The Yankees win there most of the time, because we have our great generals in the East and they have theirs in the West."

"I've had that thought myself," said Bagby. "We've had men of genius to lead us in the East, but we don't seem to produce them in the West. People are always quoting Napoleon's saying that men are nothing, a man is everything, which I never believed before, but which I'm beginning to believe now."

Then the talk veered away from battle and back to social, literary and artistic affairs, to all of which Harry and Dalton listened eagerly. Both had minds that responded to the more delicate things of life, and they were glad to hear something besides war discussed. It was hard for them to think that everything was going on as usual in Europe, that new books and operas and songs were being written, and that men and women were going about their daily affairs in peace. Yet both were destined to live to see the case reversed, the people of the States setting the world an example in moderation and restraint, while the governments of Europe were deluging that continent with blood.

"If this war should result in our defeat," said Bagby, "we won't get a fair trial before the world for two or three generations, and maybe never."

"Why?" asked Dalton.

"Because we're not a writing people. Oh, yes, there's Poe, I know, the nation's greatest literary genius, but even Europe honored him before the South did. We've devoted our industry and talents to politics, oratory and war. We don't write books, and we don't have any newspapers that amount to much. Why, as sure as I'm sitting here, the moment this war is over New England and New York and Pennsylvania, particularly New England, will begin to pour out books, telling how the wicked Southerners brought on the war, what a cruel and low people we are, the way in which we taught our boys, when they were strong enough, how to beat slaves to death, and the whole world will believe them. Maybe the next generation of Southerners will believe them too."

"Why?" asked Harry.

"Why? Why? Because we don't have any writers, and won't have any for a long time! The writer has not been honored among us. Any fellow with a roaring voice who can get up on the stump and tell his audience that they're the bravest and best and smartest people on earth is the man for them. You know that old story of Andy Jackson. Somebody taunted him with being an uneducated man, so at the close of his next speech he thundered out: E pluribus unum! Multum in parvo! Sic semper tyrannis! So it was all over. Old Andy to that audience, and all the others that heard of it, was the greatest Latin scholar in the world."

"But that may apply to the North, too," objected Harry.

"So it would. Nevertheless they'll write this war, and they'll get their side of it fastened on the world before our people begin to write."

"But if we win we won't care," said Randolph. "Success speaks for itself. You can squirm and twist all you please, and make all the excuses for it that you can think up, but there stands success glaring contemptuously at you. You're like a little boy shooting arrows at the Sphinx."

Thus the conversation ran on. Both Harry and Dalton were glad to be in the company of these men, and to feel that there was something in the world besides war. All the multifarious interests of peace and civilization suddenly came crowding back upon them. Harry remembered Pendleton with its rolling hills, green fields, and clear streams, and Dalton remembered his own home, much like it, in the Valley of Virginia, not so far away.

"Do you remain long in Richmond?" asked Randolph.

"A week at least," replied Harry.

"Then you ought to see a little of social life. Mrs. John Curtis, a leading hostess, gives a reception and a dance to-morrow night. I can easily procure invitations for both of you, and I know that she would be glad to have two young officers freshly arrived from our glorious Army of Northern Virginia."

"But our clothes!" said Dalton. "We have only a change of uniform apiece, and they're not fresh by any means."

All the men laughed.

"You don't think that Richmond is indulging in gorgeous apparel do you?" said Daniel. "We never manufactured much ourselves, and since all the rest of the world is cut off from us where are the clothes to come from even for the women? Brush up your uniforms all you can and you'll be more than welcome. Two gallant young officers from the Army of Northern Virginia! Why, you'll be two Othellos, though white, of course."

Harry glanced at Dalton, and Dalton glanced at Harry. Each saw that the other wanted to go, and Daniel, watching them, smiled.

"I see that you'll come," he said, "and so it's settled. Have you quarters yet?"

"Not yet," replied Harry, "but we'll see about it this afternoon."

"I'll have the invitations sent to you here at this hotel. All of us will be there, and we'll see that you two meet everybody."

Both thanked him profusely. They were about to go, thinking it time to report to General Winder, when Harry noticed a thin woman in a black dress, carrying a large basket, and just leaving the hotel desk. He caught a glimpse of her face and he knew that it was the old maid of the train. Then something else was impressed upon his mind, something which he had not noticed at their first meeting, but which came to him at their second. He had seen a face like hers before, but the resemblance was so faint and fleeting that he could not place it, strive as he would. But he was sure that it was there.

"Who is that woman?" he asked.

Daniel shook his head and so did Randolph, but Bagby spoke up.

"Her name is Henrietta Carden," he said, "and she's a seamstress. I've seen her coming to the hotel often before, bringing new clothes to the women guests, or taking away old ones to be repaired. I believe that the ladies account her most skillful. It's likely that she'll be at the Curtis house, in a surgical capacity, to-morrow night, as a quick repairer of damaged garments, those fine linen and silk and lace affairs that we don't know anything about. Mrs. Curtis relies greatly upon her and I ought to tell you, young gentlemen, that Mr. Curtis is a most successful blockade runner, though he takes no personal risk himself. The Curtis house is perhaps the most sumptuous in Richmond. You'll see no signs of poverty there, though, as I told you, officers in old and faded clothes are welcome."

Harry saw Henrietta Carden carrying the large basket of clothes, go out at a side door, and he felt as if a black shadow like a menace had passed across the floor. But it was only for an instant. He dismissed it promptly, as one of those thoughts that come out of nothing, like idle puffs of summer air. He and Dalton bade a brief farewell to their new friends and left for the headquarters of General Winder. An elderly and childless couple named Lanham had volunteered to take two officers in their house near Capitol Square, and there Harry and Dalton were sent.

They could not have found a better place. Mr. and Mrs. Lanham were quiet people, who gave them an excellent room and a fine supper. Mrs. Lanham showed a motherly solicitude, and when she heard that they were going to the Curtis ball on the following night she demanded that their spare and best uniforms be turned over to her.

"I can make them look fresh," she insisted, "and your appearance must be the finest possible. No, don't refuse again. It's a pleasure to me to do it. When I look at you two, so young and strong and so honest in manner and speech, I wish that I had sons too, and then again I'm glad I have not."

"Why not, Mrs. Lanham?" asked Harry.

"Because I'd be in deadly fear lest I lose them. They'd go to the war -- I couldn't help it -- and they'd surely be killed."

"We won't grieve over losing what we've never had," smiled Mr. Lanham. "That's morbid."

Harry and Dalton did their best to answer all the questions of their hosts, who they knew would take no pay. The interest of both Mr. and Mrs. Lanham was increased when they found that their young guests were on the staff of General Lee and before that had been on the staff of the great Stonewall Jackson. These two names were mighty in the South, untouched by any kind of malice or envy, and with legends to cluster around them as the years passed.

"And you really saw Stonewall Jackson every day!" said Mrs. Lanham. "You rode with him, talked with him, and went into battle with him?"

"I was in all his campaigns, Mrs. Lanham," replied Harry, modestly, but not without pride. "I was with him in every battle, even to the last, Chancellorsville. I was one of those who sheltered him from the shells, when he was shot by our own men. Alas! what an awful mistake. I -- "

He stopped suddenly. He had choked with emotion, and the tears came into his eyes. Mrs. Lanham saw, and, understanding, she quickly changed the subject to Lee. They talked a while after supper, called dinner now, and then they went up to their room on the second floor.

It was a handsome room, containing good furniture, including two single beds. Their baggage had preceded them and everything was in order. Two large windows, open to admit the fresh air, looked out over Richmond. On a table stood a pitcher of ice water and glasses.

"Our lot has certainly been cast in a pleasant place," said Dalton, taking a chair by one of the windows.

"You're right," said Harry, sitting in the chair by the other window. "The Lanhams are fine people, and it's a good house. This is luxury, isn't it, George, old man?"

"The real article. We seem to be having luck all around. And we're going to a big ball to-morrow night, too. Who'd have thought such a thing possible a week ago?"

"And we've made friends who'll see that we're not neglected."

"It's an absolute fact that we've become the favorite children of fortune."

"No earthly doubt of it."

Then ensued a silence, broken at length by a scraping sound as each moved his chair a little nearer to the window.

"Close, George," said Harry at length.

"Yes, a bit hard to breathe."

"When fellows get used to a thing it's hard to change."

"Fine room, though, and those are splendid beds."

"Great on a winter night."

"You've noticed how the commander-in-chief himself seldom sleeps under a tent, but takes his blankets to the open?"

"Wonder how an Indian who has roamed the forest all his life feels when he's shut up between four walls for the first time."

"Fancy it's like a prison cell to him."

"Think so too. But the Lanhams are fine people and they're doing their best for us."

"Do you think they'd be offended if I were to take my blankets, and sleep on the grass in the back yard?"

"Of course they would. You mustn't think of such a thing. After this war is over you've got to emerge slowly from barbarism. Do you remember whether at supper we cut our food with our knives and lifted it to our mouths with forks, or just tore and lifted with our fingers?"

"We used knife and fork, each in its proper place. I happened to think of it and watched myself. You, I suppose, did it through the force of an ancient habit, recalled by civilized surroundings."

"I'm glad you remember about it. Now I'm going to bed, and maybe I'll sleep. I suppose there's no hope of seeing the stars through the roof."

"None on earth! But my bed is fine and soft. We'd be all right if we could only lift the roof off the house. I'd like to hear the wind rubbing the boughs together."

"Stop it! You make me homesick! We've got no right to be pining for blankets and the open, when these good people are doing so much for us!"

Each stretched himself upon his bed, and closed his eyes. They had not been jesting altogether. So long a life in the open made summer skies at night welcome, and roofs and walls almost took from them the power of breathing.

But the feeling wore away after a while and amid pleasurable thoughts of the coming ball both fell asleep.



Chapter X

The Missing Paper


Harry and Dalton did not awake until late the next morning and they found they had not suffered at all from sleeping between four walls and under a roof. Their lungs were full of fresh air, and youth with all its joyous irresponsibility had come back. Harry sprang out of bed.

"Up! up! old boy!" Harry cried to Dalton. "Don't you hear the bugles calling? not to battle but to pleasure! There is no enemy in our front! We don't have to cross a river with an overwhelming army pressing down upon us! We don't have to ride before the dawn on a scout which may lead us into a thicket full of hostile riflemen. We're in a city, boy, and our business now is beauty and pleasure!"

"Harry," said Dalton, "you ought to go far."

"Why, George? What induces you to assume the role of a prophet concerning me?"

"Because you're so full of life. You're so keen about everything. You must have a heart and lungs of extra steam power."

"But I notice you don't say anything about brain power. Maybe you think it's the quiet, rather silent fellows like yourself, George, who have an excess of that."

"None of your irony. Am I not looking forward to this ball as much as you are? I was a boy when I entered the war, Harry, but two years of fighting day and night age one terribly. I feel as if I could patronize any woman under twenty-five, and treat her as quite a simple young thing."

"Try it, George, and see what happens to you."

"Oh, no! I merely said I felt that way. I've too much sense to put it into action."

"Do you know, George, that when this war is over it will be really time for us to be thinking about girls. We'll be quite old enough. They say that many of the Yankee maidens in Philadelphia and New York are fine for looks. I wonder if they'll cast a favoring eye on young Southern officers as our conquering armies go marching down their streets!"

"It's too remote. Don't think about it, Harry. Richmond will do us for the present."

"But you can let a fellow project his mind into the future."

"Not so far that we'll be marching as conquerors through Philadelphia and New York. Let's deal with realities."

"I've always thought there was something of the Yankee about you, George, not in political principles -- I never question your devotion to the cause -- but in calculating, weighing everything and deciding in favor of the one that weighs an ounce the most."

"Are you about through dressing? You've taken a minute longer than the regular time."

There was a knock at the door, and, when Dalton opened it a few inches, a black head announced through the crack that breakfast was ready.

"See what a disgrace you're bringing upon us," said Dalton. "Delaying everything. Mrs. Lanham will say that we're two impostors, that such malingerers cannot possibly belong to the Army of Northern Virginia."

"Lead on," said Harry. "I'm ready, and I'm hungry as every soldier in the Southern army always is."

They had a warm greeting from their hospitable hosts, followed by an abundant breakfast. Then at Mrs. Lanham's earnest solicitation they turned over their dress uniforms to her to be repaired and pressed. Then they went out into the streets again, and spent the whole day rambling about, enjoying everything with the keen and intense delight that can come only to the young, and after long abstinence. Richmond was not depressed. Far from it. There had been a wonderful transformation since those dark days when the army of McClellan was near enough to see the spires of its churches. The flood of battle had rolled far away since then, and it had never come back. It could never come back. It was true that the Army of Northern Virginia had failed at Gettysburg, but it was returning to the South unassailed, and was ready to repeat its former splendid achievements.

Harry went to the post office, and found there, to his great surprise and delight, a letter from his father, written three or four days after Vicksburg.


My dear son: [he wrote]

The news has just come to us that the Army of Northern Virginia, while performing prodigies of valor, has failed to carry all the Northern positions at Gettysburg. Only complete success could warrant a further advance. I assume therefore that General Lee is retreating and I assume also that you, Harry, my beloved son, are alive, that you came unharmed out of that terrible battle. It does not seem possible to me that it could be otherwise. I cannot conceive of you fallen. It may be that it's because you are my son. The sons of others may fall, but not mine, just as we know that all others are doomed to die, but get into the habit of thinking ourselves immortal. So, I address this letter to you in the full belief that it will reach you somewhere, and that you will read it.

You know, of course, of our great loss at Vicksburg. It is disastrous but not irreparable. We still have a powerful army in the West, hardy, indomitable, one with which the enemy will have to reckon. As for myself I have been spared in many battles and I am well. It seems the sport of chance that you and I, while fighting on the same side, should have been separated in this war, you in the East and I in the West. But it has been done by One who knows best, and after all I am glad that you have been in such close contact with two of the greatest and highest-minded soldiers of the ages, Stonewall Jackson and Robert E. Lee. I do not think of them merely as soldiers, but as knights and champions with flaming swords. One of them, alas! is gone, but we have the other, and if man can conquer he will. Here in the West we repose our faith in Lee, as surely as do you in the East, you who see his face and hear his voice every day.

I have had two or three letters from Pendleton. That part of the State is for the present outside the area of conflict, though I hear that the guerilla bands to the east in the mountains still vex and annoy, and that Skelly is growing bolder. I foresee the time when we shall have to reckon with this man, who is a mere brigand.

I hear that the prospects for fruit in our orchards were never finer. You will remember how you prowled in them when you were a little boy, Harry, and what a pirate you were among the apples and peaches and pears and good things that grew on tree and bush and briar in that beautiful old commonwealth of ours. I often upbraided you then, but I should like to see you now, far out on a bough as of old, reaching for a big yellow pear, or a red, red bunch of cherries! Alas! there are many lads who will never return, who will never see the pear trees and the cherry trees again, but I repeat I cannot feel that you will be among them. Who would ever have dreamed when this war began that it could go so far? More than two years of fierce and deadly battles and I can see no end. A deadlock and neither side willing to yield! How glad would be the men who made the war to see both sections back where they were two and a half years ago! and that's no treason.


Water rose in Harry's eyes. He knew how terribly his father's heart had been torn by the quarrel between North and South, and that he had thoughts which he did not tell to his son. Harry was beginning at last to think some of the same thoughts himself. If the South succeeded, then, after the war, what? Another war later on or reunion.

The rest of the letter was wholly personal, and in the end it directed Harry, when writing to him, to address his letters care of the Western Army under General Bragg. Harry was moved and he responded at once. He went to the hotel in which he had met the young men who constituted the leading lights in what was called the Mosaic Club, and, securing writing materials, made a long reply, which he posted with every hope that it would soon reach its destination.

Early in the evening he rejoined Dalton at the house of the Lanhams and they found that Mrs. Lanham had done wonders with their best uniforms. When they were dressed in them they felt that it was no harder to charge the Curtis house than to rush a battery.

"You young men go early," said Mr. Lanham. "Mrs. Lanham and I will appear later."

They departed, daring to practice their dance steps in the street to the delight of small boys who did not hesitate to chaff them. But Harry and Dalton did not care. They answered the chaff in kind, and soon approached the Curtis home, all the windows of which were blazing with light.

The house stood in extensive grounds, and lofty white pillars gave it an imposing appearance. Guests were arriving fast. Most of the men were military, but there was a fair sprinkling of civilians nevertheless. The lads saw their friends of the Mosaic Club pass in just ahead of them, all dressed with extreme care. Generals and colonels and other officers were in most favor now, but these men, with their swift and incisive wit and their ability to talk well about everything, fully made up for the lack of uniform.

Harry and Dalton, before passing through the side gateway that led to the house, paused awhile to look at those who came. Many people, and they ranked among the best in Richmond, walked. They had sent all their horses to the front long ago to be ridden by cavalrymen or to draw cannon. Others, not so self-sacrificing, came in heavy carriages with negroes driving.

Harry noticed that in many cases the clothing of the men showed a little white at the seams, and there were cuffs the ends of which had been trimmed with great care. But it was these whom he respected most. He remembered that Virginia had not really wanted to go into the war, and that she had delayed long, but, being in it, she was making supreme sacrifices.

And there were many young girls who did not need elaborate dress. In their simple white or pink, often but cotton, their cheeks showing the delicate color that is possessed only by the girls in the border states of the South, they seemed very beautiful to Harry and George, who had known nothing but camps and armies so long.

It was the healthy admiration of the brave youth of one sex for the fair youth of the other, but there was in it a deeper note, too. Age can stand misfortune. Youth wonders why it is stricken, and Harry felt as they passed by, bright of face and soft of voice, that the clouds were gathering heavily over them.

But he was too young himself for the feeling to endure long. Dalton was proposing that they go in and they promptly joined the stream of entering guests. Randolph soon found them and presented them to Mrs. Curtis, a large woman of middle years, and dignified manner, related to nearly all the old families of Virginia, and a descendant of a collateral branch of the Washingtons. Her husband, William Curtis, seemed to be of a different type, a man of sixty, tall, thin and more reserved than most Southerners of his time. His thin lips were usually compressed and his pale blue eyes were lacking in warmth. But the long strong line of his jaw showed that he was a man of strength and decision.

"A Northern bough on a Southern tree," whispered Dalton, as they passed on. "He comes from some place up the valley and they say that the North itself has not his superior in financial skill."

"I did not warm to him at first," said Harry, "but I respect him. As you know, George, we've put too little stress upon his kind of ability. We'll need him and more like him when the Confederacy is established. We'll have to build ourselves up as a great power, and that's done by trade and manufactures more than by arms."

"It's so, Harry. But listen to that music!"

A band of four pieces placed behind flowers and shrubbery was playing. Here was no blare of trumpets or call of bugles. It was the music of the dance and the sentimental old songs of the South, nearly all of which had a sad and wailing note. Harry heard the four black men play the songs that he had heard Samuel Jarvis sing, deep in the Kentucky mountains, and his heart beat with an emotion that he could not understand. Was it a cry for peace? Did his soul tell him that an end should come to fighting? Then throbbed the music of the lines:

Soft o'er the fountain lingering falls the Southern moon Far o'er the mountain breaks the day too soon. In thy dark eyes' splendor, where the moonlight loves to dwell Weary looks, yet tender, speak their fond farewell. Nita, Juanita! Ask thy soul if we should part, Nita, Juanita! Lean thou on my heart!

The music of the sad old song throbbed and throbbed, and sank deep into Harry's heart. At another time he might not have been stirred, but at this moment he was responsive in every fiber. He saw once more the green wilderness, and he heard once more the mellow tones of the singer coming back in far echoes from the gorges.

"Nita, Juanita! Ask thy soul if we should part," hummed Dalton, but Harry was still far away in the green wilderness, listening to the singer of the mountains. Then the singer stopped suddenly, and he was listening once more to the startling prediction of the old, old woman:

"I am proud that our house has sheltered you, but it is not for the last time. You will come again, and you will be thin and pale and in rags, and you will fall at the door. I see you coming with these two eyes of mine."

That prediction had been made a long time ago, years since, it seemed, but whenever it returned to him, and it returned at most unexpected times, it lost nothing of its amazing vividness and power; rather they were increased. Could it be true that the supremely old had a vision or second sight? Then he rebuked himself angrily. There was nothing supernatural in this world.

"Wake up, Harry! What are you thinking about?" whispered Dalton sharply. "You seem to be dreaming, and here's a house full of pretty girls, with more than a half-dozen looking at you, the gallant young officer of the Army of Northern Virginia, the story of whose romantic exploits had already reached Richmond."

"I was dreaming and I apologize," said Harry. That minute in which he had seen so much, so far away, passed utterly, and in another minute both he and Dalton were dancing with Virginia girls, as fair as dreams to these two, who had looked so long only upon the tanned faces of soldiers.

Both he and Dalton were at home in a half-hour. People in the Old South then, as in the New South now, are closely united by ties of kinship which are acknowledged as far as they run. One is usually a member of a huge clan and has all the privileges that clanship can confer. Kentucky was the daughter of Virginia, and mother and daughter were fond of each other, as they are to-day.

After the third dance Harry was sitting with Rosamond Lawrence of Petersburg in a window seat. She was a slender blonde girl, and the dancing had made the pink in her cheeks deepen into a flush.

"You're from Kentucky, I know," said Miss Lawrence, "but you haven't yet told me your town."

"Pendleton. It's small but it's on the map. My father is a colonel in the Western army."

"Aren't you a Virginian by blood? Most all Kentuckians are."

"Partly. My great grandfather, though, was born in Maryland."

"What was his name, Lieutenant Kenton?"

"Henry Ware!"

"Henry Ware! Kentucky's first and greatest governor."

"Yes, he was my great grandfather. I'm proud to be his descendant."

"I should think you would be."

"But his wife, who was Lucy Upton, my great grandmother, was of Virginia blood, and all of the next two generations intermarried with people of Virginia stock."

"Then you are a Kentuckian and a Virginian, too. I knew it! You have a middle name, haven't you?"

"Yes."

"Will you tell me what it is?"

"Cary."

The girl laughed.

"Harry Cary Kenton. Why Cary is one of our best old Virginia names. Will you tell me too what was your mother's name before she was married?"

"Parham."

"Another. Oh, all this unravels finely. And what was your grandmother's name?"

"Brent."

"Nothing could be more Virginian than Brent. Oh, you're one of us, Lieutenant Kenton, a real Virginian of the true blood."

"And heart and soul too!" giving her one of his finest young military glances.

She laughed. It was only quick friendship between them and no more, and a half-hour later he was dancing with another Virginia girl, not so blonde, but just as handsome, and their talk was quite as friendly. Her name was Lockridge, and as they sat down near the musicians to rest, and listen a while, Harry saw a figure, slender and black-robed, pass. He knew at once who she was, and it had been predicted that he might meet her there, but she had stirred his curiosity a little, and thinking he might obtain further information he asked Miss Lockridge:

"Who is the woman who just passed us?"

"That's Miss Carden, Miss Henrietta Carden, a sewing woman, very capable too, who always helps at the big balls. Mrs. Curtis relies greatly upon her. The door through which she went leads to the ladies' dressing-room."

"A native of Richmond?"

"I don't know. But why are you so curious about a sewing woman, Lieutenant Kenton?"

Harry flushed. There was a faint tinge of rebuke in her words, and he knew that he merited it.

"It was just an idle question," he replied quickly, and with an air of indifference. "I noticed her on the train when we came into the capital, and we are so little used to women that we are inquisitive about every one whom we see. Why, Miss Lockridge, I didn't realize until I came to this ball that women could be so extraordinarily beautiful. Every one of you looks like an angel, just lowered gently from Heaven."

"If you're not merely a flatterer then it's long absence that gives charm. I assure you, Lieutenant Kenton, that we're very, very common clay. You should see us eat."

"I'll get you an ice at once."

"Oh, I don't mean that. I mean substantial things!"

"A healthy appetite doesn't keep a girl from being an angel."

"When men marry us they find out that we're not angels."

"The word 'angel' is with me merely a figure of speech. I don't want any real angel. I want my wife, if I ever marry, to be thoroughly human."

Harry's progress was rapid. A handsome figure and face, and an ingenuous manner made him a favorite. After midnight he wandered into a room where older men were smoking and talking. They were mostly officers, some of high rank, one a general, and they talked of that which they could never get wholly from their minds, the war. All knew Harry, and, as he wanted fresh air, they gave him a place by a window which looked upon a small court.

Harry was tired. In dancing he had been compelled to bring into play muscles long unused, and he luxuriated in the cushioned chair, while the pleasant night breeze blew upon him. They were discussing Lee's probable plans to meet Meade, who would certainly follow him in time across the Potomac. They spoke with weight and authority, because they were experienced men who had been in many battles, and they were here on furlough, most of them recovering from wounds.

Harry heard them, but their words were like the flowing of a river. He paid no heed. They did not bring the war back to him. He was thinking of the music and of the brilliant faces of the girls whom he loved collectively. What that Lawrence girl had said was true. He was a Virginian as well as a Kentuckian, and the Kentuckians and Virginians were all one big family. All those pretty Virginia girls were his cousins. It might run to the thirty-second degree, but they were his cousins just the same, and he would claim them with confidence.

He smiled and his eyelids drooped a little. It was rather dark outside, and he was looking directly into the court in which rosebushes and tall flowering plants grew. A shadow passed. He did not see whence it came or went, but he sat up and laughed at himself for dozing and conjuring up phantoms when he was at his first real ball in ages.

All the civilians had gone out and only five or six of the officers, the most important, were left. Their talk had grown more eager, and on the center of the table around which they sat lay a large piece of white canvas upon which they were drawing a map expressing their collective opinion. Every detail was agreed upon, after much discussion, and Harry, as much interested as they, began to watch, while the lines grew upon the canvas. He ventured no opinion, being so much younger than the others.

"We don't know, of course, exactly what General Lee will do," said a colonel, "but we do know that he's always dangerous. He invariably acts on the offensive, even if he's retreating. I should think that he'd strike Meade about here."

"Not there, but not far from it," said the general. "Make a dot at that point, Bathurst, and make another dot here about twenty miles to the east, which represents my opinion."

Bathurst made the dots and the men, wholly absorbed, bent lower over their plans, which were growing almost unconsciously into a map, and a good one too. Harry was as much interested as they, and he still kept himself in the background, owing to his youth and minor rank.

The door to the room was open a little and the music, a waltz, came in a soft ripple from the drawing room. It was rhythmic and languorous, and Harry's feet would have moved to its tune at any other time, but he was too deeply absorbed in the conjectures and certainties that they were drawing with their pencils on the white canvas.

Many of the details, he knew, were absolutely true, and others he was quite sure must be true, because these were men of high rank who carried in their minds the military secrets of the Confederacy.

"I think we're pretty well agreed on the general nature of the plan," said Bathurst. "We differ only in details."

"That's so," said the general, "but we're lingering too long here. God knows that we see little enough of our women folks, and, when we have the chance to see them, and feel the touch of their hands, we waste our time like a lot of fools making military guesses. If I'm not too old to dance to the tune of the shells I'm not too old to dance to the tune of the fiddle and the bow. That's a glorious air floating in from the ballroom. I think I can show some of these youngsters like Kenton here how to shake a foot."

"After you, General," laughed Bathurst. "We know your capacity on both the field and the floor, and how you respond to the shell and the bow. Come on! The ballroom is calling to us, and I doubt whether we'll explain to the satisfaction of everybody why we've been away from it so long. You, too, Harry!"

They rose in a group and went out hastily. Harry was last, and his hand was on the bolt of the door, preparatory to closing it, when the general turned to Bathurst and said:

"You've that diagram of ours, haven't you, Bathurst? It's not a thing to be left lying loose."

"Why, no, sir, I thought you put it in your pocket."

The general laughed.

"You're suffering from astigmatism, Bathurst," he said. "Doubtless it was Colton whom you saw stowing it away. I think we'd better tear it into little bits as we have no further use for it."

"But I haven't it, sir," said Colton, a veteran colonel, just recovering from a wound in the arm. "I supposed of course that one of the others took it."

An uneasy look appeared in the general's eyes, but it passed in an instant.

"You have it, Morton?"

"No, sir. Like Bathurst I thought one of the others took it."

"And you, Kitteridge?"

"I did not take it, sir."

"You surely have it, Johnson?"

"No, sir, I was under the impression that you had taken it away with you."

"And you, McCurdy?"

McCurdy shook his head.

"Then Kenton, as you were the last to rise, you certainly have it."

"I was just a looker-on; I did not touch it," said Harry, whose hand was still on the bolt of the partly opened door.

The general laughed.

"Another case of everybody expecting somebody else to do a thing, and nobody doing it," he said. "Kenton, go back and take it from the table. In our absorption we've been singularly forgetful, and that plan must be destroyed at once."

Harry reentered the room, and in their eagerness all of the officers followed. Then a simultaneous "Ah!" of dismay burst from them all. There was nothing on the table. The plan was gone. They looked at one another, and in the eyes of every one apprehension was growing.

"The window is partly open," said the general, affecting a laugh, although it had an uneasy note, "and of course it has blown off the table. We'll surely find it behind the sofa or a chair."

They searched the room eagerly, going over every inch of space, every possible hiding place, but the plan was not there.

"Perhaps it's in the court," said the general. "It might have fluttered out there. Raise the sash higher, Kenton. Let nobody make any noise. We must be as quiet as possible about this. Luckily there's enough moonlight now for us to find even a small scrap of paper in the court."

They stole through the window silently, one by one, and searched every inch of the court's space. But nothing was in it, save the grass and the flowers and the rosebushes that belonged there. They returned to the room, and once more looked at one another in dismay.

"Shut the window entirely and lock the door, Kenton," said the general.

Harry did so. Then the general looked at them all, and his face was set and very firm.

"We must all be searched," he said. "I know that every one of you is the soul of honor. I know that not one of you has concealed about his person this document which has suddenly become so valuable. I know that not one of you would smuggle through to the enemy such a plan at any price, no matter how large. Nevertheless we must know beyond the shadow of a doubt that none of us has the map. And I insist, too, that I be searched first. Bathurst, Colton, begin!"

They examined one another carefully in turn. Every pocket or possible place of concealment was searched. Harry was the last and when they were done with him the general heaved a huge sigh of relief.

"We know positively that we are not guilty," he said. "We knew it before, but now we've proved it. That is off our minds, but the mystery of the missing map remains. What a strange combination of circumstances. I think, gentlemen, that we had best say nothing about it to outsiders. It's certainly to the interest of every one of us not to do so. It's also to the interest of all of us to watch the best we can for a solution. You're young, Kenton, but from what I hear of you you're able to keep your own counsel."

"You can trust me, sir," said Harry.

"I know it, and now unlock the door. We've held ourselves prisoners long enough, and they'll be wondering about us in the ballroom."

Harry turned the key promptly enough and he was glad to escape from the room. He felt that he had left behind a sinister atmosphere. He had not mentioned to the older men the faint shadow that he thought he had seen crossing the courtyard. But then it was only fancy, nothing more, an idle figment of the brain! There was the music now, softer and more tempting than ever, an irresistible call to flying feet, and another dance with Rosamond Lawrence was due.

"I thought you weren't coming, Lieutenant Kenton," she said. "Some one said that you had gone into the smoking-room and that you were talking war with middle-aged generals and colonels."

"But I escaped as soon as I could, Miss Rosamond," he said -- he was thinking of the locked door and the universal search.

"Well, you came just in time. The band is beginning and I was about to give your dance to that good-looking Lieutenant Dalton."

"You wouldn't treat me like that! Throw over your cousin in such a manner! I can't think it!"

"No, I wouldn't!"

Then the full swell of the music caught them both, and they glided away, as light and swift as the melody that bore them on.



Chapter XI

A Vain Pursuit


Youth was strong in Harry, and, while he danced and the music played, he forgot all about the incident in the smoking-room. With him it was just one pretty girl after another. He had heart enough for them all, and only one who was so young and who had been so long on battlefields could well understand what a keen, even poignant, pleasure it was to be with them.

Those were the days when a ball lasted long. Pleasures did not come often, but when they came they were to be enjoyed to the full. But as the morning hours grew the manner of the older people became slightly feverish and unnatural. They were pursuing pleasure and forgetfulness with so much zeal and energy that it bore the aspect of force rather than spontaneity. Harry noticed it and divined the cause. Beneath his high spirits he now felt it himself. It was that looming shadow in the North and that other in that far Southwest hovering over lost Vicksburg. Serious men and serious women could not keep these shadows from their eyes long.

The incident of the smoking-room and the missing map came back to him with renewed force. It could not have walked away. They had searched the room and the court so thoroughly that they would have found it, had it been there. The disappearance of a document, which men of authority and knowledge had built up almost unconsciously, puzzled and alarmed him.

It was almost day when he and Dalton left. They paid their respects to Mr. and Mrs. Curtis, and said many good-bys to "the girls they left behind them." Then they went out into the street, and inhaled great draughts of the cool night air.

"A splendid night," said Dalton.

"Yes, truly," said Harry.

"I hope you didn't propose to more than six girls."

"To none. But I love them all together."

"I'm glad to hear it, because you're entirely too young to marry, and your occupation is precarious."

"You needn't be so preachy. You're not more'n a hundred years old yourself."

"But I'm two months older than you are and often two months makes a vast difference, particularly in our cases. I notice about you, Harry, at times, a certain juvenility which I feel it my duty to repress."

"Don't do it, George. Let's enjoy it while we can, because as you say my occupation is precarious and yours is the same."

They stopped at the corner of the iron fence enclosing the Curtis home, in which many lights were still shining. It was near a dark alley opening on the street and running by this side of the house.

"I'm going to see what's behind Mr. Curtis's house," said Harry.

Dalton stared at him.

"What's got into your head, Harry!" he exclaimed. "Do you mean to be a burglar prowling about the home of the man who has entertained you?"

Harry hesitated. He was sorry that Dalton was with him. Then he could have gone on without question, but he must make some excuse to Dalton.

"George," he said at last, "will you swear to keep a secret, a most important one which I am pledged to tell to nobody, but which I must confide in you in order to give a good reason for what I am about to do."

"If you are pledged to keep such a secret," replied Dalton, "then don't explain it to me. Your word is good enough, Harry. Go ahead and do what you want to do. I'll ask nothing about any of your actions, no matter how strange it may look."

"You're a man in a million, George. Come on, your confidence is going to be tested. Besides, you'll run the danger of being shot."

But Dalton followed him fearlessly as he led the way down the alley. Richmond was not lighted then, save along the main streets, and a few steps took them into the full dark. The brilliant windows threw bright bands across the lines, but they themselves were in darkness.

The alley ran through the next street and so did the Curtis grounds. They were as extensive in the rear of the house as in front, and contained small pines carefully trimmed, banks of roses and two grape arbors. Harry could hear no sound of any one stirring among them, but people, obviously the cooks and other servants, were talking in the big kitchen at the rear of the house.

The street itself running in the rear of the building was as well lighted as it was in front, but Harry saw no one in it save a member of the city police, who seemed to be keeping a good watch. But as he did not wish to be observed by the man he waited a little while in the mouth of the alley, until he had moved on and was out of sight.

"Now, George," he said, "you and I are going to do a little scouting. You know I'm descended from the greatest natural scout and trailer ever known in the West, one whose senses were preternaturally acute, one who could almost track a bird in the air by its flight."

"Yes, I've heard of the renowned Henry Ware, and I know that you've inherited a lot of his skill and intuition. Go ahead. I promised that I would help you and ask no questions. I keep my word."

Harry climbed silently over the low fence, and Dalton followed in the same manner. The light from the street and house did not penetrate the pines and rosebushes, where Harry quickly found a refuge, Dalton as usual following him.

"What next?" whispered Dalton.

"Now, I do my trailing and scouting, and you help me all you can, George, but be sure you don't make any noise. There's enough moonlight filtering through the pines to show the ground to me, but not enough to disclose us to anybody twenty feet away."

He dropped to his hands and knees, and, crawling back and forth, began to examine every inch of ground with minute care, while Dalton stared at him in amazement.

"I'd help," whispered Dalton, "if I only knew what you were doing."

"Suppose, George, that somebody wanted to see the Curtis house, and yet not be seen, wanted to observe as well as he could, without detection, what was going on there. He'd watch his chance, jump over the fence as we have done and enter this group of pines. He could ask no finer point of observation. We are perfectly hidden and yet we can see the whole rear of the house and one side of it."

"So we can. I infer that you are looking for some one who you think has been acting as a spy."

"Ah! here we are. The earth is a bit soft by this pine, and I see the trace of a footstep! And here is another trace, close by it, undoubtedly the imprint of the other foot. It's as plain as day."

Dalton knelt, looked at the traces, and shook his head. "I can't make out any of them," he said. "I see nothing but a slight displacement of the grass caused by the wind."

"That's because you haven't my keen eye, an inherited and natural ability as a trailer, although you may beat me out of sight in other things. The shape of these traces indicates that they were made by human feet, and their closeness together shows that the man stood looking at the house. If he had been walking along they would be much wider apart."

He examined the traces again with long and minute care.

"The toes point toward the house, consequently he was looking at it," he said. "He was a heavy man, and he stood here a long time, not moving from his tracks. That's why he left these traces, which are so clear and evident to me, George, although they're hidden from a blind man like you."

"Well, what of it?"

"Nothing much to you, but a lot to me."

He rose to his feet and examined the boughs of the pine.

"As I thought," he whispered with great satisfaction. "Despite his courage and power over himself, both of which were very great, he became a little excited. Doubtless he saw something that stirred him deeply."

"What under the stars are you talking about, Harry?"

"See, he broke off three twigs of the pine. Just snapped them in two with nervous fingers. Here are pieces lying on the ground. Now, a man does that sort of thing almost unconsciously. He will not reach up for the twig or down for it, but he breaks it because it presents itself to him at the corner of his eye. This man was six feet in height or more and built very powerfully. I think I know him! Yes, I'm sure I know him! Nor is it at all strange that he should be here."

"Shall we make a thorough search for him among the pines? You say he's tall and built powerfully. But maybe the two of us could master him, and if not we could call for help."

"Too late, George. He left a long time ago, and he took with him what he wanted. We needn't look any farther."

"Lead on, then, King of Trailers and Master of Secrets! If the mighty Caliph, Haroun al Kenton, wishes to prowl in these grounds, seeking the heart of some great conspiracy, it is not for his loyal vizier, the Sheikh Ul Dalton to ask him questions."

"I'm not certain that a vizier is a sheikh."

"Nor am I, but I'm certain that I want to go home and go to bed. Vikings of the land like ourselves can't stand much luxury. It weakens the tissues, made strong on the march and in the fields."

They left the grounds silently and unobserved and soon were in their own quarters, where they slept nearly the whole day. Then they spent three or four days more in the social affairs which were such a keen pleasure to them after such a long deprivation. But wherever they went, and they were in demand everywhere, Harry was always looking for somebody, a man, tall, heavy and broad shouldered, not a man who would come into a room where he was, or who would join a company of people that he had joined, but one who would hang upon the outskirts, and hide behind the corners of buildings or trees. He did not see the shadow, but once or twice he felt that it was there.

The officer, Bathurst, told him one night that some important papers had been stolen from the White House of the Confederacy itself.

"They pertain to our army," said Bathurst, "and they will be of value to the enemy, if they reach him."

"I'm quite certain that the most daring and dangerous of all northern spies is in Richmond," said Harry.

Then he told Bathurst of Shepard and of the trails that he had seen among the pines behind Curtis's house.

"Do you think this man got our map?" asked Bathurst.

"It may have been so. Perhaps he was hidden in the court and when he saw us go out, leaving the map on the table, he slipped in at the window and seized it."

"But the court was enclosed. He would have had to go with the paper through the house itself."

"That's where my theory fails. I can provide for his taking the paper, but I can't provide for his escape."

"I'll tell the General about it. I think you're right, Harry. I've heard of Shepard myself, and he's worth ten thousand men to the Yankees. It's more than that. At such a critical stage of our affairs he might ruin us. We'll make a general search for him. We'll rake the city with a fine tooth comb."

The search was made everywhere. Soldiers pried in every possible place, but they found nobody who could not give an adequate account of his presence in Richmond. Harry felt sure nevertheless that Shepard was somewhere in the capital, protected by his infinite daring and resource, and they received the startling news the next day after the search that a messenger sent northward with dispatches for Lee had been attacked only a short distance from the city. He had been struck from behind, and did not see his assailant, but the wound in the head -- the man had been found unconscious -- and the missing dispatches were sufficient proof.

A night later precious documents were purloined from the office of the Secretary of War and a list of important earthworks on the North and South Carolina coast disappeared from the office of the Secretary of the Navy. Alarm spread through all the departments of the Confederacy. Some one, spy and burglar too, had come into the very capital, and he was having uncommon success.

Harry had not the least doubt that it was Shepard, and he was filled with an ambition to capture this man, whom he really liked. If Shepard were caught he would certainly be hanged, but then a spy must take his chances.

They heard meanwhile that General Lee had gone to a former camp of his on the Opequan, but that later in response to maneuvers by General Meade, he moved to a position near Front Royal. No orders came for Harry or Dalton to rejoin him, and, as a period of inactivity seemed to be at hand, they were glad to remain a while longer in Richmond. They still stayed with the Lanhams, who refused to take any pay, although the two young officers, chipping together, bought for Mrs. Lanham a little watch which had just come through the blockade from England.

Thus their days lengthened in Richmond, and, despite the shadow of the spy and his doings which was over Harry, they were still very pleasant. The members of the Mosaic Club, although older men, made much of them, and Harry and Dalton, being youths of sprighty wit, were able to hold their own in such company. The time had now passed into August, and they sat one afternoon in the lobby of the big hotel with their new friends. Richmond without was quiet and blazing in the sun. Harry had received a second letter from his father from an unnamed point in Georgia. It did not contain much news, but it was full of cheerfulness, and it intimated in more than one place that Bragg's army was going to strike a great blow.

All eyes were turned toward the West. The opinion had been spreading in the Confederacy that the chief danger was on that line. It seemed that the Army of Northern Virginia could take care of anything to the north and east, but in the south and west affairs did not go well.

"It's a pity that General Bragg is President Davis' brother-in-law," said Randolph.

"Why?" asked Daniel.

"Then he wouldn't be in command of our Western Army."

"Bragg's a fighter, though."

"But not a reaper."

"What do you mean?"

"He wins the victory, but lets the enemy take it."

"It may be so. But to come closer home, what about the Yankee spy in Richmond? It's an established fact that a man of most uncommon daring and skill is here."

"No doubt of it, what's the latest from him?"

"The house of William Curtis was entered last night and robbed."

"Robbed of what?"

"Papers. The man never takes any valuables."

"But Curtis is not in the government!"

"No, but he carries on a lot of blockade running, chiefly through Norfolk and Wilmington. I think the papers related to several blockade running vessels coming out from England, and of course the Yankee blockading ships will be ready for them. There's not a trace of the man who took them."

"Something is deucedly sinister about it," said Bagby. "It seems to be the work of one man, and he must have a hiding place in Richmond, but we can't find it. Kenton, you and Dalton are army officers, supposedly of intelligence. Now, why don't you find this mysterious terror? Ah, will you excuse me for a minute! I see Miss Carden leaving the counter with her basket, and there is no other seamstress in Richmond who can put the ruffles on a man's finest shirt as she can. She's been doing work for me for some time."

He arose, and, leaving them, bowed very politely to the seamstress. Her face, although thin and lined, was that of an educated woman of strong character. Harry thought it probable that she was a lady in the conventional meaning of the word. Many a woman of breeding and culture was now compelled to earn her own living in the South. She and Bagby exchanged only a few words, he returning to his chair, and she leaving the hotel at a side door, walking with dignity.

"I've seen Miss Carden three times before, once on the train, once at this hotel and once at Mr. Curtis's house; can you tell me anything about her?" said Harry.

"It's an ordinary tale," replied Bagby. "I think she lived well up the valley and her house being destroyed in some raid of the Federal troops she came down to the capital to earn a living. She's been doing work for me and others I know for a year past, and I know she's not been out of Richmond in that time."

The talk changed now to the books that had come through from Europe in the blockade runners. There was a new novel by Dickens and another by Thackeray, new at least to the South, and the members of the Mosaic Club were soon deep in criticism and defense.

Harry strolled away after a while. He did not tell his friends -- nothing was to be gained by telling them -- that he was absolutely sure of the identity of the spy, that it was Shepard. The question of identity did not matter if they caught him, and his old feeling that it was a duel between Shepard and himself returned. He believed that the duty to catch the man had been laid upon him.

He began to haunt Richmond at all hours of the night. More than once he had to give explanations to watchmen about public buildings, but he clung to the task that he had imposed upon himself. He explained to Dalton and the Virginian found no fault except for Harry's loss of time that might be devoted to amusement. Harry sometimes rebuked himself for his own persistency, but Bagby's taunt had stung a little, and he felt that it applied more to himself than to Dalton. He knew Shepard and he knew something of his ways. Moreover, his was the blood of the greatest of all trailers, and it was incumbent upon him to find the spy. Yet he was trailing in a city and not in a forest. In spite of everything he clung to his work.

On a later night about one o'clock in the morning he was near the building that housed army headquarters, and he noticed a figure come from some bushes near it. He instantly stepped back into the shadow and saw a man glance up and down the street, probably to see if it was clear. It was a night to favor the spy, dark, with heavy clouds and gusts of rain.

The figure, evidently satisfied that no one was watching, walked briskly down the street, and Harry's heart beat hard against his side. He knew that it was Shepard, the king of spies, against whom he had matched himself. He could not mistake, despite the darkness, his figure, his walk and the swing of his powerful shoulders.

His impulse was to cry for help, to shout that the spy was here, but at the first sound of his voice Shepard would at once dart into the shrubbery, and escape through the alleys of Richmond. No, his old feeling that it was a duel between Shepard and himself was right, and so they must fight it out.

Shepard walked swiftly toward the narrower and more obscure streets, and Harry followed at equal speed. The night grew darker and the rain, instead of coming in gusts, now fell steadily. Twice Shepard stopped and looked back. But on each occasion Harry flattened himself against a plank fence and he did not believe the spy had seen him.

Then Shepard went faster and his pursuer had difficulty in keeping him in view. He went through an alley, turned into a street, and Harry ran in order not to lose sight of him.

The alley came into the street at a right angle, and, when Harry turned the corner, a heavy, dark figure thrust itself into his path.

"Shepard!" he cried.

"Yes!" said the man, "and I hate to do this, but I must."

His heavy fist shot out and caught his pursuer on the jaw. Harry saw stars in constellations, then floated away into blackness, and, when he came out of it, found himself lying on a bed in a small room. His jaw was bandaged and very sore, but otherwise he felt all right. A candle was burning on a table near him and an unshuttered window on the other side of the room told him that it was still night and raining.

Harry looked leisurely about the room, into which he had been wafted on the magic carpet of the Arabian genii, so far as he knew. It was small and without splendor and he knew at once from the character of its belongings that it was a woman's room.

He sat up. His head throbbed, but touching it cautiously he knew that he had sustained no serious injury. But he felt chagrin, and a lot of it. Shepard had known that he was following him and had laid a trap, into which he had walked without hesitation. The man, however, had spared his life, although he could have killed him as easily as he had stunned him. Then he laughed bitterly at himself. A duel between them, he had called it! Shepard wouldn't regard it as much of a duel.

His head became so dizzy that he lay down again rather abruptly and began to wonder. What was he doing in a woman's room, and who was the woman and how had he got there? This would be a great joke for Dalton and St. Clair and Happy Tom.

He was fully dressed, except for his boots, and he saw them standing on the floor against the wall. He surveyed once more the immaculate neatness of the room. It was certainly a woman's, and most likely that of an old maid. He sat up again, but his head throbbed so fearfully that he was compelled to lie down quickly. Shepard had certainly put a lot in that right hand punch of his and he had obtained a considerable percentage of revenge for his defeat in the river.

Then Harry forgot his pain in the intensity of his curiosity. He had sustained a certain temporary numbing of the faculties from the blow and his fancy, though vivid now, was vague. He was not at all sure that he was still in Richmond. The window still showed that it was night, and the rain was pouring so hard that he could hear it beating against the walls. At all events, he thought whimsically, he had secured shelter, though at an uncommon high price.

He heard a creak, and a door at the end of the room opened, revealing the figure and the strong, haggard features of Henrietta Carden. Evidently she had taken off a hood and cloak in an outer room, as there were rain drops on her hair and her shoes were wet.

"How are you feeling, Mr. Kenton?" she asked.

"Full of aches and wonder."

"Both will pass."

She smiled, and, although she was not young, Harry thought her distinctly handsome, when she smiled.

"I seem to have driven you out of your room and to have taken your bed from you, Miss Carden," he said, "but I assure you it was unintentional. I ran against something pretty hard, and since then I haven't been exactly responsible for what I was doing."

She smiled again, and this time Harry found the smile positively winning.

"I'm responsible for your being here," she said.

Then she went back to the door and said to some one waiting in the outer room:

"You can come in, Lieutenant Dalton. He's all right except for his headache, and an extraordinary spell of curiosity."

Dalton stalked solemnly in, and regarded Harry with a stern and reproving eye.

"You're a fine fellow," he said. "A lady finds you dripping blood from the chin, and out of your head, wandering about the street in the darkness and rain. Fortunately she knows who you are, takes you into her own house, gives you an opiate or some kind of a drug, binds up your jaw where some man good and true has hit you with all his goodness and truth, and then goes for me, your guardian, who should never have let you out of his sight. I was awakened out of a sound sleep in our very comfortable room at the Lanham house, and I've come here through a pouring rain with Miss Carden to see you."

"I do seem to be the original trouble maker," said Harry. "How did you happen to find me, Miss Carden?"

"I was sitting at my window, working very late on a dress that Mrs. Curtis wants to-morrow. It was not raining hard then, and I could see very well outside. I saw a dark shadow in the street at the mouth of the alley. I saw that it was the figure of a man staggering very much. I ran out and found that it was you, Lieutenant Kenton. You were bleeding at the chin, where apparently some one had struck you very hard, and you were so thoroughly dazed that you did not know where you were or who you were."

"Yes, he hit me very hard, just as you supposed, Miss Carden," said Harry, feeling gently his sore and swollen chin.

"I half led and half dragged you into my house -- there was nowhere else I could take you -- and, as you were sinking into a stupor, I managed to make you lie down on my bed. I bound up your wound, while you were unconscious, and then I went for Lieutenant Dalton."

"And she saved your life, too, you young wanderer. No doubt of that," said Dalton reprovingly. "This is what you get for roaming away from my care. Lucky you were that an angel like Miss Carden saved you from dying of exposure. If I didn't know you so well, Harry, I should say that you had been in some drunken row."

"Oh, no! not that!" exclaimed Miss Carden. "There was no odor of liquor on his breath."

"I was merely joking, Miss Carden," said Dalton. "Old Harry here is one of the best of boys, and I'm grateful to you for saving him and coming to me. If there is any way we can repay you we'll do it."

"I don't want any repayment. We must all help in these times."

"But we won't forget it. We can't. How are you feeling, Harry?"

"My head doesn't throb so hard. The jarred works inside are gradually getting into place, and I think that in a half-hour I can walk again, that is, resting upon that stout right arm of yours, George."

"Then we'll go. I've brought an extra coat that will protect you from the rain."

"You are welcome to stay here!" exclaimed Miss Carden. "Perhaps you'd be wiser to do so."

"We thank you for such generous hospitality," said Dalton gallantly, "but it will be best for many reasons that we go back to Mrs. Lanham's as soon as we can. But first can we ask one favor of you, Miss Carden?"

"Of course."

"That you say nothing of Mr. Kenton's accident. Remember that he was on military duty and that in the darkness and rain he fell, striking upon his jaw."

"I'll remember it. Our first impression that he had been struck by somebody was a mistake, of course. You can depend upon me, both of you. Neither of you was ever in my house. The incident never occurred."

"But we're just as grateful to you as if it had happened."

A half-hour later they left the cottage, Miss Carden holding open the door a little to watch them until they were out of sight. But Harry had recovered his strength and he was able to walk without Dalton's assistance, although the Virginian kept close by his side in case of necessity.

"Harry," said Dalton, when they were nearly to the Lanham house, "are you willing to tell what happened?"

"As nearly as I know. I got upon the trail of that spy who has been infesting Richmond. I knew at the time that it couldn't have been any one else. I followed him up an alley, but he waited for me at the turn, and before I could defend myself he let loose with his right. When I came drifting back into the world I was lying upon the bed in Miss Carden's cottage."

"He showed you some consideration. He might have quietly put you out of the way with a knife."

"Shepard and I don't care to kill each other. Each wants to defeat the other's plans. It's got to be a sort of duel between us."

"So I see, and he has scored latest."

"But not last."

"We'd better stick to the tale about the fall. Such a thing could happen to anybody in these dark streets. But that Miss Carden is a fine woman. She showed true human sympathy, and what's more, she gave help."

"She's all that," agreed Harry heartily.

They had their own keys to the Lanham house and slipped in without awakening anybody. Their explanations the next day were received without question and in another day Harry's jaw was no longer sore, though his spirit was. Yet the taking of important documents ceased suddenly, and Harry was quite sure that his encounter with Shepard had at least caused him to leave the city.



Chapter XII

In Winter Quarters


Harry was sent a few days later with dispatches from the president to General Lee, who was still in his camp beside the Opequan. Dalton was held in the capital for further messages, but Harry was not sorry to make the journey alone. The stay in Richmond had been very pleasant. The spirits of youth, confined, had overflowed, but he was beginning to feel a reaction. One must return soon to the battlefield. This was merely a lull in the storm which would sweep with greater fury than ever. The North, encouraged by Gettysburg and Vicksburg, was gathering vast masses which would soon be hurled upon the South, and Harry knew how thin the lines there were becoming.

He thought, too, of Shepard, who was the latest to score in their duel, and he believed that this man had already sent to the Northern leaders information beyond value. Harry felt that he must strive in some manner to make the score even.

It was late in the summer when he rejoined the Army of Northern Virginia and delivered the letters to the commander-in-chief, who sat in the shade of a large tree. Harry observed him closely. He seemed a little grayer than before the Battle of Gettysburg, but his manner was as confident as ever. He filled to both eye and mind the measure of a great general. After asking Harry many questions he dismissed him for a while, to play, so he said.

The young Kentuckian at once, and, as a matter of course, sought the Invincibles. St. Clair and Langdon hailed him with shouts of joy, but to his great surprise, Colonel Leonidas Talbot and Lieutenant-Colonel Hector St. Hilaire were not playing chess.

"We were getting on with the game last night, Harry," explained Colonel Talbot, "but we came to a point where we were about to develop heat over a projected move. Then, in order to avoid such a lamentable occurrence, we decided to postpone further play until to-night. But we find you looking uncommonly well, Harry. The flesh pots of Egypt have agreed with you."

"I had a good time in Richmond, sir, a fine one," replied Harry. "The people there have certainly been kind to me, as they are to all the officers of the Army of Northern Virginia."

"What have you done with the grave Dalton, who was your comrade on your journey to the capital?"

"They've kept him there for the present. They think he's stronger proof against the luxuries and temptations of a city than I am."

"Youth is youth, and I'm glad that you've had this little fling, Harry. Perhaps you'll have another, as I think you'll be sent back to Richmond very soon."

"What has been going on here, Colonel?"

"Very little. Nothing, in fact, of any importance. When we crossed the swollen Potomac, although threatened by an enemy superior to us in numbers, I felt that we would not be pushed. General Meade has been deliberate, extremely deliberate in his offensive movements. Up North they call Gettysburg a great victory, but we're resting here calmly and peacefully. Hector and I and our young friends have found rural peace and ease among these Virginia hills and valleys. You, of course, found Richmond very gay and bright?"

"Very gay and bright, Colonel, and full of handsome ladies."

Colonel Talbot sighed and Lieutenant-Colonel Hector St. Hilaire sighed also.

"Hector and I should have been there," said Colonel Talbot. "Although we've never married, we have a tremendous admiration for the ladies, and in our best uniforms we're not wholly unpopular among them, eh, Hector?"

"Not by any means, Leonidas. We're not as young as Harry here, but I know that you're a fine figure of a man, and you know that I am. Moreover, our experience of the dangerous sex is so much greater than that of mere boys like Harry and Arthur and Tom here, that we know how to make ourselves much more welcome. You talk to them about frivolous things, mere chit chat, while we explain grave and important matters to them."

"Are you sure, sir," asked St. Clair, "that the ladies don't really prefer chit chat?"

"I was not speaking of little girls. I was alluding to those ornaments of their sex who have arrived at years of discretion. Ah, if Leonidas and I were only a while in Richmond! It would be the next best thing to being in Charleston."

"Maybe the Invincibles will be sent there for a while."

"Perhaps. I don't foresee any great activity here in the autumn. How do they regard the Army of Northern Virginia in Richmond now, Harry?"

"With supreme confidence."

The talk soon drifted to the people whom Harry had met at the capital, and then he told of his adventure with Shepard, the spy.

"He seems to be a most daring man," said Talbot; "not a mere ordinary spy, but a man of a higher type. I think he's likely to do us great harm. But the woman, Miss Carden, was surely kind to you. If she hadn't found you wandering around in the rain you'd have doubtless dropped down and died. God bless the ladies."

"And so say we all of us," said Harry.

He returned to Richmond in a few days, bearing more dispatches, and to his great delight all that was left of the Invincibles arrived a week later to recuperate and see a little of the world. St. Clair and Happy Tom plunged at once and with all the ardor of youth into the gayeties of social life, and the two colonels followed them at a more dignified but none the less earnest pace. All four appeared in fine new uniforms, for which they had saved their money, and they were conspicuous upon every occasion.

Harry was again at the Curtis house, and although it was not a great ball this time the assemblage was numerous, including all his friends. The two colonels had become especial favorites everywhere, and they were telling stories of the old South, which Harry had divined was passing; passing whether the South won or not.

Although there had been much light talk through the evening and an abundance of real gayety, nearly every member of the company, nevertheless, had serious moments. The news from Tennessee and Georgia was heavy with import. It was vague in some particulars, but it was definite enough in others to tell that the armies of Rosecrans and Bragg were approaching each other. All eyes turned to the West. A great battle could not be long delayed, and a powerful division of the Army of Northern Virginia under Longstreet had been sent to help Bragg.

Harry found himself late at night once more in that very room in which the map had disappeared so mysteriously. The two colonels, St. Clair and Langdon, and one or two others had drifted in, and the older men were smoking. Inevitably they talked of the battle which they foresaw with such certainty, and Harry's anxiety about it was increased, because he knew his father would be there on one side, and the cousin, for whom he cared so much, would be on the other.

"If only General Lee were in command there," said Colonel Talbot, "we might reckon upon a great and decisive victory."

"But Bragg is a good general," said Lieutenant-Colonel St. Hilaire.

"It's not enough to be merely a good general. He must have the soul of fire that Lee has, and that Jackson had. Bragg is the Southern McClellan. He is brave enough personally, but he always overrates the strength of the enemy, and, if he is victorious on the field, he does not reap the fruits of victory."

"Where were the armies when we last heard from them?" asked a captain.

"Bragg was turning north to attack Rosecrans, who stood somewhere between him and Chattanooga."

"I'm glad that it's Rosecrans and not Grant who commands the Northern army there," said Harry.

"Why?" asked Colonel Talbot.

"I've studied the manner in which he took Vicksburg, and I've heard about him from my father, and others. He won't be whipped. He isn't like the other Northern generals. He hangs on, whatever happens. I heard some one quoting him as saying that no matter how badly his army was suffering in battle, the army of the other fellow might be suffering worse. It seems to me that a general who is able to think that way is very dangerous."

"And so he is, Harry," said Colonel Talbot. "I, too, am glad that it's Rosecrans and not Grant. If there's any news of a battle, we're not in a bad place to hear it. It's said that Mr. Curtis always knows as soon as our government what's happened."

The talk drifted on to another subject and then a hum came from the larger room. A murmur only, but it struck such an intense and earnest note that Harry was convinced.

"It's news of battle! I know it!" he exclaimed.

They sprang to their feet and hurried into the ballroom. William Curtis, his habitual calm broken, was standing upon a chair and all the people had gathered in front of him. A piece of paper, evidently a telegram, was clutched in his hand.

"Friends," he said in a strained, but exultant voice, "a great battle has been fought near Chattanooga on a little river called the Chickamauga, and we have won a magnificent victory."

A mighty cheer came from the crowd.

"The army of Rosecrans, attacked with sudden and invincible force by Bragg, has been shattered and driven into Chattanooga."

Another cheer burst forth.

"No part of the Union army was able to hold fast, save one wing under Thomas."

A third mighty cheer arose, but this time Harry did not join in it. He felt a sudden sinking of the heart at the words, "save one wing under Thomas." Then the victory was not complete. It could be complete only when the whole Union army was driven from the field. As long as Thomas stood, there was a flaw in the triumph. He had heard many times of this man, Thomas. He had Grant's qualities. He was at his best in apparent defeat.

"Is there anything else, Mr. Curtis?" asked Colonel Talbot.

"That is all my agent sends me concerning its results, but he says that it lasted two days, and that it was fierce and bloody beyond all comparison with anything that has happened in the West. He estimated that the combined losses are between thirty and forty thousand men."

A heavy silence fell upon them all. The victory was great, but the price for it was great, too. Yet exultation could not be subdued long. They were soon smiling over it, and congratulating one another. But Harry was still unable to share wholly in the joy of victory.

"Why this gloom in your face, when all the rest of us are so happy?" asked St. Clair.

"My father was there. He may have fallen. How do I know?"

"That's not it. He always comes through. What's the real cause? Out with it!"

"You know that part of the dispatch saying, 'No part of the Union army was able to hold fast save one wing under Thomas.' How about that wing! You heard, too, what the colonel said about General Bragg. He always overestimates the strength of the enemy, and while he may win a victory he will not reap the fruits of it. That wing under Thomas still may be standing there, protecting all the rest of the Union army."

"Come now, old Sober Face! This isn't like you. We've won a grand victory! We've more than paid them back for their Gettysburg."

Harry rejoiced then with the others, but at times the thought came to him that Thomas with one wing might yet be standing between Bragg and complete victory. When he and Dalton went back home -- they were again with the Lanhams -- they found the whole population of Richmond ablaze with triumph. The Yankee army in the West had been routed. Not only was Chickamauga an offset for Gettysburg, but for Vicksburg as well, and once more the fortunes of the South were rising toward the zenith.

Dalton had returned from the army a little later this time than Harry, but he had joined him at the Lanhams', and he too showed gravity amid the almost universal rejoicing.

"I see that you're afraid the next news won't be so complete, Harry," he said.

"That's it, George. We don't really know much, except that Thomas was holding his ground. Oh, if only Stonewall Jackson were there! Remember how he came down on them at the Second Manassas and at Chancellorsville! Thomas would be swept off his feet and as Rosecrans retreated into Chattanooga our army would pour right on his heels!"

They waited eagerly the next day and the next for news, and while Richmond was still filled with rejoicings over Chickamauga, Harry saw that his fears were justified. Thomas stood till the end. Bragg had not followed Rosecrans into Chattanooga. The South had won a great battle, but not a decisive victory. The commanding general had not reaped all the rewards that were his for the taking. Bragg had justified in every way Colonel Talbot's estimate of him.

And yet Richmond, like the rest of the South, felt the great uplift of Chickamauga, the most gigantic battle of the West. It told South as well as North that the war was far from over. The South could no longer invade the North, nor could the North invade the South at will. Even on the northernmost border of the rebelling section the Army of Northern Virginia under its matchless leader, rested in its camp, challenging and defiant.

Harry was glad to return with his friends to the army. His brief period of festival was over, and his fears for his father had been relieved by a letter, stating that he had received no serious harm in the great and terrible battle of Chickamauga.

After the failure of the armies of Lee and Meade to bring about a decisive battle at Mine Run, the Army of Northern Virginia established its autumn and winter headquarters on a jutting spur of the great range called Clarke's Mountain, Orange Court House lying only a few miles to the west. The huge camp was made in a wide-open space, surrounded by dense masses of pines and cedars. Tents were pitched securely, and, feeling that they were to stay here a long time many of the soldiers built rude log cabins.

General Lee himself continued to use his tent, which stood in the center of the camp, the streets of tents and cabins radiating from it like the spokes of a wheel. Close about Lee's own tent were others occupied by Colonel Taylor, his adjutant general, Colonel Peyton, Colonel Marshall, and other and younger officers, including Harry and Dalton. A little distance down one of the main avenues, which they were pleased to call Victory Street, the Invincibles were encamped, and Harry saw them almost every day.

The troops were well fed now, and the brooks provided an abundance of clear water. The days were still warm, but the evenings were cold, and, inhaling the healing odors of the pines and cedars, wounded soldiers returned rapidly to health.

It was a wonderful interval for Harry and his friends associated with him so closely. Save for the presence of armies, it seemed at times that there was no war. Deep peace prevailed along the Rapidan and the slopes of the mountain. It was the longest period of rest that he and his comrades were to know in the course of the mighty struggle. The action of the war was now chiefly in the Southwest, where Grant, taking the place of Rosecrans, was seeking to recover all that was lost at Chickamauga.

Harry had another letter from his father, telling him that his own had been received, and giving personal details of the titanic struggle on the Chickamauga. He did not speak out directly, but Harry saw in his words the vain regret that the great opportunity won at Chickamauga at such a terrible price had not been used. In his belief the whole Federal army might have been destroyed, and the star of the South would have risen again to the zenith.

Here Harry sighed and remembered his own forebodings. Oh, if only a Stonewall Jackson had been there! His mighty sweep would have driven Thomas and the rest in a wild rout. A tear rose in his eye as he remembered his lost hero. He sincerely believed then and always that the Confederacy would have won had he not fallen on that fatal evening at Chancellorsville. It was an emotion with him, a permanent emotion with which logic could not interfere.

Harry was conscious, too, that the long quiet on the Eastern front was but a lull. There was nothing to signify peace in it. If the North had ever felt despair about the war Gettysburg and Vicksburg had removed every trace of it. He knew that beyond the blue ranges of mountains, both to east and west, vast preparations were going forward. The North, the region of great population, of illimitable resources, of free access to the sea, and of mechanical genius that had counted for so much in arming her soldiers, was gathering herself for a supreme effort. The great defeats of the war's first period were to be ignored, and her armies were to come again, more numerous, better equipped and perhaps better commanded than ever.

Nevertheless, his mind was still the mind of youth, and he could not dwell continuously upon this prospect. The camp in the hills was pleasant. The heats had passed, and autumn in the full richness of its coloring had come. The forests blazed in all the brilliancy of red and yellow and brown. The whole landscape had the color and intensity that only a North American autumn can know, and the October air had the freshness and vitality sufficient to make an old man young.

The great army of youth -- it was composed chiefly of boys, like the one opposing it -- enjoyed itself during these comparatively idle months. The soldiers played rural games, marbles even, pitching the horseshoe, wrestling, jumping and running. It was to Harry like Hannibal in winter quarters at Capua, without the Capua. There was certainly no luxury here. While food was more abundant than for a long time, it was of the simplest. Instead of dissipation there was a great religious revival. Ministers of different creeds, but united in a common object, appeared in the camp, and preached with power and energy. The South was emotional then and perhaps the war had made it more so. The ministers secured thousands of converts. All day long the preaching and singing could be heard through the groves of pine and cedar, and Harry knew that when the time for battle came they would fight all the better because of it. Yielding to the enemy was no part of the Christianity that these ministers preached.

Harry also saw the growth of the hero-worship accorded to his great commander. He did not believe that any other general, except perhaps Napoleon in his earlier career, had ever received such trust and admiration. Many soldiers who had felt his guiding hand in battle now saw him for the first time. He had an appearance and manner to inspire respect, and, back of that, was something much greater, a firm conviction in the minds of all that he had illimitable patience, a willingness to accept responsibility, and a military genius that had never been surpassed. Such was the attitude of the Southern people toward their great leader then, and, to an even greater degree now, when his figure, like that of Lincoln, instead of becoming smaller grows larger as it recedes into the past.

Harry often rode with him. He seemed to have an especial liking for the very young members of his staff, or for old private soldiers, bearded and gray like himself, whom he knew by name. Far in October he rode down toward the Rapidan where Stuart was encamped, taking with him only Harry and Dalton. He was mounted on his great white war horse, Traveller, which the soldiers knew from afar. Cheering arose, but when he raised his hand in a deprecating way the soldiers, obedient to his wish, ceased, and they heard only the murmur of many voices, as they went on. The general made the lads ride, one on his right and the other on his left hand, and brilliant October coloring and crisp air seemed to put him in a mood that was far from war.

"I pine for Arlington," he said at length to Harry, "that ancestral home of mine that is held by the enemy. I should like to see the ripening of the crops there. We Virginians of the old stock hold to the land, and you Kentuckians, who are really of the same race, hold to it, too."

"It is true, sir," said Harry. "My father loves the land. After his retirement from the army, following the Mexican war, he worked harder upon our place in Kentucky than any slave or hired man. He was going to free his slaves, but I suppose, sir, that the war has made him feel different about it."

"Yes, we're often willing to do things by our own free will, but not under compulsion. The great Washington himself wrote of the evils of slave labor. The 'old fields' scattered all over Virginia show what it has done for this noble commonwealth."

Harry remembered quite well similar "old fields" in Kentucky. Slaves were far less numerous there than in Virginia, and he was old enough to have observed that, in addition to the wrong of slavery, they were a liability rather than an asset. But he too felt anew the instinctive rebellion against being compelled to do what he would perhaps do anyhow.

General Lee talked more of the land and Harry and Dalton listened respectfully. Harry saw that his commander's heart turned strongly toward it. He knew that Jefferson had dreamed of the United States as an agricultural community, having no part in the quarrels of other nations, but he knew that it was only a dream. The South, the section that had followed Jefferson's dream, was now at a great disadvantage. It had no ships, and it did not have the mills to equip it for the great war it was waging. He realized more keenly than ever the one-sided nature of the South's development.

The general turned his horse toward the banks of the Rapidan, and a resplendent figure came forward to meet him. It was that incarnation of youth and fantastic knighthood, Jeb Stuart, who had just returned from a ride toward the north. He wore a new and brilliant uniform and the usual broad yellow sash about his waist. His tunic was embroidered, too, and his epaulets were heavy with gold. The thick gold braid about his hat was tied in a gorgeous loop in front. His hands were encased in long gloves of the finest buckskin, and he tapped the high yellow tops of his riding boots with a little whip.

Harry always felt that Stuart did not really belong to the present. His place was with the medieval knights who loved gorgeous armor, who fought by day for the love of it and who sat in the evening on the castle steps with fair ladies for the love of it, and who in the dark listened to the troubadours below, also for the love of it. A great cavalry leader, he shone at his brightest in the chase, and, when there was no fighting to be done, his were the spirits of a boy, and he was as quick for a prank as any lad under his own command.

But Stuart, although he had joked with Jackson, never took any liberties with Lee. He instantly swept the ground with his plumed hat and said in his most respectful manner:

"General, will you honor us by dining with us? We've just returned from a long ride northward and we've made some captures."

Lee caught a twinkle in his eye, and he smiled.

"I see no prisoners, General Stuart," he replied, "and I take it that your captures do not mean human beings."

"No, sir, there are other things just now more valuable to us than prisoners. We raided a little Yankee outpost. Nobody was hurt, but, sir, we've captured some provisions, the like of which the Army of Northern Virginia has not tasted in a long time. Would you mind coming with me and taking a look? And bring Kenton and Dalton with you, if you don't mind, sir."

"This indeed sounds tempting," said the commander-in-chief of the Army of Northern Virginia. "I accept your invitation, General Stuart, in behalf of myself and my two young aides."

He dismounted, giving the reins of Traveller to an orderly, and walked toward Stuart's tent, which was pitched near the river. The "captures" were heaped in a grassy place.

"Here, sir," said General Stuart, "are twenty dozen boxes of the finest French sardines. I haven't tasted sardines in a year and I love them."

"I've always liked them," said General Lee.

"And here, sir, are several cases of Yorkshire ham, brought all the way across the sea -- and for us. It isn't as good as our Virginia ham, which is growing scarce, but we'll like it. And cove oysters, cases and cases of 'em. I like 'em almost as well as sardines."

"Most excellent."

"And real old New England pies, baked, I suppose, in Washington. We can warm 'em over."

"I see that you have the fire ready."

"And jars of preserves, a half-dozen kinds at least, and all of 'em look as if two likely youngsters like Kenton and Dalton would be anxious to get at 'em."

"You judge us rightly, General," said Harry. "We'll show no mercy to such prisoners as we have here."

"You wouldn't be boys and you wouldn't be human if you did," rejoined Stuart, "would they, General?"

"They would not," replied Lee. "One of the principal recollections of my boyhood is that I was always hungry. Our regular three meals a day were not enough for us, however much we ate at one time. Virginia, like your own Kentucky, Harry, is full of forage, and we moved in groups. Now, didn't you find a lot of food in the woods and fields?"

"Oh, yes, sir," rejoined Harry with animation. "I was hungry all the time, too. An hour after breakfast I was hungry again, and an hour after dinner, which we had in the middle of the day, I was hungry once more."

"But you knew where to go for supplies."

"Yes, sir; we had berries, strawberries, blackberries, raspberries, gooseberries, dewberries, cherries, all of them growing wild although some of them started tame. And then we could forage for pears, peaches, plums, damsons, all kinds of apples, paw paws, and then later for the nuts, hickory nuts, walnuts, chestnuts, hazel nuts, chinquapins, and a lot more. We could have almost lived in the woods and fields from early spring until late fall."

"We did the same in Virginia," said the commander-in-chief. "I've often thought that our forest Indians did not develop a higher civilization, because it was so easy for them to live, save in the depths of a hard winter. They had most of the berries and fruits and nuts that we white boys had. The woods were full of game, and the lakes and rivers full of fish. They were not driven by the hard necessity that creates civilization."

"Dinner is ready, sir," announced General Stuart, who had been directing the orderlies. "I can offer you and the others nothing but boxes and kegs to sit on, but I can assure you that this Northern food, some of which comes in cans, is excellent."

The two lads and General Stuart fell to work with energy. General Lee ate more sparingly. Stuart was a boy himself, talking much and running over with fun.

"Have you heard what happened to General Early, sir?" he asked the commander-in-chief.

"Not yet."

"But you will, sir, to-morrow. Early will be slow in sending you that dispatch. He hasn't had time to write it yet. He's not through swearing."

"General Early is a valiant and able man, but I disapprove of his swearing."

"Why, sir, 'Old Jube' can't help it. It's a part of his breathing, and man cannot live without breath. He sent one of his best aides with a dispatch to General Hill, who is posted some distance away. Passing through a thick cedar wood the aide was suddenly set upon by a genuine stage villain, large, dark and powerful, who clubbed him over the head with the butt of a pistol, and then departed with his dispatch."

"And what happened then?"

"The aide returned to General Early with his story, but without his dispatch. The general believed his account, of course, but he called him names for allowing himself to be surprised and overcome by a single Yankee. He cursed until the air for fifty yards about him smelled strongly of sulphur and brimstone."

"Did he do anything more?"

"Yes, General. He sent a duplicate of the dispatch by an aide whom he said he could trust. In an hour the second man came back with the same big lump on his head and with the same story. He had been ambushed at the crossing of a ravine full of small cedars, and the highwayman was undoubtedly the same, too, a big, powerful fellow, as bold as you please."

Harry's pulse throbbed hard for a few moments, when he first heard mention of the man. The description, not only physical, but of manner and action as well, answered perfectly. He had not the slightest doubt that it was Shepard.

"A daring deed," said General Lee. "We must see that it is not repeated."

"But that wasn't all of the tale, sir. While the second man was sitting on the bank, nursing his broken head, the Yankee Dick Turpin read the dispatch and saw that it was a duplicate of the first. He became red-hot with wrath, and talked furiously about the extra and unnecessary work that General Early was forcing upon him. He ended by cramming the dispatch into the man's hands, directing him to take it back, and to tell General Early to stop his foolishness. The aide was a bit dazed from the blow he received and he delivered that message word for word. Why, sir, General Early exploded. People who have heard him swear for years and who know what an artist he is in swearing, heard him then utter swear words that they had never heard before, words invented on the spur of the moment, and in the heat of passion, words full of pith and meaning."

"And that was all, I suppose?"

"Not by any means, sir. General Early picked two sharpshooters and sent them with another copy of the dispatch. They passed the place of the first hold-up, and next the ravine without seeing anybody. But as they were riding some distance further on both of their horses were killed by shots from a small clump of pines. Before they could regain their feet Dick Turpin came out and covered them with his rifle -- it seems that he had one of those new repeating weapons.

"The men saw that his eye was so keen and his hand so steady that they did not dare to move a hand to a pistol. Then as he looked down the sights of his rifle he lectured them. He told them they were foolish to come that way, when the two who came before them had found out that it was a closed road. He said that real soldiers learned by experience, and would not try again to do what they had learned to be impossible.

"Then he said that after all they were not to blame, as they had been sent by General Early, and he made one of them who had the stub of a pencil write on the back of the dispatch these words: 'General Jubal Early, C. S. A.: This has ceased to be a joke. After your first man was stopped, it was not necessary to do anything more. I have the dispatch. Why insist on sending duplicate after duplicate?' And the two had to walk all the way back to General Early with that note, because they didn't dare make away with the dispatch.

"I have a certain respect for that man's skill and daring, but General Early had a series of spells. He retired to his tent and if the reports are not exaggerated, a continuous muttering like low thunder came from the tent, and all the cloth of it turned blue from the lightnings imprisoned inside."

General Lee himself smiled.

"It was certainly annoying," he said. "I hope the dispatch was not of importance."

"It contained nothing that will help the Yankees, but it shows that the enemy has some spies -- or at least one spy -- who are Napoleons at their trade."



Chapter XIII

The Coming Of Grant


The little dinner ended. Despite his disapproval of General Early's swearing, General Lee laughed heartily at further details of the strange Yankee spy's exploits. But it was well known that in this particular General Early was the champion of the East. Harry did not know that in the person of Colonel Charles Woodville, his cousin, Dick Mason, had encountered one of equal ability in the Southwest.

Presently General Lee and his two young aides mounted their horses for the return. The commander-in-chief seemed gayer than usual. He was always very fond of Stuart, whose high spirits pleased him, and before his departure he thanked him for his thoughtfulness.

"Whenever we get any particularly choice shipments from the North I shall always be pleased to notify you, General, and send you your share," said Stuart, sweeping the air in front of him again with his great plumed hat. With his fine, heroic face and his gorgeous uniform he had never looked more a knight of the Middle Ages.

General Lee smiled and thanked him again, and then rode soberly back, followed at a short distance by his two young aides. Although the view of hills and mountains and valleys and river and brooks was now magnificent, the sumach burning in red and the leaves vivid in many colors, Lee, deeply sensitive, like all his rural forbears, to rural beauty, nevertheless seemed not to notice it, and soon sank into deep thought.

It is believed by many that Lee knew then that the Confederacy had already received a mortal blow. It was not alone sufficient for the South to win victories. She must keep on winning them, and the failure at Gettysburg and the defeat at Vicksburg had put her on the defensive everywhere. Fewer blockade runners were getting through. Above all, there was less human material upon which to draw. But he roused himself presently and said to Harry:

"There was something humorous in the exploits of the man who held up General Early's messengers, but the fellow is dangerous, exceedingly dangerous at such a time."

"I've an idea who he is, sir," said Harry.

"Indeed! What do you know?"

Then Harry told nearly all that he knew about Shepard, but not all -- that struggle in the river, and his sparing of the spy and the filching of the map at the Curtis house, for instance -- and the commander-in-chief listened with great attention.

"A bold man, uncommonly bold, and it appears uncommonly skilled, too. We must send out a general alarm, that is, we must have all our own scouts and spies watching for him."

Harry said nothing, but he did not believe that anybody would catch Shepard. The man's achievements had been so startling that they had created the spell of invincibility. His old belief that he was worth ten thousand men on the Northern battle line returned. No movement of the Army of Northern Virginia could escape him, and no lone messenger could ever be safe from him.

Lee returned to his camp on Clarke's Mountain, and, a great revival meeting being in progress, he joined it, sitting with a group of officers. Fitzhugh Lee, W. H. F. Lee, Jones, Rosser, Wickham, Munford, Young, Wade Hampton and a dozen others were there. Taylor and Marshall and Peyton of his staff were also in the company.

The preacher was a man of singular power and earnestness, and after the sermon he led the singing himself, in which often thirty or forty thousand voices joined. It was a moving sight to Harry, all these men, lads, mostly, but veterans of many fields, united in a chorus mightier than any other that he had ever heard. It would have pleased Stonewall Jackson to his inmost soul, and once more, as always, a tear rose to his eye as he thought of his lost hero.

Harry and Dalton left their horses with an orderly and came back to the edge of the great grove, in which the meeting was being held. They had expected to find St. Clair and Happy Tom there, but not seeing them, wandered on and finally drifted apart. Harry stood alone for a while on the outskirts of the throng. They were all singing again, and the mighty volume of sound rolled through the wood. It was not only a singular, it was a majestic scene also to Harry. How like unto little children young soldiers were! and how varied and perplexing were the problems of human nature! They were singing with the utmost fervor of Him who had preached continuously of peace, who was willing to turn one cheek when the other was smitten, and because of their religious zeal they would rush the very next day into battle, if need be, with increased fire and zeal.

He saw a heavily built, powerful man on the outskirts, but some distance away, singing in a deep rolling voice, but something vaguely familiar in the figure drew his glance again. He looked long and well and then began to edge quietly toward the singer, who was clothed in the faded butternut uniform that so many of the Confederate soldiers wore.

The fervor of the singer did not decrease, but Harry noticed that he too was moving, moving slowly toward the eastern end of the grove, the same direction that Harry was pursuing. Now he was sure. He would have called out, but his voice would not have been heard above the vast volume of sound. He might have pointed out the singer to others, but, although he felt sure, he did not wish to be laughed at in case of mistake. But strongest of all was the feeling that it had become a duel between Shepard and himself.

He walked slowly on, keeping the man in view, but Shepard, although he never ceased singing, moved away at about the same pace. Harry inferred at once that Shepard had seen him and was taking precautions. The temptation to cry out at the top of his voice that the most dangerous of all spies was among them was almost irresistible, but it would only create an uproar in which Shepard could escape easily, leaving to him a load of ridicule.

He continued his singular pursuit. Shepard was about a hundred yards away, and they had made half the circuit of this huge congregation. Then the spy passed into a narrow belt of pines, and when Harry moved forward to see him emerge on the other side he failed to reappear. He hastened to the pines, which led some distance down a little gully, and he was sure that Shepard had gone that way. He followed fast, but he could discover no sign. He had vanished utterly, like thin smoke swept away by a breeze.

He returned deeply stirred by the appearance and disappearance -- easy, alike -- of Shepard. His sense of the man's uncanny powers and of his danger to the Confederacy was increased. He seemed to come and go absolutely as he pleased. It was true that in the American Civil War the opportunities for spies were great. All men spoke the same language, and all looked very much alike. It was not such a hard task to enter the opposing lines, but Shepard had shown a daring and success beyond all comparison. He seemed to have both the seven league boots and the invisible cloak of very young childhood. He came as he pleased, and when pursuit came he vanished in thin air.

Harry bit his lips in chagrin. He felt that Shepard had scored on him again. It was true that he had been victorious in that fight in the river, when victory meant so much, but since then Shepard had triumphed, and it was bitter. He hardened his determination, and resolved that he would always be on the watch for him. He even felt a certain glow, because he was one of two in such a conflict of skill and courage.

The meeting having been finished, he went down one of the streets of tents to the camp of the Invincibles. Colonel Leonidas Talbot and Lieutenant-Colonel Hector St. Hilaire were not playing chess. Instead they were sitting on a pine log with Happy Tom and St. Clair and other officers, listening to young Julien de Langeais, who sat on another log, playing a violin with surpassing skill. Lieutenant-Colonel St. Hilaire, knowing his prowess as a violinist, had asked him to come and play for the Invincibles. Now he was playing for them and for several thousand more who were gathered in the pine woods.

Young de Langeais sat on a low stump, and the great crowd made a solid mass around him. But he did not see them, nor the pine woods nor the heavy cannon sitting on the ridges. He looked instead into a region of fancy, where the colors were brilliant or gay or tender as he imagined them. Harry, with no technical knowledge of music but with a great love of it, recognized at once the touch of a master, and what was more, the soul of one.

To him the violin was not great, unless the player was great, but when the player was great it was the greatest musical instrument of all. He watched de Langeais' wrapt face, and for him too the thousands of soldiers, the pines and the cannon on the ridges melted away. He did not know what the young musician was playing, probably some old French air or a great lyric outburst of the fiery Verdi, whose music had already spread through America.

"A great artist," whispered Lieutenant-Colonel St. Hilaire in his ear. "He studied at the schools in New Orleans and then for two years in Paris. But he came back to fight. Nothing could keep Julien from the army, but he brought his violin with him. We Latins, or at least we who are called Latins, steep our souls in music. It's not merely intellectual with us. It's passion, fire, abandonment, triumph and all the great primitive emotions of the human race."

Harry's feelings differed somewhat from those of Lieutenant-Colonel St. Hilaire -- in character but not in power -- and as young de Langeais played on he began to think what a loss a stray bullet could make. Why should a great artist be allowed to come on the battle line? There were hundreds of thousands of common men. One could replace another, but nobody could replace the genius, a genius in which the whole world shared. It was not possible for either drill or training to do it, and yet a little bullet might take away his life as easily as it would that of a plowboy. They were all alike to the bullets and the shells.

De Langeais finished, and a great shout of applause arose. The cheering became so insistent that he was compelled to play again.

"His family is well-to-do," said Lieutenant-Colonel St. Hilaire just before he began playing once more, "and they'll see that he goes back to Paris for study as soon as the war is over. If they didn't I would."

It did not seem to occur to Lieutenant-Colonel St. Hilaire that young de Langeais could be killed, and Harry began to share his confidence. De Langeais now played the simple songs of the old South, and there was many a tear in the eyes of war-hardened youth. The sun was setting in a sea of fire, and the pine forests turned red in its blaze. In the distance the waters of the Rapidan were crimson, too, and a light wind out of the west sighed among the pines, forming a subdued chorus to the violin.

De Langeais began to play a famous old song of home, and Harry's mind traveled back on its lingering note to his father's beautiful house and grounds, close by Pendleton, and all the fine country about it, in which he and Dick Mason and the boys of their age had roamed. He remembered all the brooks and ponds and the groves that produced the best hickory nuts. When should he see them again and would his father be there, and Dick, and all the other boys of their age! Not all! Certainly not all, because some were gone already. And yet this plaintive note of the homes they had left behind, while it brought a tear to many an eye, made no decrease in martial determination. It merely hardened their resolution to win the victory all the sooner, and bring the homecoming march nearer.

De Langeais ended on a wailing note that died like a faint sigh in the pine forest. Then he came back to earth, sprang up, and put his violin in its case. Applause spread out and swelled in a low, thunderous note, but de Langeais, who was as modest as he was talented, quickly hid himself among his friends.

The sun sank behind the blue mountains, and twilight came readily over the pine and cedar forests. Colonel Talbot and Lieutenant-Colonel St. Hilaire, who had a large tent together, invited the youths to stay awhile with them as their guests and talk. All the soldiers dispersed to their own portions of the great camp, and there would be an hour of quiet and rest, until the camp cooks served supper.

It had been a lively day for Harry, his emotions had been much stirred, and now he was glad to sit in the peace of the evening on a stone near the entrance of the tent, and listen to his friends. War drew comrades together in closer bonds than those of peace. He was quite sure that St. Clair, Dalton and Happy Tom were his friends for life, as he was theirs, and the two colonels seemed to have the same quality of youth. Simple men, of high faith and honor, they were often childlike in the ways of the world, their horizons sometimes not so wide as those of the lads who now sat with them.

"As I told Harry," said Lieutenant-Colonel St. Hilaire to Julien, "you shall have that talent of yours cultivated further after the war. Two years more of study and you will be among the greatest. You must know, lads, that for us who are of French descent, Paris is the world's capital in the arts."

"And for many of English blood, too," said Colonel Talbot.

Then they talked of more immediate things, of the war, the armies and the prospect of the campaigns. Harry, after an hour or so, returned to headquarters and he found soldiers making a bed for the commander-in-chief under the largest of the pines. Lee in his campaigns always preferred to sleep in the open air, when he could, and it required severe weather to drive him to a tent. Meanwhile he sat by a small fire -- the October nights were growing cold -- and talked with Peyton and other members of his staff.

Harry and Dalton decided to imitate his example and sleep between the blankets under the pines. Harry found a soft place, spread his blankets and in a few minutes slept soundly. In fact, the whole Army of Northern Virginia was a great family that retired early, slept well and rose early.

The next morning there was frost on the grass, but the lads were so hardy that they took no harm. The autumn deepened. The leaves blazed for a while in their most vivid colors and then began to fall under the strong west winds. Brown and wrinkled, they often whirled past in clouds. The air had a bite in it, and the soldiers built more and larger fires.

The Army of Northern Virginia never before had been quiescent so long. The Army of the Potomac was not such a tremendous distance away, but it seemed that neither side was willing to attack, and as the autumn advanced and began to merge into winter the minds of all turned toward the Southwest.

For the valiant soldiers encamped on the Virginia hills the news was not good. Grant, grim and inflexible, was deserving the great name that was gradually coming to him. He had gathered together all the broken parts of the army defeated at Chickamauga and was turning Union defeat into Union victory.

Winter closed in with the knowledge that Grant had defeated the South disastrously on Lookout Mountain and all around Chattanooga. Chickamauga had gone for nothing, the whole flank of the Confederacy was turned and the Army of Northern Virginia remained the one great barrier against the invading legions of the North. Yet the confidence of the men in that army remained undimmed. They felt that on their own ground, and under such a man as Lee, they were invincible.

In the course of these months Harry, as a messenger and often as a secretary, was very close to Lee. He wrote a swift and clear hand, and took many dispatches. Almost daily messages were sent in one direction or another and Harry read from them the thoughts of his leader, which he kept locked in his breast. He knew perhaps better than many an older officer the precarious condition of the Confederacy. These letters, which he took from dictation, and the letters from Richmond that he read to his chief, told him too plainly that the limits of the Confederacy were shrinking. Its money declined steadily. Happy Tom said that he had to "swap it pound for pound now to the sutlers for groceries." Yet it is the historical truth that the heart of the Army of Northern Virginia never beat with more fearless pride, as the famous and "bloody" year of '63 was drawing to its close.

The news arrived that Grant, the Sledge Hammer of the West, had been put by Lincoln in command of all the armies of the Union, and would come east to lead the Army of the Potomac in person, with Meade still as its nominal chief, but subject, like all the others, to his command.

Harry heard the report with a thrill. He knew now that decisive action would come soon enough. He had always felt that Meade in front of them was a wavering foe, and perhaps too cautious. But Grant was of another kind. He was a pounder. Defeats did not daunt him. He would attack and then attack again and again, and the diminishing forces of the Confederacy were ill fitted to stand up against the continued blows of the hammer. Harry's thrill was partly of apprehension, but whenever he looked at the steadfast face of his chief his confidence returned.

Winter passed without much activity and spring began to show its first buds. The earth was drying, after melting snows and icy rains, and Harry knew that action would not be delayed much longer. Grant was in the East now. He had gone in January to St. Louis to visit his daughter, who lay there very ill, and then, after military delays, he had reached Washington.

Harry afterward heard the circumstances of his arrival, so characteristic of plain and republican America. He came into Washington by train as a simple passenger, accompanied only by his son, who was but fourteen years of age. They were not recognized, and arriving at a hotel, valise in hand, with a crowd of passengers, he registered in his turn: "U. S. Grant and son, Galena, Ill." The clerk, not noticing the name, assigned the modest arrival and his boy to a small room on the fifth floor. Then they moved away, a porter carrying the valise. But the clerk happened to look again at the register, and when he saw more clearly he rushed after them with a thousand apologies. He did not expect the victor of great battles, the lieutenant-general commanding all the armies of the Union, a battle front of more than a million men, to come so modestly.

When Harry heard the story he liked it. It seemed to him to be the same simple and manly quality that he found in Lee, both worthy of republican institutions. But he did not have time to think about it long. The signs were multiplying that the advance would soon come. The North had never ceased to resound with preparations, and Grant would march with veterans. All the spies and scouts brought in the same report. Butler would move up from Fortress Monroe toward Richmond with thirty thousand men and Grant with a hundred and fifty thousand would cross the Rapidan, moving by the right flank of Lee until they could unite and destroy the Confederacy. Such was the plan, said the scouts and spies in gray.

Longstreet with his corps had returned from the West and Lee gathered his force of about sixty thousand men to meet the mighty onslaught -- he alone perhaps divined how mighty it would be -- and when he was faced by the greatest of his adversaries his genius perhaps never shone more brightly.

May and the full spring came. It was the third day of the month, and the camp of the Army of Northern Virginia was as usual. Many of the young soldiers played games among the trees. Here and there they lay in groups on the new grass, singing their favorite songs. The cooks were preparing their suppers over the big fires. Several bands were playing. Had it not been for the presence of so many weapons the whole might have been taken for one vast picnic, but Harry, who sat in the tent of the commander-in-chief, was writing as fast as he could dispatch after dispatch that the Southern leader was dictating to him. He knew perfectly well, of course, that the commander-in-chief was gathering his forces and that they would move quickly for battle. He knew, too, how inadequate was the equipment of the army. Only a short time before he had taken from the dictation of his chief a letter to the President of the Confederacy a part of which ran:


My anxiety on the subject of provisions for the army is so great that I cannot refrain from expressing it to your Excellency. I cannot see how we can operate with our present supplies. Any derangement in their arrival or disaster to the railroad would render it impossible for me to keep the army together and might force a retreat into North Carolina. There is nothing to be had in this section for men or animals. We have rations for the troops to-day and to-morrow. I hope a new supply arrived last night, but I have not yet had a report.


Harry had thought long over this letter and he knew from his own observation its absolute truth. The depleted South was no longer able to feed its troops well. The abundance of the preceding autumn had quickly passed, and in winter they were mostly on half rations.

Lee, better than any other man in the whole South, had understood what lay before them, and his foes both of the battlefield and of the spirit have long since done him justice. Less than a week before this eve of mighty events he had written to a young woman in Virginia, a relative:


I dislike to send letters within reach of the enemy, as they might serve, if captured, to bring distress on others. But you must sometimes cast your thoughts on the Army of Northern Virginia, and never forget it in your prayers. It is preparing for a great struggle, but I pray and trust that the great God, mighty to deliver, will spread over it His Almighty arms and drive its enemies before it.


Harry had seen this letter before its sending, and he was not surprised now when Lee was sending messengers to all parts of his army. With all the hero-worshiping quality of youth he was once more deeply grateful that he should have served on the staffs and been brought into close personal relations with two men, Stonewall Jackson and Lee, who seemed to him so great. As he saw it, it was not alone military greatness but greatness of the soul, which was greater. Both were deeply religious -- Lee, the Episcopalian, and Jackson, the Presbyterian, and it was a piety that contained no trace of cant.

Harry felt that the crisis of the great Civil War was at hand. It had been in the air all that day, and news had come that Grant had broken up his camps and was crossing the Rapidan with a huge force. He knew how small in comparison was the army that Lee could bring against him, and yet he had supreme confidence in the military genius of his chief.

He had written a letter with which an aide had galloped away, and then he sat at the little table in the great tent, pen in hand and ink and paper before him, but Lee was silent. He was dressed as usual with great neatness and care, though without ostentation. His face had its usual serious cast, but tinged now with melancholy. Harry knew that he no longer saw the tent and those around him. His mind dwelled for a few moments upon his own family and the ancient home that he had loved so well.

The interval was very brief. He was back in the present, and the principal generals for whom he had sent were entering the tent. Hill, Longstreet, Ewell, Stuart and others came, but they did not stay long. They talked earnestly with their leader for a little while, and then every one departed to lead his brigades.

The secretaries put away pen, ink and paper. Twilight was advancing in the east and night suddenly fell outside. The songs ceased, the bands played no more, and there was only the deep rumble of marching men and moving cannon.

"We'll ride now, gentlemen," said Lee to his staff.

Traveller, saddled and bridled, was waiting and the commander-in-chief sprang into the saddle with all the agility of a young man. The others mounted, too, Harry and Dalton as usual taking their places modestly in the rear.

A regiment, small in numbers but famous throughout the army for valor, was just passing, and its colonel and its lieutenant-colonel, erect men, riding splendidly, but gray like Lee, drew their swords and gave the proud and flashing salute of the saber as they went by. Lee and his staff almost with involuntary impulse returned the salute in like fashion. Then the Invincibles passed on, and were lost from view in the depths of the forest.

Harry felt a sudden constriction of the heart. He knew that he might never see Colonel Leonidas Talbot nor Lieutenant-Colonel Hector St. Hilaire again, nor St. Clair, nor Happy Tom either.

But his friends could not remain long in his mind at such a time. They were marching, marching swiftly, the presence of the man on the great white horse seeming to urge them on to greater speed. As the stars came out Lee's brow, which had been seamed by thought, cleared. His plan which he had formed in the day was moving well. His three corps were bearing away toward the old battlefield of Chancellorsville. Grant would be drawn into the thickets of the Wilderness as Hooker had been the year before, although a greater than Hooker was now leading the Army of the Potomac.

Harry, who foresaw it all, thrilled and shuddered at the remembrance. It was in there that the great Jackson had fallen in the hour of supreme triumph. Not far away were the heights of Fredericksburg, where Burnside had led the bravest of the brave to unavailing slaughter. As Belgium had been for centuries the cockpit of Europe, so the wild and sterile region in Virginia that men call the Wilderness became the cockpit of North America.


While Lee and his army were turning into the Wilderness Grant and the greatest force that the Union had yet assembled were seeking him. It was composed of men who had tasted alike of victory and defeat, veterans skilled in all the wiles and stratagems of war, and with hearts to endure anything. In this host was a veteran regiment that had come East to serve under Grant as it had served under him so valiantly in the West. Colonel Winchester rode at its head and beside him rode his favorite aide, young Richard Mason. Not far away was Colonel Hertford, with a numerous troop of splendid cavalry.

Grant, alert and resolved to win, carried in his pocket a letter which he had received from Lincoln, saying:


Not expecting to see you before the spring campaign opens, I wish to express in this way my entire satisfaction with what you have done up to this time, so far as I understand it. The particulars of your plans I neither know nor seek to know. You are vigilant and self-reliant, and, pleased with this, I wish not to obtrude any constraints or restraints upon you. While I am very anxious that any great disaster or the capture of our men in great numbers should be avoided, I know these points are less likely to escape your attention than they would mine. If there is anything wanting which is within my power to give, do not fail to let me know it. And now, with a brave army and a just cause, may God sustain you.


A noble letter, breathing the loftiest spirit, and showing that moral grandeur which has been so characteristic of America's greatest men. He had put all in Grant's hands and he had given to him an army, the like of which had never been seen until now on the American continent. Never before had the North poured forth its wealth and energy in such abundance.

Four thousand wagons loaded with food and ammunition followed the army, and there was a perfect system by which a wagon emptied of its contents was sent back to a depot to be refilled, while a loaded wagon took its place at the front. Complete telegram equipments, poles, wires, instruments and all were carried with every division. The wires could be strung easily and the lieutenant-general could talk to every part of his army. There were, also, staffs of signalmen, in case the wires should fail at any time. Grant held in his hand all the resources of the North, and if he could not win no one could.

All through the night the hostile armies marched, and before them went the spies and scouts.



Chapter XIV

The Ghostly Ride


Harry and Dalton kept close together during the long hours of the ghostly ride. Just ahead of them were Taylor and Marshall and Peyton, and in front Lee rode in silence. Now and then they passed regiments, and at other times they would halt and let regiments pass them. Then the troops, seeing the man sitting on the white horse, would start to cheer, but always their officers promptly subdued it, and they marched on feeling more confident than ever that their general was leading them to victory.

Many hours passed and still the army marched through the forests. The trees, however, were dwindling in size and even in the night they saw that the earth was growing red and sterile. Dense thickets grew everywhere, and the marching became more difficult. Harry felt a sudden thrill of awe.

"George," he whispered, "do you know the country into which we're riding?"

"I think I do, Harry. It's the Wilderness."

"It can't be anything else, George, because I see the ghosts."

"What are you talking about, Harry? What ghosts?"

"The thousands and thousands who have fallen in that waste. Why the Wilderness is so full of dead men that they must walk at night to give one another room. I only hope that the ghost of Old Jack will ride before us and show us the way."

"I almost feel like that, too," admitted Dalton, who, however, was of a less imaginative mind than Harry. "As sure as I'm sitting in the saddle we're bound for the Wilderness. Now, what is the day going to give us?"

"Marching mostly, I think, and with the next noon will come battle. Grant doesn't hesitate and hold back. We know that, George."

"No, it's not his character."

Morning came and found them still in the forests, seeking the deep thickets of the Wilderness, and Grant, warned by his scouts and spies, and most earnestly by one whose skill, daring and judgment were unequaled, turned from his chosen line of march to meet his enemy. Once more Lee had selected the field of battle, where his inferiority in numbers would not count so much against him.

It was nearly morning when the march ceased, and officers and troops, save those on guard, lay down in the forest for rest. Harry, a seasoned veteran, could sleep under any conditions and with a blanket over him and a saddle for a pillow closed his eyes almost immediately. Lee and his older aides, Taylor and Peyton and Marshall, slept also. Around them the brigades, too, lay sleeping.

A while before dawn a large man in Confederate uniform, using the soft, lingering speech of the South, appeared almost in the center of the army of Northern Virginia. He knew all the pass words and told the officers commanding the watch that the wing under Ewell was advancing more rapidly than any of the others. Inside the line he could go about almost as he chose, and one could see little of him, save that he was large of figure and deeply tanned, like all the rest.

He approached the little opening in which Lee and his staff lay, although he kept back from the sentinels who watched over the sleeping leader. But Shepard knew that it was the great Confederate chieftain who lay in the shadow of the oak and he could identify him by the glances of the sentinels so often directed toward the figure.

There were wild thoughts for a moment or two in the mind of Shepard. A single bullet fired by an unerring hand would take from the Confederacy its arm and brain, and then what happened to himself afterward would not matter at all. And the war would be over in a month or two. But he put the thought fiercely from him. A spy he was and in his heart proud of his calling, but no such secret bullet could be fired by him.

He turned away from the little opening, wandered an hour through the camp and then, diving into the deep bushes, vanished like a shadow through the Confederate lines, and was gone to Grant to report that Lee's army was advancing swiftly to attack, and that the command of Ewell would come in touch with him first.

Not long after dawn Harry was again on the march, riding behind his general. From time to time Lee sent messengers to the various divisions of his army, four in number, commanded by Longstreet, Early, Hill and Stuart, the front or Stuart's composed of cavalry. Harry's own time came, when he received a dispatch of the utmost importance to take to Ewell. He memorized it first, and, if capture seemed probable, he was to tear it into bits and throw it away. Harry was glad he was to go to Ewell. In the great campaign in the valley he had been second to Jackson, his right arm, as Jackson had been Lee's right arm. Ewell had lost a leg since then, and his soldiers had to strap him in the saddle when he led them into battle, but he was as daring and cheerful as ever, trusted implicitly by Lee.

Harry with a salute to his chief rode away. Part of the country was familiar to him and in addition his directions were so explicit that he could not miss the way.

The four divisions of the army were in fairly close touch, but in a country of forests and many waters Northern scouts might come between, and he rode with caution, his hand ever near the pistol in his belt. The midday sun however clouded as the afternoon passed on. The thickets and forests grew more dense. From the distance came now and then the faint, sweet call of a trumpet, but everything was hidden from sight by the dense tangle of the Wilderness, a wilderness as wild and dangerous as any in which Henry Ware had ever fought. How it all came back to him! Almost exactly a year ago he had ridden into it with Jackson and here the armies were gathering again.

Imagination, fancy, always so strong in him, leaped into vivid life. The year had not passed and he was riding to meet Stonewall Jackson, who was somewhere ahead, preparing for his great curve about Hooker and the lightning stroke at Chancellorsville. Rabbits sprang out of the undergrowth and fled away before his horse's hoofs. In the lonely wilderness, which nevertheless had little to offer to the hunter, birds chattered from every tree. Small streams flowed slowly between dense walls of bushes. Here and there in the protection of the thickets wild flowers were in early bloom.

It was spring, fresh spring everywhere, but the bushes and the grass alike were tinged with red for Harry. The strange mental illusion that he was riding to Chancellorsville remained with him and he did not seek to shake it off. He almost expected to see Old Jack ahead on a hill, bent over a little, and sitting on Little Sorrel, with the old slouch hat drawn over his eyes. They had talked of the ghost of Jackson leading them in the Wilderness. He shivered. Could it be so? All the time he knew it was an illusion, but he permitted it to cast its spell over him, as one who dreams knowingly.

And Harry was dreaming back. Old Jack, the earlier of his two heroes, was leading them. He foresaw the long march through the thickets of the Wilderness, Stonewall forming the line of battle in the deep roads late in the evening, almost in sight of Hooker's camp, the sudden rush of his brigades and then the terrible battle far into the night.

He shook himself. It was uncanny. The past was the past. Dreams were thin and vanished stuff. Once more he was in the present and saw clearly. Old Jack was gone to take his place with the great heroes of the past, but the Army of Northern Virginia was there, with Lee leading them, and the most formidable of all the Northern chiefs with the most formidable of all the Northern armies was before them.

He heard the distant thud of hoofs and with instinctive caution drew back into a dense clump of bushes. A half-dozen horsemen were near and their eager looks in every direction told Harry that they were scouts. There was little difference then between a well worn uniform of blue or gray, and they were very close before Harry was able to tell that they belonged to Grant's army.

He was devoutly glad that his horse was trained thoroughly and stood quite still while the Northern scouts passed. A movement of the bushes would have attracted their attention, and he did not wish to be captured at any time, least of all on the certain eve of a great battle. After a battle he always felt an extra regret for those who had fallen, because they would never know whether they had won or lost.

They were alert, keen and vigorous men, or lads rather, as young as himself, and they rode as if they had been Southern youths almost born in the saddle. Harry was not the only one to notice how the Northern cavalry under the whip hand of defeat had improved so fast that it was now a match, man for man, for that of the South.

The young riders rode on and the tread of their hoofs died in the undergrowth. Then Harry emerged from his own kindly clump of bushes and increased his speed, anxious to reach Ewell, without any more of those encounters. He made good progress through the thickets, and soon after sundown saw a glow which he took to be that of campfires. He advanced cautiously, met the Southern sentinels and knew that he was right.

The very first of these sentinels was an old soldier of Jackson, who knew him well.

"Mr. Kenton!" he exclaimed.

"Yes, Thorn! It's you!" said Harry without hesitation.

The soldier was pleased that he should be recognized thus in the dusk, and he was still more pleased when the young aide leaned down and shook his hand.

"I might have known, Thorn, that I'd find you here, rifle on your arm, watching," he said.

"Thank you, Mr. Kenton. You'll find the general over there on a log by the fire."

Harry dismounted, gave his horse to a soldier and walked into the glade. Ewell sat alone, his crutch under his arms, his one foot kicking back the coals, his bald head a white disc in the glow.

"General Ewell, sir," said Harry.

General Ewell turned about and when he saw Harry his face clearly showed gladness. He could not rise easily, but he stretched out a welcoming hand.

"Ah! Kenton," he said, "you're a pleasant sight to tired eyes like mine. You bring back the glorious old days in the valley. So it's a message from the commander-in-chief?"

"Yes, sir. Here it is."

Ewell read it rapidly by the firelight and smiled.

"He tells us we're nearest to the enemy," he said, "and to hold fast, if we're attacked. You're to remain with us and report what happens, but doubtless you knew all this."

"Yes, I had to commit it to memory before I started."

"Then stay here with me. I may want to report to General Lee at any time. The enemy is in our front only three or four miles away. He knows we're here and it was a villainous surprise to him to find us in his way. They say this man Grant is a pounder. So is Lee, when the time comes to pound, but he's that and far more. I tell you, young man, that General Lee has had to trim a lot of Northern generals. McClellan and Pope and Burnside and Hooker and Meade have been going to school to him, and now Grant is qualifying for his class."

"But Grant is a great general. So our men in the West themselves say."

"He may be, but Lee is greater, greatest. And, Harry, you and I, who knew him and loved him, wish that another who alone was fit to ride by his side was here with him."

"I wish it from the bottom of my heart," said Harry.

"Well, well, regrets are useless. Help me up, Harry. I'm only part of a man, but I can still fight."

"We saw you do that at Gettysburg," said Harry, as he put his arm under Ewell's shoulder. Then Ewell took his crutch and they walked to the far side of the glade, where several officers of his staff gathered around him.

"Lieutenant Kenton, whom you all know," said General Ewell, "has brought a message from the commander-in-chief that we will be attacked first, and to be on guard. We consider it an honor, do we not, my lads?"

"Yes, let them come," they said.

"Harry, you may want to see the enemy. Clayton, you and Campbell take him forward through the pickets. But don't go too far. We don't want to lose three perfectly good young officers before the battle begins. After that it may be your business to get yourselves shot."

The two rode nearly two miles to the crest of a hill and then, using their strong glasses in the moonlight, they were able to see the lights of a vast camp.

"We hear that it is Warren's corps," said Clayton. "As General Ewell doubtless has told you, the enemy know that we're in front, but I don't believe they know our exact location. I believe we'll be in battle with those men in the morning."

Harry thought so too. In truth, it was inevitable. Warren would advance and Ewell would stand in his way. Yet he slept soundly when he went back to camp, although he was awakened long before dawn the next day. Then he ate breakfast, mounted and sat his horse not far away from Ewell, whom two soldiers had strapped into his saddle, and who was watching with eager eyes for the sunrise.

Harry, listening intently, heard no sound in front of them, save the wind rippling through the dwarfed forests of the Wilderness, and he knew that no battle had yet begun elsewhere. Sound would come far on that placid May morning, and it was a certainty that Ewell was nearest to contact with the enemy.

But Ewell did not yet move. All his men had been served with early breakfast, such as it was, and remained in silent masses, partly hidden by the forest and thickets. The dawn was cold, and Harry felt a little chill, but it soon passed, as the red edge of the sun showed over the eastern border of the Wilderness. Then the light spread toward the zenith, but the golden glow failed to penetrate the somber thickets.

"It's going to be a good day," said Harry to an aide.

"A good day for a battle."

"We'll hear from the Yankees soon. They can't fail to discover our exact location by sunrise, and they'll fight. Be sure of that."

It was now nearly six o'clock, and General Ewell, growing impatient, rode forward a little. Harry followed with his staff. A half-dozen Southern sharpshooters rose suddenly out of the thickets, and one of them dared to lay his hands on the reins of the general's horse. But Ewell was not offended. He looked down at the man and said:

"What is it, Strother?"

"Riflemen of the enemy are not more than three or four hundred yards away. If you go much farther, General, they will certainly see you and fire upon you."

"Thanks, Strother. So they've located us?"

"They're about to do it. They're feeling around. We've seen 'em in the bushes. We ask you not to go on, General. We wouldn't know what to do without you. There, sir! They're firing on our pickets!"

A half-dozen shots came from the front, and then a half-dozen or so in reply. Harry saw pink flashes, and then spirals of smoke rising. More shots were fired presently on their right, and then others on their left. The Northern riflemen were evidently on a long line, and intended to make a thorough test of their enemy's strength. Harry had no doubt that Shepard was there. He would surely come to the point where his enemy was nearest, and his eyes and ears would be the keenest of all.

The little skirmish continued for a few minutes, extending along a winding line of nearly a mile through the thickets. Only two or three were wounded and nobody killed on the Southern side. Harry understood thoroughly, as Ewell had said, that the sharpshooters of the enemy were merely feeling for them. They wanted to know if a strong force was there, and now they knew.

The firing ceased, not in dying shots, but abruptly. The Wilderness in front of them returned to silence, broken only by the rippling leaves. Harry knew that the Northern sharpshooters had discovered all they wanted, and were now returning to their leaders.

Ewell turned his horse and rode back toward the main camp, his staff following. The cooking fires had been put out, the lines were formed and every gun was in position. As little noise as possible was allowed, while they waited for Grant; not for Grant himself, but for one of his lieutenants, pushed forward by his master hand.

Harry and most of the staff officers dismounted, holding their horses by the bridle. The young lieutenant often searched the thickets with his glasses, but he saw nothing. Nevertheless he knew that the enemy would come. Grant having set out to find his foe, would never draw back when he found him.

A much longer period of silence than he had expected passed. The sun, flaming red, was moving on toward the zenith, and no sounds of battle came from either right or left. The suspense became acute, almost unbearable, and it was made all the more trying by the blindness of that terrible forest. Harry felt at times as if he would rather fight in the open fields; but he knew that his commander-in-chief was right when he drew Grant into the shades of the Wilderness.

When the suspense became so great that heavy weights seemed to be pressing upon his nerves, rifle shots were fired in front, and skirmishers uttered the long, shrill rebel yell. Then above both shots and shouts rose the far, clear call of a bugle.

"Here they come!" Harry heard Ewell say to himself, and the next moment the sound of human voices was drowned in the thunder of great guns and the crash of fifty thousand rifles. The battle was so sudden and the charge so swift that it seemed to leap into full volume in an instant. Warren, a resolute and daring general, led the Northern column and it struck with such weight and force that the Southern division was driven back. Harry felt it yielding, as if the ground were sliding under his feet.

There was so much flame and smoke that he could not see well, but the sensation of slipping was distinct. General Ewell was near him, shouting orders. His hat had fallen off, and his round, bald head had turned red, either from the rush of blood or the cannon's glare. It shone like a red dome, but Harry knew that there was no better man in such a crisis than this veteran lieutenant of Stonewall Jackson.

The Wilderness, usually so silent, was an inferno now. The battle, despite its tremendous beginning, increased in violence and fury. Although Grant himself was not there, the spirit that had animated him at Shiloh and Vicksburg was. He had communicated it to his generals, and Warren brought every ounce of his strength into action. The long line of his bayonets gleamed through the thickets and the Northern artillery, superb as usual, rained shells upon the Southern army.

Ewell's men, fighting with all the courage and desperation that they had shown on so many a field, were driven back further and further. Ewell, strapped in his saddle, flourishing his sword, his round, bald head glowing, rode among them, bidding them to stand, that help would soon come. They continued to go backward, but those veterans of so many campaigns never lost cohesion nor showed sign of panic. Their own artillery and rifles replied in full volume. The heads of the charging columns were blown away, but other men took their places, and Warren's force came on with undiminished fire and strength.

Harry wondered if the attack at other points had been made with such impetuosity, but there was such a roar and crash about him that it was impossible to hear sounds of battle elsewhere. Men were falling very fast, but the general was unharmed, and neither the young lieutenant nor his horse was touched.

A sudden shout arose, and it was immediately followed by the piercing rebel yell, swelling wild and fierce above the tumult of the battle. Help was coming. Regiments in gray were charging down the paths and on the left flank rose the thunder of hoofs as a formidable body of cavalry under Sherburne, sabers aloft, swept down on the Northern flank.

Ewell's entire division stopped its retreat and, reinforced by the new men, charged directly upon the Northern bayonets. Men met almost face to face. The saplings and bushes were mown down by cannon and rifles and the air was full of bursting shells. From time to time Ewell's men uttered their fierce, defiant yell, and with a great bound of the heart Harry saw that they were gaining. Warren was being driven back. Two of his cannon were captured already, and the Southern men, feeling the glow of the advance after retreat, charged again and again, reckless of death. But Harry soon saw that ultimate victory here would rest with the South. The troops of Warren, exhausted by their early rush, were driven from one position to another by the seasoned veterans who faced them. The Confederates retained the captured cannon and thrust harder and harder. It became obvious that Warren must soon fall back to the main Northern line, and though the battle was still raging with great fury Ewell beckoned Harry to him.

"Don't stay here any longer," he shouted in his ear. "Ride to General Lee and tell him we're victorious at this point for the day at least!"

Harry saluted and galloped away through the thickets. Behind him the battle still roared and thundered. A stray shell burst just in front of him, and another just behind him, but he and his horse were untouched. Once or twice he glanced back and it looked as if the Wilderness were on fire, but he knew that it was instead the blaze of battle. He saw also that Ewell was still moving forward, winning more ground, and his heart swelled with gladness.

How proud Jackson would have been had he been able to see the valor and skill of his old lieutenant! Perhaps his ghost did really hover over the Wilderness, where a year before he had fallen in the moment of his greatest triumph! Harry urged his horse into a gallop. All his faculties now became acute. He was beyond the zone of fire, but the roar of the battle behind him seemed as loud as ever. Yet it was steadily moving back on the main Union lines, and there could be no doubt of Ewell's continued success.

The curves of the low hills and the thick bushes hid everything from Harry's sight, as he rode swiftly through the winding paths of the Wilderness. When the tumult sank at last he heard a new thunder in front of him, and now he knew that the Southern center under Hill had been attacked also, and with the greatest fierceness.

As Harry approached, the roar of the second battle became terrific. Uncertain where General Lee would now be, he rode through the sleet of steel, and found Hill engaged with the very flower of the Northern army. Hancock, the hero of Gettysburg, was making desperate exertions to crush him, pouring in brigade after brigade, while Sheridan, regardless of thickets, made charge after charge with his numerous cavalry.

Harry remained in the rear on his horse, watching this furious struggle. The day had become much darker, either from clouds or the vast volume of smoke, and the thickets were so dense that the officers often could not see their enemy at all, only their own men who stood close to them. The struggle was vast, confused, carried on under appalling conditions. The charging horsemen were sometimes swept from the saddle by bushes and not by bullets. Infantrymen stepped into a dark ooze left by spring rains, and pulling themselves out, charged, black to the waist with mud. Sometimes the field pieces became mired, and men and horses together dragged them to firmer ground.

Grant here, as before Ewell, continually reinforced his veterans, but Hill, although he was not able to advance, held fast. The difficult nature of the ground that Lee had chosen helped him. In marsh and thickets it was impossible for the more numerous enemy to outflank him. Harry saw Hill twice, a slender man, who had suffered severe wounds but one of the greatest fighters in the Southern army. He had been ordered to hold the center, and Harry knew now that he would do it, for the day at least. Night was not very far away, and Grant was making no progress.

He rode on in search of Lee and before he was yet beyond the range of fire he met Dalton, mounted and emerging from the smoke.

"The commander-in-chief, where is he?" asked Harry.

"On a little hill not far from here, watching the battle. I'm just returning with a dispatch from Hill."

"I saw that Hill was holding his ground."

"So my dispatch says, and it says also that he will continue to hold it. You come from Ewell?"

"Yes, and he has done more than stand fast. He was driven back at first, but when reinforcements came he drove Warren back in his turn, and took guns and prisoners."

"The chief will be glad to hear it. We'll ride together. Look out for your horse! He may go knee deep into mire at any time. Harry, the Wilderness looks even more somber to me than it did a year ago when we fought Chancellorsville."

"I feel the same way about it. But see, George, how they're fighting! General Hill is making a great resistance!"

"Never better. But if you look over those low bushes you can see General Lee on the hill."

Harry made out the figure of Lee on Traveller, outlined against the sky, with about a dozen men sitting on their horses behind him. He hurried forward as fast as he could. The commander-in-chief was reading a dispatch, while the fierce struggle in the thickets was going on, but when Harry saluted and Marshall told him that he had come to report the general put away the dispatch and said:

"What news from General Ewell?"

"General Ewell was at first borne back by the enemy's numbers, but when help came he returned to the charge, and has been victorious. He has gained much ground."

A gleam of triumph shot from Lee's eyes, usually so calm.

"Well done, Ewell!" he said. "The loss of a leg has not dimmed his ardor or judgment. I truly believe that if he were to lose the other one also he would still have himself strapped into the saddle and lead his men to victory. We thank you for the news you have brought, Lieutenant Kenton."

He put his glasses to his eyes and Harry and Dalton as usual withdrew to the rear of the staff. But they used their glasses also, bringing nearer to them the different phases of the battle, which now raged through the Wilderness. They saw at some points the continuous blaze of guns, and the acrid powder smoke, lying low, was floating through all the thickets.

But Harry now knew that the combat, however violent and fierce, was only a prelude. The sun was already setting, and they could not fight at night in those wild thickets, where men and guns would become mired and tangled beyond extrication. The great struggle, with both leaders hurling in their full forces, would come on the morrow.

The sun already hung very low, and in the twilight and smoke the savagery of the Wilderness became fiercer than ever. The dusk gathered around Lee, but his erect figure and white horse still showed distinctly through it. Harry, his spirit touched by the tremendous scenes in the very center of which he stood, regarded him with a fresh measure of respect and admiration. He was the bulwark of the Confederacy, and he did not doubt that on the morrow he would stop Grant as he had stopped the others.

The darkness increased, sweeping down like a great black pall over the Wilderness. The battle in the center and on the left died. Lee and his staff dismounting, prepared for the labors of the night.



Chapter XV

The Wilderness


When night settled down over the Wilderness the two armies lay almost face to face on a long line. The preliminary battle, on the whole, had favored the Confederacy. Hill had held his ground and Ewell had gained, but Grant had immense forces, and, though naturally kind of heart, he had made up his mind to strike and keep on striking, no matter what the loss. He could afford to lose two men where the Confederacy lost one.

Harry, like many others, felt that this would be the great Northern general's plan. To-morrow's battle might end in Southern success, but Grant would be there to fight the following day with undiminished resolution. He was as sure of this as he was sure that the day would come.

The night itself was somber and sinister, the heavens dusky and a raw chill in the air. Heavy vapors rose from the marshes, and clouds of smoke from the afternoon's battle floated about over the thickets, poisoning the air as if with gas, and making the men cough as they breathed it. It made Harry's heart beat harder than usual, and his head felt as if it were swollen. Everything seemed clothed in a black mist with a slightly reddish tint.

A small fire had been built in a sheltered place for the commander-in-chief and his staff, and the cooks were preparing the supper, which was of the simplest kind. While they ate the food and drank their coffee, the darkness increased, with the faint lights of other fires showing here and there through it. Around the muddy places frogs croaked in defiance of armies, and, from distant points, came the crackling fire of skirmishers prowling in the dusk.

Harry's horse, saddled and bridled, was tied to a bush not far away. He knew that it was to be no night of rest for him, or any other member of the staff. Lee would be sending messages continually. Longstreet, although he had been marching hard, was not yet up on the right, and he and his veterans must be present when the shock of Grant's mighty attack came in the morning.

Hill, thin and pale, yet suffering from the effects of his wounds, but burning as usual with the fire of battle, rode up and consulted long and earnestly with Lee. Presently he went back to his own place nearer the center, and then Lee began to send away his staff one by one with messages. Harry was among the last to go, but he bore a dispatch to Longstreet.

He had heard that Longstreet had criticized Lee for ordering Pickett's famous charge at Gettysburg, but if so, Lee had taken no notice of it, and Longstreet had proved himself the same stalwart fighter as of old. He and the prompt arrival of his veterans had enabled Bragg to win Chickamauga, and it was not Longstreet's fault that the advantage gained there was lost afterward. Now Harry knew that he would be up in time with his seasoned veterans.

As the young lieutenant rode away he saw General Lee walking back and forth before the low fire, his hands clasped behind him, and his eyes as serious as those of any human being could be. Harry appreciated the immensity of his task, and in his heart was a sincere pity for the man who bore so great a burden. He was familiar with the statement that to Lee had been offered the command of the Northern armies at the beginning of the war, but believing his first duty was to his State he had gone with Virginia when Virginia reluctantly went out of the Union. Truly no one could regret the war more than he, and yet he had struck giant blows for its success.

A moment more and the tall figure standing beside the low fire was lost to sight. Then Harry rode among the thickets in the rear of the Confederate line and it was a weird and ghastly ride. Now and then his horse's feet sank in mud, and the frogs still dared to croak around the pools, making on such a night the most ominous of all sounds. It seemed a sort of funeral dirge for both North and South, a croak telling of the ruin and death that were to come on the morrow.

Damp boughs swept across his face, and the vapors, rising from the earth and mingled with the battle smoke, were still bitter to the tongue and poisonous to the breath. Rotten logs crushed beneath his horse's feet and Harry felt a shiver as if the hoofs had cut through a body of the dead. Riflemen rose out of the thickets, but he always gave them the password, and rode on without stopping.

Then came a space where he met no human being, the gap between Hill and Longstreet, and now the Wilderness became incredibly lonely and dreary. Harry felt that if ever a region was haunted by ghosts it was this. The dead of last year's battle might be lying everywhere, and as the breeze sprang up the melancholy thickets waved over them.

He was two-thirds of the way toward the point where he expected to find Longstreet when he heard the sough of a hoof in the mud behind him.

Harry listened and hearing the hoof again he was instantly on his guard. He did not know it, but the character of the night and the wild aspect of the Wilderness were bringing out all the primeval and elemental qualities in his nature. He was the great borderer, Henry Ware, in the Indian-haunted forest, feeling with a sixth sense, even a seventh sense, the presence of danger.

He was following a path, scarcely traceable, used by charcoal burners and wood-cutters, but when he heard the hoof a second time he turned aside into the deepest of the thickets and halted there. The hoofbeat came a third time, a little nearer, and then no more. Evidently the horseman behind him knew that he had turned aside, and was waiting and watching. He was surely an enemy of great skill and boldness, and it was equally sure that he was Shepard. Harry never felt a doubt that he was pursued by the formidable Union spy, and he felt too that he had never been in greater danger, as Shepard at such a moment would not spare his best friend.

But he was not afraid. Danger had become so common that one looked upon it merely as a risk. Moreover, he was never cooler or more ample of resource. He dismounted softly, standing beside his horse's head, holding the reins with one hand and a heavy pistol with the other. He suspected that Shepard would do the same, but he believed that his eyes and ears were the keener. The man must have been inside the Confederate lines all the afternoon. Probably he had seen Harry riding away, and, deftly appropriating a horse, had followed him. There was no end to Shepard's ingenuity and daring.

Harry's horse was trained to stand still indefinitely, and the young man, with the heavy pistol, who held the reins was also immovable. The silence about him was so deep that Harry could hear the frogs croaking at a distant pool.

He waited a full five minutes, and now, like the wild animals, he relied more upon ear than eye. He had learned the faculty of concentration and he bent all his powers upon his hearing. Not the slightest sound could escape the tightly drawn drums of his ears.

He was motionless a full ten minutes. Nor did the horse beside him stir. It was a test of human endurance, the capacity to keep himself absolutely silent, but with every nerve attuned, while he waited for an invisible danger. And those minutes were precious, too. The value of not a single one of them could have been measured or weighed. It was his duty to reach Longstreet at speed, because the general and his veterans must be in line in the morning, when the battle was joined. Yet the incessant duel between Shepard and himself was at its height again, and he did not yet see how he could end it.

Harry felt that it must be essentially a struggle of patience, but when he waited a few minutes longer, the idea to wait with ears close to the earth, one of the oldest devices of primitive man, occurred to him. It was fairly dry in the bushes, and he lay down, pressing his ear to the soil. Then he heard a faint sound, as if some one crawling through the grass, like a wild animal stalking its prey. It was Shepard, of course, and then Harry planned his campaign. Shepard had left his horse, and was endeavoring to reach him by stealth.

Leaving his own horse, he crept a little to the right, and then rising carefully in another thicket he picked out every dark spot in the gloom. He made out presently the figure of a riderless horse, standing partly behind the trunk of an oak, larger than most of those that grew in the Wilderness.

Harry knew that it was Shepard's mount and that Shepard himself was some distance in front of it creeping toward the thicket which he supposed sheltered his foe. There was barely enough light for Harry to see the horse's head and regretfully he raised his heavy pistol. But it had to be done, and when his aim was true he pulled the trigger.

The report of the pistol was almost like the roar of a cannon in the desolate Wilderness and made Harry himself jump. Then he promptly threw himself flat upon his face. Shepard's answering fire came from a point about thirty yards in front of the horse, and the bullet passed very close over Harry's head. It was a marvelous shot to be made merely at the place from which a sound had come. It all passed in a flash, and the next moment Harry heard the sound of a horse falling and kicking a little. Then it too was still.

He remained only a half minute in the grass. Then he began to creep back, curving a little in his course, toward his own horse. He did not believe that Shepard's faculty of hearing was as keen as his own, and he moved with the greatest deftness. He relied upon the fact that Shepard had not yet located the horse, and if Harry could reach it quickly it would not be hard for him, a mounted man, to leave behind Shepard, dismounted. It might be possible, too, that Shepard had gone back to see about his own horse, not knowing that it was slain.

He saw the dusky outline of his horse, and, rising, made two or three jumps. Then he snatched the rein loose, sprang upon his back, and lying down upon his neck to avoid bullets, crashed away, reckless of bushes and briars. He heard one bullet flying near him, but he laughed in delight and relief as his horse sped on toward Longstreet.

He did not diminish his speed until he had gone two or three miles, and then, knowing that Shepard had been left hopelessly behind, even if he had attempted pursuit, he brought his horse down to a walk, and laughed. There was a bit of nervous excitement in the laugh. He had outwitted Shepard again. He had never seen the man, but it did not enter his mind that it was not he. Each had scored largely over the other from time to time, but Harry believed that he was at least even.

He steadied his nerves now and rode calmly toward Longstreet, coming soon upon his scouts, who informed him that the heavy columns were not far behind, marching with stalwart step to their appointed place in the line. But it was Harry's business to see Longstreet himself, and he continued his way toward the center of the division, where they told him the general could be found.

He rode forward and in the moonlight recognized Longstreet at once, a heavy-set, bearded man, mounted on a strong bay horse. He had a very small staff, and he was first to notice the young lieutenant advancing. He knew Harry well, having seen him with Lee at Gettysburg and with Jackson before. He stopped and said abruptly:

"You come from the commander-in-chief, do you not?"

"Yes, sir," replied Harry, "and I've been coming as fast as I could."

He did not deem it necessary to say anything about his encounter with Shepard.

"There has been heavy fighting. What are his orders?"

Harry told him, also giving him a written message, which the general read by the light of a torch an aide held.

"You can tell General Lee that all my men will be in position for battle before dawn," said the Georgian crisply.

Even as he spoke, Harry heard the heavy, regular tread of the brigades marching forward through the Wilderness. He saluted General Longstreet.

"I shall return at once with your message," he said.

But Harry, having had one such experience, was resolved not to risk another. He would make a wider circuit in the rear of the army. Shepard, on foot, and anxious to avenge his defeat, might be waiting for him, but he would go around him. So when he started back he made a wide curve, and soon was in the darkness and silence again.

He had a good horse and his idea of direction being very clear he rode swiftly in the direction he had chosen. But his curve was so great that when he reached the center of it he was so far in the rear of the army that no sound came from it. If the skirmishers were still firing the reports of their rifles were lost in the distance. Where he rode the only noises were those made by the wild animals that inhabited the Wilderness, creatures that had settled back into their usual haunts after the armies had passed beyond.

Once a startled deer sprang from a clump of bushes and crashed away through the thickets. Rabbits darted from his path, and an owl, wondering what all the disturbance was about, hooted mournfully from a bough.

Long before dawn Harry reached the Southern sentinels in the center and was then passed to General Lee, who remained at the same camp, sitting on a log by some smothered coals. Several other members of his staff had returned already, and the general, looking up when Harry came forward, merely said:

"Well!"

"I have seen General Longstreet, sir," said Harry, "and he bids me tell you that he and his men will be in position before dawn. He was nearly up when I left, and he has also sent you this note."

He handed the note to General Lee, who, bending low over the coals, read it.

"Everything goes well," he said with satisfaction. "We shall be ready for them. What time is it, Peyton?"

"Five minutes past four o'clock, sir."

"Then I think the attack should come within an hour."

"Perhaps before daybreak, sir."

"Perhaps. And even after the sun begins to rise it will be like twilight in this gloomy place."

Grant, in truth, prompt and ready as always, had ordered the advance to be begun at half-past four, but Meade, asking more time for arrangements and requesting that it be delayed until six, he had consented to a postponement until five o'clock and no more.

Harry had one more message to carry, a short distance only, and on his return he found the Invincibles posted on the commander-in-chief's right, and not more than two hundred yards away.

"You must be a body guard for the general," he said to Colonel Leonidas Talbot.

"There could be no greater honor for the Invincibles, nor could General Lee have a better guard."

"I'm sure of that, sir."

"What's happening, Harry? Tell us what's been going on in the night!"

"Our line of battle has been formed. General Longstreet and his men on the right are soon to be in touch with General Hill. I returned from him a little while ago. I can't yet smell the dawn, but I think the battle will come before then."

Harry rode back and resumed his place beside Dalton. The troops everywhere were on their feet, cannon and rifles ready, because it was a certainty that the two armies would meet very early.

In fact, the Army of Northern Virginia began to slide slowly forward. It was not the habit of these troops to await attack. Lee nearly always had taken the offensive, and the motion of his men was involuntary. They felt that the enemy was there and they must go to meet him.

"What time is it now?" whispered Dalton.

Harry was barely able to discern the face of his watch.

"Ten minutes to five," he replied.

"And the dawn comes early. It won't be long before Grant comes poking his nose through the Wilderness."

Harry was silent. A few minutes more, and there was a sudden crackle of rifles in front of them.

"The dawn isn't here, but Grant is," said Harry.

The crackling fire doubled and tripled, and then the fire of the Southern rifles replied in heavy volume. The lighter field guns opened with a crash, and the heavier batteries followed with rolling thunder. Leaves and twigs fell in showers, and men fell with them. The deep Northern cheer swelled through the Wilderness and the fierce rebel yell replied.

Gray dawn, rising as if with effort, over the sodden Wilderness found two hundred thousand men locked fast in battle. It might have been a bright sun elsewhere, but not here among the gloomy shades and the pine barrens. The firing was already so tremendous that the smoke hung low and thick, directly over the tops of the bushes, and the men, as they fought, breathed mixed and frightful vapors.

Both sides fought for a long time in a heavy, smoky dusk, that was practically night. Officers coming from far points, led, compass in hand, having no other guide save the roar of battle. As the Southern leaders had foreseen, Grant was throwing in the full strength of his powerful army, hoping with superior numbers and better equipment to crush Lee utterly that day.

The great Northern artillery was raking the whole Southern front. Hancock, the superb, was hurling the heavy Northern masses directly upon the main position of the South. He had half the Army of the Potomac, and at other points Warren, Wadsworth, Sedgwick and Burnside were advancing with equal energy and contempt of death. Fiercer and fiercer grew the conflict. Hancock, remembering how he had held the fatal hill at Gettysburg, and resolved to win a complete victory now, poured in regiment after regiment. But in all the fire and smoke and excitement and danger he did not neglect to keep a cool head. Hearing that a portion of Longstreet's corps was near, he sent a division and numerous heavy artillery to attack it, driving it back after a sanguinary struggle of more than an hour.

Then he redoubled his attack upon the Southern center, compelling it to give ground, though slowly. Harry felt that gliding movement backward and a chill ran through his blood. The heavy masses of Grant and his powerful artillery were prevailing. The strongest portion of the Southern army was being forced back, and a gap was cut between Hill and Longstreet. Had Hancock perceived the gap that he had made he might have severed the Southern army, inflicting irretrievable retreat, but the smoke and the dusk of the Wilderness hid it, and the moment passed into one of the great "Ifs" of history.

Harry, on horseback, witnessed this conflict, all the more terrible because of the theater in which it was fought. The batteries and the riflemen alike were frequently hidden by the thickets. The great banks of smoke hung low, only to be split apart incessantly by the flashes of fire from the big guns. But the bullets were more dangerous than the cannon balls and shells. They whistled and shrieked in thousands and countless thousands.

Lee sat on his horse impassive, watching as well as he could the tide of battle. Messengers covered with smoke and sweat had informed him of the gap between Hill and Longstreet, and he was dispatching fresh troops to close it up. Harry saw the Invincibles march by. The two colonels at their head beheld Lee on his white horse, and their swords flew from their scabbards as they made a salute in perfect unison. Close behind them rode St. Clair and Happy Tom, and they too saluted in like manner. Lee took off his hat in reply and Harry choked. "About to die, we salute thee," he murmured under his breath.

Then with a shout the Invincibles, their officers at their head, plunged into the fire and smoke, and were lost from Harry's view. But he could not stay there long and wonder at their fate. In a few minutes he was riding to Longstreet with a message for him to bear steadily toward Hill, that the gap might be closed entirely, and as soon as possible.

He galloped behind the lines, but bullets fell all around him, and often a shell tore the earth. The air had become more bitter and poisonous. Fumes from swamps seemed to mingle with the smoke and odors of burned gunpowder. His lips and his tongue were scorched. But he kept on, without exhaustion or mishap, and reached Longstreet, who had divined his message.

"The line will be solid in a few minutes," he said, and while the battle was still at its height on the long front he touched hands with Hill. Then both drove forward with all their might against Hancock, rushing to the charge, with the Southern fire and recklessness of death that had proved irresistible on so many fields. The advance, despite the most desperate efforts of Hancock and his generals, was stopped. Then he was driven back. All the ground gained at so much cost was lost and the Southern troops, shouting in exultation, pushed on, pouring in a terrible rifle fire. Longstreet, in his eagerness, rode a little ahead of his troops to see the result. Turning back, he was mistaken in the smoke by his own men for a Northern cavalryman, and they fired upon him, just as Jackson had been shot down by his own troops in the dusk at Chancellorsville.

The leader fell from his horse, wounded severely, and the troops advancing to victory became confused. The rumor spread that Longstreet had been killed. There was no one to give orders, and the charge stopped. Harry and a half-dozen others who had seen the accident or heard of it, galloped to Lee, who at once rode into the very thick of the command, giving personal orders and sending his aides right and left with others. The whole division was reformed under his eye, and he sent it anew to the attack.

The battle now closed in with the full strength of both armies. Hancock strove to keep his place. The valiant Wadsworth had been killed already. The dense thickets largely nullified Grant's superior numbers. Lee poured everything on Hancock, who was driven from every position. Fighting furiously behind a breastwork built the night before, he was driven from that too.

Often in the dense shades the soldiers met one another face to face and furious struggles hand-to-hand ensued. Bushes and trees, set on fire by the shells, burned slowly like torches put there to light up the ghastly scene of man's bravery and folly. Jenkins, a Confederate general, was killed and colonels and majors fell by the dozen. But neither side would yield, and Grant hurried help to his hard-pressed troops.

Harry had been grazed on the shoulder by a bullet, but his horse was unharmed, and he kept close to Lee, who continued to direct the battle personally. He knew that they were advancing. Once more the genius of the great Confederate leader was triumphing. Grant, the redoubtable and tenacious, despite his numbers, could set no trap for him! Instead he had been drawn into battle on a field of Lee's own choosing.

The conflict had now continued for a long time, and was terrible in all its aspects. It was far past noon, and for miles a dense cloud of smoke hung over the Wilderness, which was filled with the roar of cannon, the crash of rifles and the shouts of two hundred thousand men in deadly conflict. The first meeting of the two great protagonists of the war, Lee and Grant, was sanguinary and terrible, beyond all expectation.

Hundreds fell dead, their bodies lying hidden under the thickets. The forest burned fiercely here and there, casting circles of lurid light over the combatants, while the wind rained down charred leaves and twigs. The fires spread and joined, and at points swept wide areas of the forest, yet the fury of the battle was not diminished, the two armies forgetting everything else in their desire to crush each other.

Harry's horse was killed, as he sat near Lee, but he quickly obtained another, and not long afterward he was sent with a second message to Ewell. He rode on a long battle front, not far behind the lines, and he shuddered with awe as he looked upon the titanic struggle. The smoke was often so heavy and the bushes so thick that he could not see the combatants, except when the flame of the firing or the burning trees lighted up a segment of the circle.

Halfway to Ewell and he stopped when he saw two familiar figures, sitting on a log. They were elderly men in uniforms riddled by bullets. The right arm of one and the left leg of the other were tightly bandaged. Their faces were very white and it was obvious that they were sitting there, because they were not strong enough to stand.

Harry stopped. No message, no matter how important, could have kept him from stopping.

"Colonel Talbot! Colonel St. Hilaire!" he cried.

"Yes, here we are, Harry," replied Colonel Leonidas Talbot in a voice, thin but full of courage. "Hector has been shot through the leg and has lost much blood, but I have bound up his wound, and he has done as much for my arm, which has been bored through from side to side by a bullet, which must have been as large as my fist."

"And so for a few minutes," said Lieutenant-Colonel St. Hilaire, valiantly, "we must let General Lee conduct the victory alone."

"And the Invincibles!" exclaimed Harry, horrified. "Are they all gone but you?"

"Not at all," replied Colonel Talbot. "There is so much smoke about that you can't see much, but if it clears a little you will behold Lieutenant St. Clair and the youth rightly called Happy Tom and some three score others, lying among the bushes, not far ahead of you, giving thorough attention to the enemy."

"And is that all that's left of the Invincibles?"

"It's a wonder that they're so many. You were right about this man, Grant, Harry. He's a fighter, and their artillery is numerous and wonderful. John Carrington himself must be in front of us. We have not seen him, but the circumstantial evidence is conclusive. Nobody else in the world could have swept this portion of the Wilderness with shell and shrapnel in such a manner. Why, he has mowed down the bushes in long swathes as the scythe takes the grass and he has cut down our men with them. How does the battle go elsewhere?"

"We're succeeding. We're driving 'em back. I can stop only a moment now. I'm on my way to General Ewell."

"Then hurry. Don't be worried about us. I'll help Hector and Hector will help me. And do you curve further to the rear, Harry. The worst thing that a dispatch bearer can do is to get himself shot."

Waving his hand in farewell Harry galloped away. He knew that Colonel Talbot had given him sound advice, and he bore back from the front, coming once more into lonely thickets, although the flash of the battle was plainly visible in front of him, and its roar filled his ears. Yet when he rode alone he almost expected to see Shepard rise up before him, and bid him halt. His encounters with this man had been under such startling circumstances that it now seemed the rule, and not the exception, for him to appear at any moment.

But Shepard did not come. Instead Harry began to see the badly wounded of his own side drifting to the rear, helping one another as hurt soldiers learn to do. Two of them he allowed to hang on his stirrups a little while.

"They're fighting hard," said one, a long, gaunt Texan, "an' they're so many they might lap roun' us. This man of theirs, Grant, ain't much of a fellow to get scared, but I guess Marse Bob will take care of him just ez he has took care of the others who came into Virginia."

"They're led in the main attack by Hancock," said the other, a Virginian. "I caught a glimpse of him through the smoke, just as I had a view of him for a minute back there by the clump of trees on the ridge at Gettysburg."

"Are you one of Pickett's men?" asked Harry.

"I am, sir, one of the few that's left. I went clear to the clump of trees and how I got back I've never known. It was a sort of red dream, in which I couldn't pick out anything in particular, but I was back with the army, carrying three bullets that the doctors took away from me, and here I've gathered up two more they'll rob me of in just the same way."

He spoke quite cheerfully, and when Harry, curving again, was compelled to release them, both, although badly wounded, wished him good luck.

He found General Ewell in front, stamping back and forth on his crutches, watching the battle with excitement.

"And so you're here again, Harry. Well it's good news at present!" he cried. "It seems that their man, Grant, is going to school to Lee just like the others."

"But some pupils learn too fast, sir!"

"That's so, but, Harry, I wish I could see more of the field. An invisible battle like this shakes my nerves. Batteries that we can't see send tornadoes of shot and shell among us. Riflemen, by the thousands, hidden in the thickets rain bullets into our ranks. It's inhuman, wicked, and our only salvation lies in the fact that it's as bad for them as it is for us. If we can't see them they can't see us."

"You can hold your ground here?"

"Against anything and everything. Tell General Lee that we intend to eat our suppers on the enemy's ground."

"That's all he wants to know."

As Harry rode back he saw that the first fires were spreading, passing over new portions of the battlefield. Sparks flew in myriads and fine, thin ashes were mingled with the powder smoke. The small trees, burnt through, fell with a crash, and the flames ran as if they were alive up boughs. Other trees fell too, cut through by cannon balls, and some were actually mown down by sheets of bullets, as if they had been grass.

His way now led through human wreckage, made all the more appalling by an approaching twilight, heavy with fumes and smoke, and reddened with the cannon and rifle blaze. His frightened horse pulled wildly at the bit, and tried to run away, but Harry held him to the path, although he stepped more than once in hot ashes and sprang wildly. The dead were thick too and Harry was in horror lest the hoof of his horse be planted upon some unheeding face.

He knew that the day was waning fast and that the dark was due in some degree to the setting sun, and not wholly to the smoke and ashes. Yet the fury of the battle was sustained. The southern left maintained the ground that it had gained, and in the center and right it could not be driven back. It became obvious to Grant that Lee was not to be beaten in the Wilderness. His advance suffered from all kinds of disadvantages. In the swamps and thickets he could mass neither his guns nor his cannon. Communications were broken, the telegraph wires could be used but little and as the twilight darkened to night he let the attack die.

Harry was back with the commander-in-chief, when the great battle of the Wilderness, one of the fiercest ever fought, sank under cover of the night. It was not open and spectacular like Gettysburg, but it had a gloomy and savage grandeur all its own. Grant had learned, like the others before him, that he could not drive headlong over Lee, but sitting in silence by his campfire, chewing his cigar, he had no thought, unlike the others, of turning back. Nearly twenty thousand of his men had fallen, but huge resources and a President who supported him absolutely were behind him and he was merely planning a new method of attack.

In the Southern camp there was exultation, but it was qualified and rather grim. These men, veterans of many battles and able to judge for themselves, believed that they had won the victory, but they knew that it was by no means decisive. The numerous foe with his powerful artillery was still before them. They could see his campfires shining through the thickets, and their spies told them that, despite his great losses, there was no sign of retreat in Grant's camp.

An appalling night settled down on the Wilderness. The North American Continent never saw one more savage and terrible. Twenty thousand wounded were scattered through the thickets and dense shades, and spreading fires soon brought death to many whom the bullets had not killed at once. The smoke, the mists and vapors gathered into one dense cloud, that hung low and made everything clammy to the touch.

Lee stood under the boughs of an oak, and ate food that had been prepared for him hastily. But, as Harry saw, the act was purely mechanical. He was watching as well as he could what was going on in front, and he was giving orders in turns to his aides. Harry's time had not yet come, and he kept his eyes on his chief.

There was no exultation in the face of Lee. He had drawn Grant into the Wilderness and then he had held him fast in a battle of uncommon size and fierceness. But nothing was decided. He had studied the career of Grant, and he knew that he had a foe of great qualities with whom to deal. He would have to fight him again, and fight very soon. He heard too with a sorrow, hard to conceal, the reports of his own losses. They were heavy enough and the gaps now made could never be refilled. The Army of Northern Virginia, which had been such a powerful instrument in his hands, must fight with ever diminishing numbers.

Harry was sent to inquire into the condition of Longstreet, whom he found weak physically and suffering much pain. But the veteran was upborne by the success of the day and his belief in ultimate victory. He bade Harry tell the commander-in-chief that his men were fit to fight again and better than ever, at the first shoot of dawn.

Harry rode back in the night, the burning trees serving him for torches. Nearly all the soldiers were busy. Some were gathering up the wounded and others were building breastworks. His eyes were reddened by the powder-smoke, and often the heavy black masses of vapor were impenetrable, save where the forest burned. Now he came to a region where the dead and wounded were so thick that he dismounted and led his horse, lest a hoof be planted upon any one of them. But he noticed that here as in other battles the wounded made but little complaint. They suffered in silence, waiting for their comrades to take them away.

Then he passed around a section of forest that was burning fiercely. Here Southern and Union soldiers had met on terms of peace and were making desperate efforts to save their helpless comrades. Harry would have been glad to give aid himself, but he was too well trained now to turn aside when he rode for Lee.

He saw many dark figures passing before the flaming background, and as he walked more slowly than he thought, he saw one that looked remarkably familiar to him. It was impossible to see the face, but he knew the walk and the lift of the shoulders. Discipline gave way to impulse now, and he ran forward crying:

"Dick! Dick!"

Dick Mason, who had just dragged a wounded man beyond the range of the flames, turned at the sound of the voice. Even had Harry seen his face at first he would not have known him nor would Dick have known Harry. Both were black with ashes, smoke and burned gunpowder. But Dick knew the voice in an instant. Once more were the two cousins to meet in peace on an unfinished battlefield.

Each driven by the same impulse stepped forward, and their hands met in the strong grasp of blood kindred and friendship, which war itself could not sever.

"You're alive, Harry!" said Dick. "It seems almost impossible after what has happened to-day."

"And you too are all right. Not harmed, I see, though your face is an African black."

"I should call your own color dark and smoky."

"I wasn't sure that you were in the East. When did you come?"

"With General Grant, and I knew that you were on General Lee's staff. I've a message to give him by you. Oh! you needn't laugh. It's a good straight talk."

"Go ahead then and say it to me."

"You say to General Lee that it's all over. Tell him to quit and send his soldiers home. If he doesn't he'll be crushed."

Harry laughed again and waved his finger at the somber battlefield, upon which he stood.

"Does this look like it?" he asked. "We're farther forward to-night than we were this morning. Wouldn't General Grant be glad if he could say as much?"

"It makes no difference. I know you don't believe me, but it's so. The North is prepared as it never was before. And Grant will hammer and hammer forever. We know what a man Lee is. The whole North admits it, but I tell you the sun of the South is setting."

"You're growing poetical and poetry is no argument."

"But unlimited men, unlimited cannon and rifles, unlimited ammunition and supplies and a general who is willing to use them, are. Of course I know that you can't carry any such message to General Lee, but I feel it to be the truth."

"We've a great general and a great army that say, no."

Nobody paid any attention to the two. It was merely another one of those occasions when men of the opposing sides stood together amid the dead and wounded, and talked in friendly fashion. But Harry knew that he could not delay long.

"I've got to go, Dick," he said. "And I've a message too, one that I want you to deliver to General Grant."

"What is it?"

"Tell him that we've more than held our own to-day, and that we'll thrash him like thunder to-morrow, and whenever and wherever he may choose, no matter what the odds are against us."

Dick laughed.

"I see that you won't believe even a little bit of what I tell you," he said "and maybe if I were in your place I wouldn't either. But it's true all the same. Good-by, Harry."

The two hands, covered with battle grime, met again in the strong grasp of blood kindred and friendship.

"Take care of yourself, old man!"

The words, exactly alike, were uttered by the two simultaneously.

Both were stirred deeply. Harry sprang on his horse, looked back once, waving his hand, and rode rapidly to General Lee. Later in the night, he received permission to hunt up the Invincibles, his heart full of fear that they had perished utterly in the gloomy pit called the Wilderness, lit now only by the fire of death.

He left his horse with an orderly and walked toward the point where he had last seen them. He passed thousands of soldiers, many wounded, but silent as usual, while the unhurt were sleeping where they had dropped. The Invincibles were not at the point where he had seen them last, and the colonels of several scattered regiments could not tell him what had become of them. But he continued to seek them although the fear was growing in his heart that the last man of the Invincibles had died under the Northern cannon.

His search led toward the enemy's lines. Almost unconsciously he went in that direction, however, his knowledge of the two colonels telling him that they would take the same course. He turned into a little cove, partly sheltered by the dwarfed trees and he heard a thin voice saying:

"Nonsense, Leonidas. I scarcely felt it, but yours, old friend, is pretty bad. You must let me attend to it. Keep still! I'll adjust the bandage."

"Hector, why do you make a fuss over me, when I'm only slightly hurt, and sacrifice yourself, a severely injured man!"

"With all due respect you'd better let me attend to you both," said a voice that Harry recognized as St. Clair's.

"And maybe I could help a little," said another that he knew to be Happy Tom's. But their voices, like those of the colonels, were weak. Still he had positive proof that they were alive, and, as his heart gave a joyful throb or two, he stepped into the glade. There was enough light for him to see Colonel Leonidas Talbot, and Lieutenant-Colonel Hector St. Hilaire, sitting side by side on the grass with their backs against the earthly wall, very pale from loss of blood, but with heads erect and eyes shining with a certain pride. St. Clair and Langdon lay on the grass, one with an old handkerchief, blood-soaked, bound about his head and the other with a bandage tightly fastened over his left shoulder. Beyond them lay a group of soldiers.

"Good evening, heroes!" said Harry lightly as he stepped forward.

He was welcomed with an exclamation of joy from them all.

"We meet again, Harry," said Colonel Talbot, "and it is the second time since morning. I fancy that second meetings to-day have not been common. We have the taste of success in our mouths, but you'll excuse us for not rising to greet you. We are all more or less affected by the missiles of the enemy and for some hours at least neither walking nor standing will be good for us."

"Mohammed must come to all the mountains," said St. Clair, weakly holding out a hand.

Harry greeted them all in turn, and sat down with them. He was overflowing with sympathy, but it was not needed.

"A glorious day," said Colonel Leonidas Talbot.

"Truly," said Harry.

"A most glorious day," said Lieutenant-Colonel Hector St. Hilaire.

"Most truly," said Harry.

"An especially glorious day for the Invincibles," said Colonel Talbot.

"The most glorious of all possible days for the Invincibles," said Lieutenant-Colonel Hector St. Hilaire.

There was an especial emphasis to their words that aroused Harry's attention.

"The Invincibles have had many glorious days," he said. "Why should this be the most glorious of them all?"

"We went into battle one hundred and forty-seven strong," replied Colonel Talbot quietly, "and we came out with one hundred and forty-seven casualties, thirty-nine killed and one hundred and eight wounded. We lay no claim to valor, exceeding that of many other regiments in General Lee's glorious army, but we do think we've made a fairly excellent record. Do you see those men?"

He pointed to a silent group stretched upon the turf, and Harry nodded.

"Not one of them has escaped unhurt, but most of us will muster up strength enough to meet the enemy again to-morrow, when our great general calls."

Harry's throat contracted for a moment.

"I know it, Colonel Talbot," he said. "The Invincibles have proved themselves truly worthy of their name. General Lee shall hear of this."

"But in no boastful vein, Harry," said Colonel Talbot. "We would not have you to speak thus of your friends."

"I do not have to boast for you. The simple truth is enough. I shall see that a surgeon comes here at once to attend to your wounded. Good night, gentlemen."

"Good night," said the four together. Harry walked back toward General Lee's headquarters, full of pride in his old comrades.



Chapter XVI

Spottsylvania


Harry secured a little sleep toward morning, and, although his nervous tension had been very great, when he lay down, he felt greatly strengthened in body and mind. He awakened Dalton in turn, and the two, securing a hasty breakfast, sat near the older members of the staff, awaiting orders. The commander-in-chief was at the edge of the little glade, talking earnestly with Hill, and several other important generals.

Harry often saw through the medium of his own feelings, and the rim of the sun, beginning to show over the eastern edge of the Wilderness, was blood red. The same crimson and sinister tinge showed through the west which was yet in the dusk. But in east and west there were certain areas of light, where the forest fires yet smoldered.

Both sides had thrown up hasty breastworks of earth or timber, but the two armies were unusually silent. A space of perhaps a mile and a half lay between them, but as the light increased neither moved. There was no crackle of rifle fire along their fronts. The skirmishers, usually so active, seemed to be exhausted, and the big guns were at rest. The fierce and tremendous fighting of the two days before seemed to have taken all the life out of both North and South.

Harry, inured to war, understood the reasons for silence and lack of movement. Grant had been drawn into a region that he did not like, where he could not use his superior numbers to advantage, and he must be shuddering at the huge losses he had suffered already. He would seek better ground. Lee too, was in no condition to take advantage of his successful defense. The old days when he could send Jackson on a great turning movement, to fall with all the crushing impact of a surprise upon the Northern flank, were gone forever. Stuart, the brilliant cavalryman, was there, but his men were not numerous enough, and, however brilliant, he was not Jackson.

The sun rose higher. Midmorning came, and the two armies still lay close. Harry grew stronger in his opinion that they would not fight again that day, although he watched, like the others, for any sign of movement in the Northern camp.

Noon came, and the same dead silence. The fires had burned themselves out now and the dusk that had reigned over the Wilderness, before the battle, recovered its ground, thickened still further by the vast quantities of smoke still hanging low under a cloudy sky. But the aspect of the Wilderness itself was more mournful than ever. Coals smoldered in the burned areas, and now and then puffs of wind picked up the hot ashes and sent them in the faces of the soldiers. Thickets and bushes had been cut down by bullets and cannon balls, and lay heaped together in tangled confusion. Back of the lines, the surgeons, with aching backs, toiled over the wounded, as they had toiled through the night.

Harry saw nearly the whole Southern front. The members of Lee's staff were busy that day, carrying orders to all his generals to rectify their lines, and to be prepared, to the last detail, for another tremendous assault. It was not until the afternoon that he was able to look up the Invincibles again. The two colonels and the two lieutenants were doing well, and the colonels were happy.

"We've already been notified," said Colonel Talbot, "that we're to retain our organization as a regiment. We're to have about a hundred new men now, the fragments of destroyed regiments. Of course, they won't be like the veterans of the Invincibles, but a half-dozen battles like that of yesterday should lick them into shape."

"I should think so," said Harry.

"Do you believe that Grant is retreating?" asked Lieutenant-Colonel St. Hilaire.

"Our scouts don't say so."

"Then he is merely putting off the evil day. The sooner he withdraws the more men he will save. No Yankee general can ever get by General Lee. Keep that in your mind, Harry Kenton."

Harry was silent, but rejoicing to find that his friends would soon recover from their wounds, he went back to his place, and saw all the afternoon pass, without any movement indicating battle.

Night came again and the scouts reported to Lee that the Union army was breaking camp, evidently with the intention of getting out of the Wilderness and marching to Fredericksburg. Harry was with the general when he received the news, and he saw him think over it long. Other scouts brought in the same evidence.

Harry did not know what the general thought, but as for himself, although he was too young to say anything, it was incredible that Grant should retreat. It was not at all in accordance with his character, now tested on many fields, and his resources also were too great for withdrawal.

But the night was very dark and no definite knowledge yet came out of it. Lee stayed by his little campfire and received reports. Far after dusk Harry saw the look of doubt disappear from his eyes, and then he began to send out messengers. It was evident that he had formed his opinion, and intended to act upon it at once.

He beckoned to Harry and Dalton, and bade them go together with written instructions to General Anderson, who had taken the place of General Longstreet.

"You will stay with General Anderson subject to his orders," he said, as Harry and Dalton, saluting, rode toward Anderson's command.

Their way led through torn, tangled and burned thickets. Sometimes a horse sprang violently to one side and neighed in pain. His hoof had come down on earth, yet so hot that it scorched like fire. Now and then sparks fell upon them, but they pursued their way, disregarding all obstacles, and delivered their sealed orders to General Anderson, who at once gathered up his full force, and marched away from the heart of the Wilderness toward Spottsylvania Court House.

Harry surmised that Grant was attempting some great turning movement, and Lee, divining it, was sending Anderson to meet his advance. He never knew whether it was positive knowledge or a happy guess.

But he was quite sure that the night's ride was one of the most singular and sinister ever made by an army. If any troops ever marched through the infernal regions it was they. In this part of the Wilderness the fires had been of the worst. Trees still smoldered. In the hollows, where the bushes had grown thickest, were great beds of coals. The smoke which the low heavy skies kept close to the earth was thick and hot. Gusts of wind sent showers of sparks flying, and, despite the greatest care to protect the ammunition, they marched in constant danger of explosion.

Harry thought at one time that General Anderson intended to camp in the Wilderness for the night, but he soon saw that it was impossible. One could not camp on hot ground in a smoldering forest.

"I believe it's a march till day," he said to Dalton. "It's bound to be. If a man were to lie down here, he'd find himself a mass of cinders in the morning, and it will take us till daylight and maybe past to get out of the Wilderness."

"If he didn't burn to death he'd choke to death. I never breathed such smoke before."

"That's because it's mixed with ashes and the fumes of burned gunpowder. A villainous compound like this can't be called air. How long is it until dawn?"

"About three hours, I think."

"You remember those old Greek stories about somebody or other going down to Hades, and then having a hard climb out again. We're the modern imitators. If this isn't Hades then I don't know what it is."

"It surely is. Phew, but that hurt!"

"What happened?"

"I brushed my hand against a burning bush. The result was not happy. Don't imitate me."

Dalton's horse leaped to one side, and he had difficulty in keeping the saddle. His hoof had been planted squarely in the midst of a mass of hot twigs.

"The sooner I get out of this Inferno or Hades of a place the happier I'll be!" said Dalton.

"I've never seen the like," said Harry, "but there's one thing about it that makes me glad."

"And what's the saving grace?"

"That it's in Virginia and not in Kentucky, though for the matter of that it couldn't be in Kentucky."

"And why couldn't it be in Kentucky?"

"Because there's no such God-forsaken region in all that state of mine."

"It certainly gets upon one's soul," said Dalton, looking at the gloomy region, so terribly torn by battle.

"But if we keep going we're bound to come out of it some time or other."

"And we're not stopping. A man can't make his bed on a mass of coals, and there'll be no rest for us until we're clear out of the Wilderness."

They marched on a long time, and, as day dawned, hundreds of voices united in a shout of gladness. Behind them were the shades of the Wilderness, that dismal region reeking with slaughter and ruin, and before them lay firm soil, and green fields, in all the flush of a brilliant May morning.

"Well, we did come out of Hades, Harry," said Dalton.

"And it does look like Heaven, but the trouble with our Hades, George, is that the inmates will follow us. Put your glasses to your eyes and look off there."

"Horsemen as sure as we're sitting in our own saddles."

"And Northern horsemen, too. Their uniforms are new enough for me to tell their color. I take it that Grant's vanguard has moved by our right flank and has come out of the Wilderness."

"And our surmises that we were to meet it are right. Spottsylvania Court House is not far away, and maybe we are bound for it."

"And maybe the Yankees are too."

Harry's words were caused by the sound of a distant and scattering fire. In obedience to an order from Anderson, he and Dalton galloped forward, and, from a ridge, saw through their glasses a formidable Union column advancing toward Spottsylvania. As they looked they saw many men fall and they also saw flashes of flame from bushes and fences not far from its flank.

"Our sharpshooters are there," said Harry. And he was right. While the Union force was advancing in the night Stuart had dismounted many of his men and using them as skirmishers had incessantly harassed the march of Grant's vanguard led by Warren.

"Each army has been trying to catch the other napping," said Dalton.

"And neither has succeeded," said Harry.

"Now we make a race for the Spottsylvania ridge," said Dalton. "You see if we don't! I know this country. It's a strong position there, and both generals want it."

Dalton was right. A small Union force had already occupied Spottsylvania, but the heavy Southern division crossing the narrow, but deep, river Po, drove it out and seized the defensive position.

Here they rested, while the masses of the two armies swung toward them, as if preparing for a new battlefield, one that Harry surveyed with great interest. They were in a land of numerous and deep rivers. Here were four spreading out, like the fingers of a human hand, without the thumb, and uniting at the wrist. The fingers were the Mat, the Ta, the Po, and the Nye, and the unit when they united was called the Mattopony.

Lee's army was gathering behind the Po. A large Union force crossed it on his flank, but, recognizing the danger of such a position, withdrew. Lee himself came in time. Hill, overcome by illness and old wounds, was compelled to give up the command of his division, and Early took his place. Longstreet also was still suffering severely from his injuries. Lee had but few of the able and daring generals who had served him in so many fields. But Stuart, the gay and brilliant, the medieval knight who had such a strong place in the commander-in-chief's affections, was there. Nor was his plumage one bit less splendid. The yellow feather stood in his hat. There was no speck or stain on the broad yellow sash and his undimmed courage was contagious.

But Harry with his sensitive and imaginative mind, that leaped ahead, knew their situation to be desperate. His opinion of Grant had proved to be correct. Although he had found in Lee an opponent far superior to any other that he had ever faced, the Union general, undaunted by his repulse and tremendous losses in the Wilderness, was preparing for a new battle, before the fire from the other had grown cold.

He knew too that another strong Union army was operating far to the south of them, in order to cut them off from Richmond, and scouts had brought word that a powerful force of cavalry was about to circle upon their flank. The Confederacy was propped up alone by the Army of Northern Virginia, which having just fought one great battle was about to begin another, and by its dauntless commander.

The Southern admiration for Lee, both as the general and as the man, can never be shaken. How much greater then was the effect that he created in the mind of impressionable youth, looking upon him with youth's own eyes in his moments of supreme danger! He was in very truth to Harry another Hannibal as great, and better. The long list of his triumphs, as youth counted them, was indeed superior to those of the great Carthaginian, and he believed that Lee would repel this new danger.

Nearly all that day the two armies constructed breastworks which stood for many years afterward, but neither made any attempt at serious work, although there was incessant firing by the skirmishers and an occasional cannon shot. Harry, whether carrying an order or not, had ample chance to see, and he noted with increasing alarm the growing masses of the Union army, as they gathered along the Spottsylvania front.

"Can we beat them?" "Can we beat them?" was the question that he continually asked himself. He wondered too where the Winchester regiment and Dick Mason lay, and where the spy, Shepard, was. But Shepard was not likely to remain long in one place. Skill and courage such as his would be used to the utmost in a time like this. Doubtless he was somewhere in the Confederate lines, discovering for Grant the relatively small size of the army that opposed him.

Near dusk and having the time he followed his custom and sought the Invincibles. Both colonels had recovered considerable strength, and, although one of them could not walk, he would be helped upon his horse whenever the battle began, and would ride into the thick of it. But the faces of St. Clair and Happy Tom glowed and their wounds apparently were forgotten.

"Lieutenant Arthur St. Clair and Lieutenant Thomas Langdon are gone forever," said Colonel Talbot. "In their places we have Major Arthur St. Clair and Captain Thomas Langdon. All our majors and captains have been killed, and with our reduced numbers these two will fill their places, as best they can; and that they can do so most worthily we all know. They received their promotions this afternoon."

Harry congratulated them both with the greatest warmth. They were very young for such rank, but in this war the toll of officers was so great that men sometimes became generals when they were but little older.

"Is it to be to-morrow?" asked Colonel Talbot.

"I think it likely that we'll fight again then," said Harry.

"And Grant has not yet had enough. He wants a little more of the same, does he!"

"It would appear so, sir."

"Then I take it without consulting General Lee that he is ready to deal with the Yankees as he dealt with them in the Wilderness."

"I hope so. Good night."

"Good night!" they called to him, and Harry returned to the staff. Taylor, the adjutant general, told him and Dalton to lie down and seek a little sleep. Harry was not at all averse, as he was completely exhausted again after the tremendous excitement of the battle, and the long hours of strain and danger. But his nerves were so much on edge that he could not yet sleep. His eyes were red and smarting from the smoke and burned powder, and he felt as if accumulated smoke and dust encased him like a suit of armor.

"I'd give a hundred dollars for a good long drink, just as long as I liked to make it," he groaned, "and I mean a drink of pure cold water, too."

"Confederate paper or money?" said Dalton.

"I mean real money, but at the same time you oughtn't to make invidious comparisons."

"Then the money's mine, but you can pay me whenever you feel like it, which I suppose will be never. There's a spring in the thick woods just back of your quarters. It flows out from under rocks, at the distance of several yards makes a deep pool, and then the overflow of the pool goes on through the forest to the Po. Come on, Harry! We'll luxuriate and then tell the others."

Harry found that it was a most glorious spring, indeed; clear and cold. He and Dalton drank slowly at first, and then deeply.

"I didn't know I could hold so much," said Dalton.

"Nor I," said Harry.

"Let's take another."

"I'm with you."

"Let's make it two more."

"I still follow you."

"Horace wrote about his old Falernian, and the other wines which he enjoyed, as he and the leading Roman sports sat around the fountain, flirting with the girls," said Dalton, "but I don't believe any wine ever brewed in Latium was the equal of this water."

"I've always had an idea that Horace wasn't as gay as he pretended to be, else he wouldn't have written so much about Chloe and her comrades. I imagine that an old Roman boy would keep pretty quiet about his dancing and singing, and not publish it to the public."

"Well, let him be. He's dead and the Romans are dead, and the Americans are doing their best to kill off one another, but let's forget it for a few minutes. That pool there is about four feet deep, the water is clear and the bottom is firm ground; now do you know what I'm going to do?"

"Yes, and I'm going to do the same. Bet you even that I beat you into the water."

"Taken."

They threw off their clothes rapidly, but the splashes were simultaneous as their bodies struck the water. Although the limits of the pool were narrow they splashed and paddled there for a while, and it was a long time since they had known such a luxury. Then they walked out, dried themselves and spread the good news. All night long the pool was filled with the bathers, following one another in turn.

The water taken internally and externally soothed Harry's nerves. His excitement was gone. A great army with which they were sure to fight on the morrow was not far away, but for the time he was indifferent. The morrow could take care of itself. It was night, and he had permission to go to sleep. Hence he slumbered fifteen minutes later.

He slept almost through the night, and, when he was awakened shortly before dawn, he found that his strength and elasticity had returned. He and Dalton went down to the spring again, drank many times, and then ate breakfast with the older members of the staff, a breakfast that differed very little from that of the common soldiers.

Then a day or two of waiting, and watching, and of confused but terrible fighting ensued. The forests were again set on fire by the bursting shells and they were not able to rescue many of the wounded from the flames. Vast clouds again floated over the whole region, drawing a veil of dusk between the soldiers and the sun. But neither army was willing to attack the other in full force.

Grant commanding all the armies of the East was moving meanwhile. A powerful cavalry division, he heard, had got behind Beauregard, who was to protect Richmond, and was tearing up an important railway line used by the Confederacy. The daring Sheridan with another great division of cavalry had gone around Lee's left and was wrecking another railway, and with it the rations and medical supplies so necessary to the Confederates. Grant, recognizing his antagonist's skill and courage and knowing that to succeed he must destroy the main Southern army, resolved to attack again with his whole force.

The day had been comparatively quiet and the Army of Northern Virginia had devoted nearly the whole time to fortifying with earthworks and breastworks of logs. The young aides, as they rode on their missions, could easily see the Northern lines through their glasses. Harry's heart sank as he observed their extent. The Southern army was sadly reduced in numbers, and Grant could get reinforcement continually.

But such is the saving grace of human nature that even in these moments of suspense, with one terrible battle just over and another about to begin, soldiers of the Blue and Gray would speak to one another in friendly fashion in the bushes or across the Po. It was on the banks of this narrow river that Harry at last saw Shepard once more. He happened to be on foot that time, the slope being too densely wooded for his horse, and Shepard hailed him from the other side.

"Good day, Mr. Kenton. Don't fire! I want to talk," he said, holding up both hands as a sign of peace.

"A curious place for talking," Harry could not keep from saying.

"So it is, but we're not observed here. It was almost inevitable while the armies remained face to face that we should meet in time. I want to tell you that I've met your cousin, Richard Mason, here, and his commanding officer, Colonel Winchester. Oh, I know much more about you and your relationships than you think."

"How is Dick?"

"He has not been hurt, nor has Colonel Winchester. Mr. Mason has received a letter from his home and your home in Pendleton in Kentucky. The outlaws to the eastward are troublesome, but the town is occupied by an efficient Union garrison and is in no danger. His mother and all of his and your old friends, who did not go to the war, are in good health. He thought that in my various capacities as ranger, scout and spy I might meet you, and he asked me, if it so happened, to tell these things to you."

"I thank you," said Harry very earnestly, "and I'm truly sorry, Mr. Shepard, that you and I are on different sides."

"I suppose it's too late for you to come over to the Union and the true cause."

Harry laughed.

"You know, Mr. Shepard, there are no traitors in this war."

"I know it. I was merely jesting."

He slipped into the underbrush and disappeared. Harry confessed to himself once more that he liked Shepard, but he felt more strongly than ever that it had become a personal duel between them, and they would meet yet again in violence.

That night he had little to do. It was a typical May night in Virginia, clear and beautiful with an air that would have been a tonic to the nerves, had it not been for the bitter smoke and odors that yet lingered from the battle of the Wilderness.

Before dawn the scouts brought in a rumor that there was a heavy movement of Federal troops, although they did not know its meaning. It might portend another flank march by Grant, but a mist that had begun to rise after midnight hid much from them. The mist deepened into a fog, which made it harder for the Southern leaders to learn the meaning of the Northern movement.

Just as the dawn was beginning to show a little through the fog, Hancock and Burnside, with many more generals, led a tremendous attack upon the Southern right center. They had come so silently through the thickets that for once the Southern leaders were surprised. The Union veterans, rushing forward in dense columns, stormed and took the breastworks with the bayonet.

Many of the Southern troops, sound asleep, awoke to find themselves in the enemy's hands. Others, having no time to fire them, fought with clubbed rifles.

Harry, dozing, was awakened by the terrific uproar. Even before the dawn had fairly come the battle was raging on a long front. The center of Lee's army was broken, and the Union troops were pouring into the gap. Grant had already taken many guns and thousands of prisoners, and the bulldog of Shiloh and Vicksburg and Chattanooga was hurrying fresh divisions into the combat to extend and insure his victory. Through the forests swelled the deep Northern cry of triumph.

Harry had never before seen the Southern army in such danger, and he looked at General Lee, who had now mounted Traveller. The turmoil and confusion in front of them was frightful and indescribable. The Union troops had occupied an entire Confederate salient, and their generals, feeling that the moment was theirs, led them on, reckless of life, and swept everything before them.

Harry never took his eyes from Lee. The rising sun shot golden beams through the smoke and disclosed him clearly. His face was calm and his voice did not shake as he issued his orders with rapidity and precision. The lion at bay was never more the lion.

A new line of battle was formed, and the fugitives formed up with it. Then the Southern troops, uttering once more the fierce rebel yell, charged directly upon their enemy and under the eye of the great chief whom they almost worshiped.

Now Harry for the first time saw his general show excitement. Lee galloped to the head of one of the Virginia regiments, and ranging his horse beside the colors snatched off his hat and pointed it at the enemy. It was a picture which with all the hero worship of youth he never forgot. It did not even grow dim in his memory -- the great leader on horseback, his hat in his hand, his eyes fiery, his face flushed, his hand pointing the way to victory or death.

It was an occasion, too, when the personal presence of a leader meant everything. Every man knew Lee and tremendous rolling cheers greeted his arrival, cheers that could be heard above the thunder of cannon and rifles. It infused new courage into them and they gathered themselves for the rush upon their victorious foe.

Gordon of Georgia, spurring through the smoke, seized Lee's horse by the bridle. He did not mean to have their commander-in-chief sacrificed in a charge.

"This is no place for you, General Lee!" he cried. "Go to the rear!"

Lee did not yet turn, and Gordon shouted:

"These men are Virginians and Georgians who have never failed. Go back, I entreat you!"

Then Gordon turned to the troops and cried, as he rose on his toes in his stirrups:

"Men, you will not fail now!"

Back came the answering shout:

"No! No!" and the whole mass of troops burst into one thunderous, echoing cry:

"Lee to the rear! Lee to the rear! Lee to the rear!"

Nor would they move until Lee turned and rode back. Then, led by Gordon, they charged straight upon their foe, who met them with an equal valor. All day long the battle of Spottsylvania, equal in fierceness and desperation to that of the Wilderness, swayed to and fro. To Harry as he remembered them they were much alike. Charge and defense, defense and charge. Here they gained a little, and there they lost a little. Now they were stumbling through sanguinary thickets, and then they rushed across little streams that ran red.

The firing was rapid and furious to an extraordinary degree. The air rained shell and bullets. Areas of forest between the two armies were mowed down. More than one large tree was cut through entirely by rifle bullets. Other trees here, as in the Wilderness, caught fire and flamed high.

Midnight put an end to the battle, with neither gaining the victory and both claiming it. Harry had lost another horse, killed under him, and now he walked almost dazed over the terrible field of Spottsylvania, where nearly thirty thousand men had fallen, and nothing had yet been decided.

Yet in Harry's heart the fear of the grim and silent Grant was growing. The Northern general had fought within a few days two battles, each the equal of Waterloo, and Harry felt sure that he was preparing for a third. The combat of the giants was not over, and with an anxious soul he waited the next dawn. They remained some days longer in the Wilderness, or the country adjacent to it, and there was much skirmishing and firing of heavy artillery, but the third great pitched battle did not come quite as soon as Harry expected. Even Grant, appalled by the slaughter, hesitated and began to maneuver again by the flank to get past Lee. Then the fighting between the skirmishers and heavy detached parties became continuous.

During the days that immediately followed Harry was much with Sherburne. The brave colonel was one of Stuart's most trusted officers. Despite the forests and thickets there was much work for the cavalry to do, while the two armies circled and circled, each seeking to get the advantage of the other.

Sheridan, they heard, was trying to curve about with his horsemen and reach Richmond, and Stuart, with his cavalry, including Sherburne's, was sent to intercept him, Harry riding by Sherburne's side. It was near the close of May, but the air was cool and pleasant, a delight to breathe after the awful Wilderness.

Stuart, despite his small numbers, was in his gayest spirits, and when he overtook the enemy at a little place called Yellow Tavern he attacked with all his customary fire and vigor. In the height of the charge, Harry saw him sink suddenly from his horse, shot through the body. He died not long afterward and the greatest and most brilliant horseman of the South passed away to join Jackson and so many who had gone before. Harry was one of the little group who carried the news to Lee, and he saw how deeply the great leader was affected. So many of his brave generals had fallen that he was like the head of a family, bereft.

Nevertheless the lion still at bay was great and terrible to strike. It was barely two weeks after Spottsylvania when Lee took up a strong position at Cold Harbor, and Grant, confident in his numbers and powerful artillery, attacked straightaway at dawn.

Harry was in front during that half-hour, the most terrible ever seen on the American continent, when Northern brigade after brigade charged to certain death. Lee's men, behind their earthworks, swept the field with a fire in which nothing could live. The charging columns fairly melted away before them and when the half-hour was over more than twelve thousand men in blue lay upon the red field.

Grant himself was appalled, and the North, which had begun to anticipate a quick and victorious end of the war, concealed its disappointment as best it could, and prepared for another campaign.

Grant and Lee, facing each other, went into trenches along the lines of Cold Harbor, and the hopes of the young Southern soldiers after the victory there rose anew. But Harry was not too sanguine, although he kept his thoughts to himself.

The officers of the Invincibles had recovered from their wounds, and Colonel Leonidas Talbot and Lieutenant-Colonel Hector St. Hilaire, sitting in a trench, resumed their game of chess.

Colonel Talbot took a pawn, the first man captured by either since early spring.

"That was quite a victory," he said.

"Not important! Not important, Leonidas!"

"And why not, Hector?"

"Because you've left the way to your king easier. I shall promptly move along that road."

"As Grant moved through the Wilderness."

"Don't depreciate Grant, Leonidas. He never stops pounding. We've fought two great battles with him in the Wilderness and a third at Cold Harbor, but he's still out there facing us. Can't you see the Yankees with your glasses, Harry?"

"Yes, sir, quite clearly. They're about to fire a shot from a big gun in a wood. There it goes!"

The deep note of the cannon came to them, passed on, and then rolled back in echoes like a threat.



Appendix: Transcription notes:

The following modifications were applied while transcribing the printed book to etext:

Chapter 1 Page 6, para 1, change "criticise" to "criticize", for consistency Page 20, para 6, fix typo, "calvaryman" Page 21, para 8, change "things" to "thing"

Chapter 2 Page 35, para 2, add missing hyphen in "commander-in-chief"

Chapter 3 Page 48, para 1, change "where-ever" to "wherever" Page 49, para 2, fix typo, period should be comma Page 49, para 2, change "gaints" to "giants", which is my best guess as to what it should be

Chapter 4 Page 74, para 7, add missing period

Chapter 7 Page 124, para 6, fix typo "qouth" Page 132, para 14, "Pleasonton" should be "Pleasanton"

Chapter 10 Page 182, para 5, add missing close-quotes

Chapter 11 Page 208, para 6, add missing close-quotes

Chapter 12 Page 229, para 3, fix typo, "dulplicate"

Chapter 13 Page 245, para 3, change "with" to "was"

Chapter 14 Page 260, para 2, removed a badly-misplaced comma

Chapter 16 Page 301, para 4, moved a badly-misplaced comma

Chapter 2, page 34, para 3 contains the phrase "rest and realization". Probably should be "relaxation", but maybe not, so I left it as is.

The following words were printed with accented vowels or with the "ae" ligature, but these few occurrences hardly warrant an 8-bit version of the text: cooperation fete reentered Plataea Thermopylae

As with all the books in this series, there are many instances where commas seem to be missing or misplaced, but, except as noted above, I refrained from "fixing" these.

<eob>

The Boy Allies Under Two Flags

By

Robert L. Drake



Chapter I

In The Mediterranean

"Boom! Boom!"

Thus spoke the two forward guns on the little scout cruiser H.M.S. Sylph, Lord Hasting, commander.

"A hit!" cried Jack, who, from his position in the pilot house, had watched the progress of the missiles hurled at the foe.

"Good work!" shouted Frank, his excitement so great that he forgot the gunners were unable to hear him.

"Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!"

The Sylph had come about, and now poured a broadside into the enemy.

Then, from the distance, more than a mile across the water, came the sound of many guns. The German cruisers Breslau and Goeben were returning the fire.

Shells, dropping in front, behind and on all sides of the Sylph threw up the water in mighty geysers, as if it were a typhoon that surrounded the little vessel. Shells screamed overhead, but none found its mark.

All this time the vessels were drawing closer and closer together. Now, as the little scout cruiser rose on a huge swell, a single shock shook the vessel and a British shell sped true.

A portion of the Breslau's superstructure toppled; a second later and the faint sound of a crash was carried over the water to the Sylph.

"A hit!" cried Jack again.

A loud British cheer rose above the sound of battle, and the gunners, well pleased with their marksmanship, turned again to their work with renewed vigor.

"Lieutenant Templeton on the bridge!" came the command, and Jack hastened to report to Lord Hastings.

"What do you make of that last shot, Mr. Templeton?" demanded the commander of the Sylph. "Is the enemy seriously crippled, would you say?"

"No sir," replied Jack. "I think not. You may see that the wreckage has already been cleared away, and the enemy is still plugging away at us."

"Mr. Hetherington!" called the commander. The first lieutenant of the little vessel saluted. "Yes, sir."

"I fear the enemy is too strong for us, sir. You will have to bring the Sylph about."

"Very well, sir."

A moment later the head of the little scout cruiser began to swing gradually to the left.

Jack returned to the wheelhouse.

"What on earth are we coming about for?" demanded Frank, as his friend entered.

"Lord Hastings believes the enemy is too strong for us," was the other's reply.

"But that's no reason to run, is it?"

"I don't think so, but it appears that Lord Hastings does. I guess he knows more about it than we do."

"I guess that's so; but I don't like the idea of running."

"Nor I."

At this instant there was a. hail from the lookout:

"Steamer on the port bow, sir!"

"What's her nationality?" bellowed Lord Hastings.

"British, sir," was the reply.

"Can you make her out?"

The lookout was silent for a moment and then called back. "Yes, sir; Cruiser Gloucester, sir!"

"Good!" shouted Lord Hastings. "Lieutenant Hetherington! Bring her about again."

The Sylph came back to her course as if by magic, and once more rushed toward the enemy. Several miles to port, could now be seen the faint outline of the approaching British battle cruiser, sailing swiftly, under full steam, as though she were afraid she would not arrive in time to take part in the battle.

"Full speed ahead!" came the order from the Sylph's commander, and the little craft leaped forward in the very face of her two larger enemies.

A shell from the Goeben, which was nearer the Sylph than her sister ship, crashed into the very mouth of one of the Sylph's 8 inch guns, blowing it to pieces.

Men were hurled to the deck on all sides, maimed and bleeding. Others dropped over dead. An officer hurriedly reported the fact to Lord Hastings.

"We'll get even with her," said His Lordship grimly. "Give her a shot from the forward turret."

In spite of the tragedy enacted before his eyes only a moment before, the British gunner took deliberate aim.

"Boom!"

There was silence, as all watched the effect of this one shot.

"Right below the water line," said Lord Hastings calmly. "A pretty shot, my man."

By this time the Gloucester had come within striking distance, and her heavy guns began to breathe defiance to the Germans. But the Breslau and the Goeben had no mind to engage this new enemy, and quickly turned tail and fled.

Lord Hastings immediately got into communication with the captain of the Gloucester by wireless.

"Pursue the enemy!" was the order that was flashed through the air.

The two British ships sped forward on the trail of the foe. But the latter made off at top speed, and in spite of the shells hurled at them by their pursuers, soon outdistanced the Gloucester. The Sylph, however, continued the chase and was gradually gaining, although, now that the battle was over for the time being, the strain on the little cruiser relaxed. Wounded men were hurriedly patched up by the ship's surgeon and his assistants, and the dead were prepared for burial.

Jack and Frank approached Lord Hastings on the bridge. The latter was talking to his first officer.

"They must be the Breslau and Goeben," he was saying, "though I am unable to account for the manner in which they escaped the blockade at Libau. They were supposed to be tightly bottled up there and I was informed that their escape was impossible."

"Something has evidently gone wrong," suggested Lieutenant Hetherington.

"They probably escaped by, a ruse of some kind," said Jack, joining in the conversation.

And the lad was right, although he did not know it then.

The two German ships, tightly bottled up, even as Lord Hastings had said, in Libau, had escaped the blockading British squadron by the simple maneuver of reversing their lights, putting their bow lights aft and vice versa, and passing through the blockading fleet in the night without so much as being challenged. This is history.

"Well," said Frank, "we succeeded in putting our mark on them, even if we didn't catch them."

"We did that," agreed Lieutenant Hetherington.

Darkness fell, and still the chase continued; but the Sylph was unable to come up with her quarry, and the two German cruisers succeeded in limping off in the night.

"We shall have to give it up," said Lord Hastings, when he at last realized that the Germans had escaped. "Mr. Hetherington, bring the ship back to its former course."

The lieutenant did as ordered.

"Now, boys," said Lord Hastings, "you might as well turn in for the night."

A few minutes later the lads were fast asleep in their own cabin, and while they gain a much needed rest and the Sylph continues to speed on her course, it will be a good time to introduce the two young lads to such readers as have not met them before.



Chapter II

Two Friends

Frank Chadwick was an American lad, some 15 years old. In Europe when the great European war broke out, he succeeded, with his father, in getting over the border into Italy, finally reaching Naples.

Here the lad lost his father, and while searching for him, had gone to the aid of a man apparently near death at the hands of a sailor. After thanking the lad for his timely aid, the man had immediately shanghaied the lad, who, when he recovered consciousness, found himself aboard a little schooner, sailing for he knew not where.

There was a mutiny on the ship and the captain was killed. The mutineers, putting in at a little African village for supplies, attempted to fleece Jack Templeton, an English youth out of his just dues. Jack, a strapping youngster, strong as an ox, though no older than Frank, succeeded in getting aboard the mutineers vessel, and by displaying wonderful strategy and fighting prowess, overcame the mutineers.

The boys became great friends.

After capturing the schooner from the mutineers, a prisoner was found on board, who proved to be a British secret service agent. The boys released him, and then, with Lord Hastings, who had come to Africa in his yacht, succeeded in striking such a blow at the Triple Alliance that Italy refused to throw her support to German arms in spite of the strongest pressure the Kaiser could bring to bear.

So valuable was the service the boys rendered in this matter, that when they expressed their intentions of joining the British navy, Lord Hastings, who had taken an immense liking to them, secured them commissions as midshipmen. Later they were assigned to duty on his yacht, the Sylph, which, in the meantime, had been converted into a scout cruiser.

The lads had already played an important part in the war. Through them, a plot to destroy the whole British fleet had been frustrated and the English had been enabled to deliver a smashing blow to the German fleet at Heligoland.

In Lord Hastings the boys had found an excellent friend. Although apparently but a commander of a small scout cruiser -- unknown to but a very few -- he was one of the most trusted of British secret agents. He was a distant relative of the English monarch and, as the boys had already learned, had more power in naval affairs than his officers and associates surmised. This fact had been proved more than once, when he had given commands to men apparently much higher in rank.

Following the brilliant victory of the British fleet off Heligoland, in which a number of the Kaiser's most powerful sea fighters had been, sent to the bottom, the Sylph had returned to London for repairs. Here Frank and Jack had been personally presented to King George, who had thanked them for their bravery and loyalty and raised them to the rank of Fourth Lieutenant.

Lord Hastings had been ill, but his illness had been of short duration; and so it was not long before the two lads once more found themselves pacing the deck of the Sylph, going they knew not where; nor did they care much, so long as it took them where there was fighting to be done.

It was on the very day that the Sylph lifted anchor for her second cruise, that London heard of the prowess of the German cruiser Emden, a swift raider which later caused so much damage to British shipping as to gain the name "Terror of the Sea." The news received on the day in question told of the sinking of an English liner by this powerful enemy.

When Frank and Jack sought to learn the destination of the Sylph from Lord Hastings, he had put them off with a laugh.

"You'll know soon enough," he said with a wave of his hand.

"Are we likely to see action soon?" asked Jack.

"If we are fortunate," was the reply.

"Well, that's all we wanted to know," said Frank. "Don't worry," replied His Lordship. "You will see all the action you want before this cruise is over, or I am very badly mistaken."

And with this the boys were forced to be content.

For two days they sailed about in the sunny Mediterranean, sighting neither friend nor foe, and then suddenly had encountered the two German cruisers, the Breslau and the Goeben, and the skirmish with these two ships, described at the opening of this story, ensued.

But now, as the enemy had succeeded in making off in the darkness, and as Lord Hastings had ordered that the original course of the Sylph be resumed, the little vessel was again -- as Jack said when they had started on their journey -- "sailing under sealed orders."

The two lads were about bright and early the morning following the encounter with the German cruisers; and as they stood looking out over the sea, Lord Hastings approached them.

"More news of the Emden," he said, as he came up.

"Another British merchant vessel sunk?" asked Jack.

"Worse," replied Lord Hastings. "A cruiser this time!"

"A cruiser!" exclaimed Jack in surprise. "I always thought that any cruiser of ours was more than a match for a German."

"Well, you are wrong," was Lord Hastings' reply. "From what I have heard by wireless, our vessel attacked, but was sent to the bottom by the Emden before she could do much damage to the German."

"What was the name of the British ship?" asked Frank.

"I haven't heard," replied Lord Hastings; "but the action was fought in the Indian Ocean."

"It seems to me," said Jack vehemently, "that it is about time this German terror of the sea was sent to the bottom."

"So it is," declared Lord Hastings; "and mark my words, she will be when one of our big ships comes up with her."

"May it be soon!" ejaculated Frank.

But it was not to be soon. For almost another month the German terror prowled about the seas, causing great havoc to British and French merchantmen.

For three days the Sylph continued on her way without interruption, and then turned about suddenly and headed for home. Under full speed she ran for days, until the boys knew they were once more in the North Sea, where they had so recently participated in their one great battle.

"Will you tell us why we have come back so suddenly, sir?" asked Frank of Lord Hastings.

"Why," said His Lordship, "the Germans seem to be growing extremely active in the North Sea. Only three days ago, a German submarine, after apparently running the blockade, sank the cruiser Hawke off the coast of Scotland.

"What?" cried both boys in one voice.

"Exactly," said Lord Hastings grimly, "and it is for the purpose of attempting to discover some of these under-the-sea fighters, or other German warships, that we have come back. The whole North Sea is being patrolled, and we are bound to come upon some of the Germans eventually."

"Well, I hope we don't have to wait long," said Frank.

"And so do I," agreed Jack. "I hope that every German ship afloat will be swept from the seas."

The Sylph did not go within sight of the English coast, but for two days cruised back and forth, east, west, north and south, without the sight of the enemy.

This inaction soon began to pall upon the two lads, to whom a fight was as the breath of life itself.

"I wish we had continued on our way, wherever we were going, and not have come back here," said Jack to Frank one afternoon.

"This is about the limit," agreed Frank. "I believe we would have done better to have joined the army. At least we would have seen some fighting."

But the boys desire for action was to be soon fulfilled. The very next day some smoke and dots appeared on the horizon. Quickly they grew until they could be identified as enemy ships. The captain of the Sylph set out a wireless message requesting help from any units in the area:

"Have sighted enemy; four vessels: approaching rapidly," and the exact position of the Sylph.

In a moment came the answer:

"Head north, slowly. We will intercept the enemy when actively engaged. Remember the Hawke!"

Lord Hastings sent another message:

"How many are you?"

"Five," came back the answer. "Undaunted accompanied by torpedo destroyers Lance, Lenox, Legion and Loyal, as convoys."

"Good!" muttered Lord Hastings; then turned to Lieutenant Hetherington:

"You may clear for action, sir!"

The gallant British sailors jumped quickly to their posts, the light of battle in their eager eyes. At Lord Hastings' command, the Sylph was brought about, and soon had her stern toward the enemy.

There came a wireless message from the German commander.

"Surrender!" it said.

"We will die first!" was the answer sent by Lord Hastings.

Steaming slowly, the Sylph apparently was trying to escape; at least so figured the German commander. To him it appeared that he could overtake the little vessel with ease, and his squadron steamed swiftly after it.

Gradually the Germans gained upon the little vessel, finally coming close enough to send a shot after it. They were not yet within range, however, and the shell fell short.

"We'll have to let him get a little closer," muttered Lord Hastings, "or he may draw off. We'll have to face the danger of a shell striking us."

A second shell from the Germans kicked up the water alongside the Sylph.

"He'll have the range in a minute, sir," said Lieutenant Hetherington.

"Bear off a little to the south," was the commander's reply.

For almost an hour the Sylph outmaneuvered the German flotilla, and avoided being struck. All this time Lord Hastings was in constant wireless communication with the Undaunted, which was even now coming to give battle to the Germans.

At last the lookout made them out.

"Battle fleet -- " he began, but Lord Hastings keen eye had already perceived what the lookout would have told him.

Well to the rear, perhaps three mile's north, came the British cruiser Undaunted and her four convoys. They were steaming rapidly and in such a direction that they would intercept the Germans should the latter attempt to return in the direction from which they had come.

To escape, the Germans must come directly toward the Sylph. Those on board the Sylph noticed a sudden slackening in the speed of the German squadron.

"They have sighted our fleet, sir," said Jack, who had stood impatiently on the bridge while all this maneuvering was going on.

"So they have," said Lord Hastings, and then turned to Lieutenant Hetherington. "You may bring the Sylph about sir," he said quietly.

Swiftly the little scout cruiser turned her face directly toward the enemy, who even now had turned to escape toward the south, at the same time heading so they would pass the Sylph at the distance of perhaps a mile.

"Full speed ahead!" came the command on the Sylph.

The little vessel darted forward at an angle that would cut off the Germans in the flight. It was a desperate venture, and none, perhaps, realized it more than did Lord Hastings; but he was not the man to see the prey escape thus easily if he could help it.

Rapidly now the Sylph drew closer to the German torpedo destroyers. The gunners were at their posts, the range finder already had gauged the distance, medical supplies for the wounded were ready for instant use. In fact, the Sylph was ready to give battle, regardless of the number of her enemies.

There was a loud crash as the first salvo burst from the Germans, but the Sylph was untouched. Still the British ship drew nearer without firing. Then Lord Hastings gave the command: "Mr. Hetherington, you may fire at will!"

The Sylph seemed to leap into the air at the shock of the first fire. One shell crashed into the side of one of the German destroyers, and a cheer went up from the British. Then came several broadsides from the Germans, who had stopped now to dispose of this brave little vessel, before continuing their flight.

Suddenly the Sylph staggered, and her fire became less frequent. A German shell had struck her forward turret with terrible force, putting her biggest gun out of commission. But the Sylph recovered, and continued to fight on.

Jack and Frank darted hither and thither about the vessel, carrying orders from Lord Hastings and Lieutenant Hetherington, now and then taking a man's place at one of the guns as he toppled over until another relieved them.

Two distinct shocks told that the Sylph had been struck twice more. Then Lord Hastings gave the command for his vessel to withdraw.

In attacking the enemy as he had, in the face of terrible odds, he had accomplished his purpose. He had halted the Germans in their attempt to escape, and had given the Undaunted and the British torpedo boats time to come up.

Before the Germans could again get under full headway, there came the heavy boom of a great gun. The Undaunted was within range, and had opened fire.

Lord Hastings summoned Jack to him.

"What damage do you find to the Sylph?" he asked.

"Forward gun out of commission, sir," replied the lad. "Ten men killed, and many wounded."

Frank also had had news to report.

The British flotilla and the German squadron were now at it hammer and tongs. Seeing that all hope of escape had been cut off, the German commander turned to face his new foes, determined to give battle to the last.

Steadily the British fleet bore down on the enemy, the great guns of the Undaunted belching fire as they drew near.

Now Lord Hastings ordered the Sylph -- still the closest of the British vessels to the Germans -- again into the fray, and in spite of its crippled condition, the little cruiser once more bore down upon the Germans.

Suddenly the nearest German destroyer launched a torpedo at the Sylph. By a quick and skillful maneuver, Lord Hastings avoided this projectile, and a broadside was poured into the German.

Others of the German fleet were too closely pressed by the Undaunted and her convoys to aid the one engaged with the Sylph, and so the two were left to fight it out alone.

Closer and closer together the two vessels came, until they were perhaps only a hundred yards apart. It was evident to those on the Sylph that a shell must have badly crippled the German, for otherwise a torpedo would have put an end to the little British craft.

Unable to check the advance of the Sylph, the German destroyer turned suddenly and made off.

"After her!" shouted Lord Hastings, and the Sylph leaped ahead at the word of command.



Chapter III

Saved From The Sea

The three other German vessels now singled out the Undaunted and concentrated their fire upon her, thinking first to dispose of the more formidable vessel and then to turn their attention to the lighter craft.

A fierce duel ensued. Suddenly there was a terrific explosion. One of the German torpedo destroyers seemed to leap into the air, only to fall back a moment later and disappear beneath the sea with a loud hiss.

A heavy shell struck the Undaunted and carried away part of her superstructure. The two remaining torpedo boats of the enemy, except the one being pursued by the Sylph, suddenly turned and dashed directly at the Undaunted, evidently intending to ram her.

Captain Fox avoided a collision with promptness and skill, and the torpedo boats sped by without touching her. Now the Loyal launched a torpedo at the first German craft. It sped swift and true, and a moment later there was but one German left in condition to continue the fight. Thinking to avoid unnecessary loss of life, Captain Fox called upon the German to surrender. The kindly offer was rewarded with a defiant reply, and the German made another swift attack upon the Undaunted.

For a moment it seemed that a collision was unavoidable, but Captain Fox managed to get his ship out of the way just as the enemy plowed by. It was close work and required great coolness.

Meantime the Sylph was close on the heels of the other German vessel. Salvo after salvo the British poured into the apparently helpless German torpedo boat, which, however, continued its flight rather than surrender.

Frank and Jack, both happening to be on the bridge at the same moment, stood for a brief second to watch the effect of the Sylph's fire. The damage to the German had been terrific. The vessel listed badly, and seemed in imminent danger of sinking.

"By Jove!" ejaculated Jack, and would have said more but for a sudden interruption.

There was a terrific explosion on the German vessel, and as if by magic, it disappeared beneath the sea. The Sylph's battle was over.

"Get out the boats, men!" came Lord Hastings command. "It may be that we can save some of them."

Jack and Frank leaped quickly into the same boat, and a moment later were rushing to the spot where the German torpedo destroyer had disappeared. For perhaps five minutes they cruised about, unable to find a single survivor, and then both were startled by the sound of something whistling overhead.

Looking up they beheld the cause of this trouble. The last German destroyer had come almost upon them, and the British gunners, evidently not seeing the little boat, were continuing their fire at the enemy.

The lads were in imminent danger of being struck by a British shell. The German launched a torpedo, and it went skimming right by the little boat in which the boys sat.

"Quick!" cried Jack. "We must get out of here or one of those things will hit us."

The men bent to their oars; but they were not quick enough. Struck by some missile, the boat suddenly sank beneath them, and the boys found themselves in the water, swimming.

And still they were between the two fighting ships.

Looking over his shoulder, Jack could make out the Sylph, and calling to Frank to follow him, he struck out in that direction.

They swain rapidly, but seemed to make little progress. Lord Hastings, standing on the bridge of the Sylph, discovered the two forms in the water. A second boat was hastily launched, and put off toward them.

When it was within a few yards of them a fragment of a shell struck it and it also disappeared. It went to the bottom with all on board, nor did any of its ill-fated victims come to the surface again.

The two lads, now clinging to pieces of wreckage, continued at the mercy of the sea, and also in constant danger of being struck by an exploding shell, while they swam slowly toward the Sylph.

In one final despairing, attempt to sink the Undaunted, the last German destroyer launched another torpedo. By a wonderful maneuver the British cruiser again avoided the projectile, which sped on through the water.

Swimming, the boys could plainly follow its flight. As the Undaunted swung out of the way to avoid it they could see that the missile had a clear path to the Sylph.

With a gasp the boys saw the torpedo speed toward the little scout cruiser. Lord Hastings had not seen the projectile launched -- because a view of the German ship had been obstructed until the Undaunted swung out of the way -- and no effort was made to avoid it.

The torpedo crashed into the Sylph on the water line, and the explosion which followed must have torn through all the various compartments to the engine room, for there was a second loud explosion, steam leaped up on all sides of the Sylph, and when it had cleared away, there was no Sylph to be seen.

The little scout cruiser had disappeared; vanished, had been destroyed.

Of Lord Hastings and the other officers and men, the lads could see nothing.

For a moment the boys were unable to speak, so astounded were they at the suddenness of this terrible disaster.

"Great Scott!" gasped Frank at last. "Do you realize what has happened?"

Jack was more calm.

"Perfectly," he replied faintly, with a sob in his voice. "The Sylph has gone, and with her Lord Hastings and all on board -- all our friends, the only ones we have in the world."

The two boys unconsciously swam closer together.

"The fortunes of war," said Jack, more quietly now. "It is a terrible thing."

Further conversation was interrupted by the sound of another terrific explosion. Startled, the boys turned in the water just in time to see the last German destroyer disappear beneath the sea.

"Good!" exclaimed Jack, in fierce joy. "I am glad of that."

Frank also gritted his teeth, and muttered fervent congratulations to the British gunners.

And now the British ships proceeded on their course. None had been seriously damaged. They turned their backs upon the scene of the engagement and made off in the direction from which they had come.

The boys shouted loud and long for assistance; but their cries were not heard aboard the British ships of war, which, gradually gathering more headway, steamed off to the south. Not until they were almost out of sight did the lads cease their shouting, and resign themselves to their fate.

In despair, they turned to each other for comfort. Jack was first to speak.

"Well, Frank," he said quietly. "We shall soon join Lord Hastings and our other good friends in a place where there is no war and no losing of friends."

"Isn't there something we can do?" asked Frank, trembling with cold.

"I am afraid not."

There was a sudden stirring of the water beneath them. Jack cried out suddenly:

"What's that?"

Frank had regained his coolness now.

"Probably a shark come to finish us up quickly," he replied calmly.

Both lads, with a last effort, swam desperately from the place.

But suddenly the waters of the North Sea parted, and a long, cigar-shaped object came to the top and rested lightly on the water.

"What is it?" asked Jack again in no little alarm

Before Frank could reply, a man suddenly appeared on the top of the object, apparently from nowhere, and glanced about. He espied them, and as suddenly disappeared. He reappeared almost in an instant, however, followed by another.

And now both lads discovered what the object was, an object that had arrived just in time to save them from a watery grave. They could see that the two men wore the uniform of the German navy.

The long, cigar-shaped object was a German submarine.



Chapter IV

Aboard The X-9

There was a hoarse command from aboard the submarine, and a moment later a small boat floated alongside the two German officers who clambered in. Frank and Jack swam toward them as rapidly as their exhausted condition would permit.

"What are you two lads doing here in the middle of the North Sea?" asked one of the officers in great surprise, after the boys had been pulled aboard the small boat.

"We're here because our ship was sunk by one of your blamed torpedo boats," replied Jack, with some heat.

"Only one sunk?" inquired the officer in excellent English.

"Just one; it seems to me that is enough."

"Well, I agree that it is better than none," said the German officer. "We'll sink them one at a time. How many of our ships engaged you?"

"Four," replied Jack briefly, now beginning to smile to himself, for he saw the German did not know what had happened.

"Which way did they go?" demanded the German.

"Straight to the bottom," replied Jack, with a note of thankfulness in his voice.

"What!" exclaimed the officer, starting to his feet.

"To the bottom," Jack repeated.

"Impossible!" cried the officer. "One British ship couldn't sink four German torpedo destroyers."

"I didn't say there was only one," said Jack. "We some assistance."

"You must have had," said the German officer heatedly. "How many? A dozen?"

"There were two or three," said Jack briefly,

He had no mind to tell the German officer the size of the British squadron.

The German officer was silent for several minutes and then he said: "Why didn't you tell me this in the first place?"

"You didn't ask me," replied Jack, with a tantalizing laugh.

The German brought his right fist into the palm of his left hand with a resounding smack.

"You English will pay dearly for every German ship stink," he exclaimed.

"Maybe so," replied Jack, dryly, "but it won't be a German fleet that makes us pay."

"Enough of this!" broke in the second German officer. "Lieutenant Stein, you forget yourself, sir. And as for you, sir," turning to Jack, "you show no better taste."

"I beg your Pardon," said Jack. "I wouldn't have said anything if he hadn't egged me on."

Lieutenant Stein was equally repentant.

"I apologize," he said quietly to Jack. "I should not have spoken as I did."

"Say no more about it," said Jack. "I was just as much to blame."

Frank now broke into the conversation.

"What vessel is this?" he asked, pointing to the low-lying bulk of the submarine, against which the small boat now scraped.

"German submarine X-9," replied Lieutenant Stein, "where, until we put into port again, you will be our prisoners."

The four now clambered to the top of the submarine. Lieutenant Stein led the way to the entrance through the combined bridge and conning tower, and all went below. At the foot of the short flight of steps stood a man in captain's uniform.

"The sole survivors of a British cruiser, sir," said Lieutenant Stein to the captain, indicating the two lads. "I have not learned their names nor rank."

The two lads hastened to introduce themselves.

"I am Captain von Cromp, commander of this vessel," said the captain gruffly. "You are my prisoners until I put into port and can turn you over to the proper authorities."

Jack and Frank bowed in recognition of their fate. The captain turned to Lieutenant Stein.

"You will see that the prisoners are well cared for," he said. "They are in your custody."

The lads glanced curiously about as they were led along toward the lieutenant's cabin. It was the first time either had been inside a submarine vessel, and both felt a trifle squeamish. The boat was upon the surface of the sea now, however, and a dim light penetrated below.

The lieutenant's cabin, well forward, was fitted up luxuriously. There were several bunks in the little room, and the lieutenant motioned to them.

"You will sleep there," he said quietly. "Make yourselves perfectly at home. I guess there is no danger of your attempting to escape. However, you must remain below and not ascend to the bridge under any circumstances."

He bowed, and left them.

"I don't know as I am particularly fond of this kind of travel," Frank confided to Jack. "It's all right as long as we remain on the surface, but I'll bet it would feel queer to be moving along under the water."

"Right you are," replied Jack. "However, we are here and we shall have to make the best of a bad situation. Then, too, perhaps we can learn something that may prove of use to us later on."

The lads dined that night at the officers' mess and became quite well acquainted with all of them. They found Captain von Cromp not half so gruff as he had been when they first came aboard. They were questioned about the service they had seen, and their story greatly surprised all the officers.

Upon Lieutenant Stein's request, the commander granted the lads permission to look over the vessel.

The lieutenant showed them how the vessel was submerged, by allowing one of the tanks to fill with water; how it rose again by forcing the water from the compartment by means of compressed air; how the air was purified when a lengthy submersion was necessary, and how the vessel was handled in times of action.

He showed them the periscope, and allowed them to peer through, although there was no need to use this, as the vessel was above water.

"When the submarine is submerged," explained Lieutenant Stein, "the periscope is the eye of the vessel. Peering over the waves, it reflects what it sees into the watching human eye in the conning tower. Destroy it, and the submarine is a blind thing, plunging to destruction."

"Then the periscope is the one weak spot in a submarine?" asked Frank.

"Exactly," was the reply. "Of course, if it were destroyed, the vessel might rise immediately to the surface and so gain its bearings. But in the midst of battle it would probably mean certain destruction; for when it rose the submarine would naturally be so close to the enemy that a single big shell would put it out of business."

The boys looked long at this strange mechanical eye. Shaped like a small pipe, it ran up from the conning tower and protruded above the vessel. A large lens at the top turned off as does an elbow in a stove pipe. This portion, when necessary, moved in all directions. When raised to its maximum height everything within a radius of ten miles is reflected in it.

"The shaft can be lowered to within a few inches of the top of the water," the lieutenant explained, "thus guarding against the danger of being hit. The officer in the conning tower peers into the binoculars and sees just what the periscope sees."

"Will you explain just how it works?" asked Jack.        I

"Certainly. The periscope consists, as you may see, of a slender tubular shaft extending up through the conning tower of the submarine. Each submarine is equipped with a pair -- thus if one is shot away the other can be put in immediate use. At the upper end of the shaft is a mirror lens. Upon this mirror lens is reflected the surrounding surface of the ocean. The image reflected there is carried down the tube to other lenses and then conveyed to enlarging binoculars. Now do you understand?"

"Perfectly," replied Jack; "and now as to the manner in which a submarine fights. It is by torpedoes, as I understand it."

"Exactly," replied the lieutenant, "and the torpedo is the most deadly, effective and, it may be also said, intelligent of modern warfare. One torpedo, striking the right kind of a blow, can destroy a battleship. The submarine has no other effective, weapon than the torpedo, which is delivered from a small tube. There is this advantage in favor of the battleship, however: the submarine is a slow craft. It is slower than the slowest battleship when it proceeds under water. When it gets to the surface its speed is doubled, but then it is an easy target for the guns of the threatened battleship and also for the swift torpedo boats and torpedo destroyers which are always thrown out as escorts when a submarine attack is anticipated. Some submarines are equipped with light rapid-firing guns, but these are of no more use in attacking on-water boats than would be a popgun. Do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly," said Jack.

"It is indeed interesting," said Frank. "Can you tell us more?"

The lieutenant continued: "Beyond these factors -- the superior speed, the protection of torpedo boats and the weakness of the periscope -- there has been no protection yet devised against the attack of a submarine."

"But the torpedo nets -- ?" interrupted Frank.

"There is of course," the lieutenant went on, "a crudely defensive measure called the torpedo net. These are meshes of strong steel which are dropped down from the side of the warship and are supposed to catch the torpedo before it hits the side of the ship."

"Well, don't they?" asked Frank.

"In theory," said the lieutenant, "the torpedo explodes within the net and the force of its attack is more or less diminished. As a matter of fact, however, torpedo nets are not dependable. Why, most of our submarines are equipped with a formidable device for cutting these nets. This device, in one form, resembles an enormous pair of sheers which cut through the nets like paper. In another form they are equipped with powerful tearing arms which drag the net away and expose the sides of the battleship to the deadly messenger from the torpedo tube. Am I tiring you?"

"I should say not," replied both lads in one breath, and Frank added: "I don't just understand how a submarine sinks and rises."

"It's very simple," said the lieutenant, "and at the same time I'll tell you something else. The submarine is unaffected by tempests, and for this reason also is more deadly than a battleship. The submarine can dive down into the depths where there is no movement of the waves, and it can remain under water for fourteen hours continuously. This is accomplished by tanks which can be filled with water and, overcoming what is known as the 'margin of buoyancy,' submerge the vessel. The air is replenished by special purifying devices and by tanks of oxygen. When the vessel wants to rise, it simply pumps out the water from the tanks."

"It certainly is a wonderful invention," said Frank, when the lieutenant had concluded his explanation.

"Indeed it is," agreed Jack.

"You should be aboard when we are in action," smiled the lieutenant. "I am sure you would be greatly interested."

"I don't doubt it," said Jack, "although from what you have told us regarding the deadliness of submarines, I believe that I should rather witness action on a British submarine."

"Nevertheless," said the lieutenant, "you are likely to see action aboard the X-9, for I do not believe Captain Von Cromp will return to port until he has at least tried the effect of his torpedoes, on a ship or so of your countrymen."

"May he go to defeat if he tries it!" said Jack fervently.

"In which case," said the lieutenant with good natured tolerance, "you would undoubtedly go with us."

"Even so," replied Jack, "I still could not wish to see you get away."

The lieutenant glanced at him admiringly.

"I believe you mean it," he said. "You are a brave lad. But come, we had all better turn in now."

"I guess you are right," said Frank; "and thanks for the trouble you have taken to explain all this to us."

"It was a pleasure, I am sure," was the lieutenant's reply, and they all made their way to the officer's cabin, where they prepared to retire for the night.



Chapter V

Under The Sea

But there was to be no sleep for any aboard the German submarine X-9 that night. As the boys were just about to tumble into their bunks, there was the sound of a sudden commotion on the vessel.

Lieutenant Stein sprang to his feet, hastily donned what few clothes he had removed, and dashed from the cabin. With all possible haste, the boys followed suit.

Men were rushing to and fro and no one heeded the boys' presence, although they were rudely thrust aside by hurrying members of the crew several times.

"Wonder what's up?" said Jack.

"Don't know," replied Frank, "unless they have sighted one of our ships."

"By Jove! Let us hope not," breathed Jack.

But this was indeed the cause of the excitement aboard the submarine. A British battleship had been sighted in the distance, and Captain Von Cromp was preparing to attack the unsuspecting vessel, which had failed to sight her enemy, although the latter was fully exposed to view.

Frank and Jack approached the foot of the periscope, where they stood awaiting developments.

Outside a sudden storm swept the water of the North Sea in angry waves. The water lifted up the little vessel with the regular motion of a high-running sea. All was pitch dark.

The fact that men were hurrying about on deck, was only shown by the somber figures who now and then passed in front of a single lantern. From out the engine room, already under water, arose the pound of heavy pounding and the weird crackling of the engines, as they were tried out.

Jack glanced at his watch. It was 10:30. Suddenly there came a shrill whistle from the little bridge of the submarine, standing high above the vessel, and covered with heavy canvass. The officer in command, Captain Von Cromp himself, dressed hi heavy oilskins, raised a hand, the signal to go ahead.

A short, sharp signal to the engine room, a loud whirr of the motor, and the X-9 was speeding ahead. On both sides of the ship long waves formed, shimmering with light foam in the blackness of the sea. The X-9 moved westerly -- toward the still unsuspecting battleship.

The heavens were covered with clouds. Not a star was visible. It was impossible to see more than a few feet away from the strange craft. Captain Von Cromp, with his experienced eye, tried in vain to penetrate through this wall of solid blackness. The wind kicked up the sea and the bridge was entirely flooded with water. There was hot a sound to be heard, save the heavy droning of the motor and the swish of the water passing along the sides.

Suddenly, in the near distance, loomed up a great gray bulk, swinging high above the submarine upon the water. It was the British battleship.

And now submarine X-9 had been discovered. A heavy boom rang out, but the little craft was not damaged.

Another signal came to the ears of the two boys. Men rushed upon deck and soon the submarine was prepared for action. The flagpole was taken down. Part of the bridge was folded together and securely fastened. The periscope was fixed at its proper height. Then the entrance through the combined bridge and conning tower was hermetically sealed. A moment more and the tanks were opened, telling the lads that the submarine was about to submerge. The gasoline motors stopped their endless song. From now on electricity would drive the vessel forward.

Near Frank and Jack, at the periscope, stood Lieutenant Stein, looking at the British ship. The sailors took their stations near the torpedoes. The interior of the boat was now lighted with two small electric bulbs. They made the darkness visible, but gave no light outside. Everywhere was the stale smell of oil. The boys found it impossible to speak to each other because of the noise of the engine and the water. The heat was oppressive.

From time to time the officer in command of the three torpedoes looked at his watch or at the compass, both of which he carried around his wrist. Intently the men all watched the signboard on the wall in front of them. The storm without made itself felt even in the depth. Every motion of the water caused the submarine to rock up and down and up and down again.

Jack found himself thinking of the advantage of the man on board a warship. He, at least, could go down with a last look at the world about him. Below, nothing could be seen, nothing could be heard. If the submarine went down, all would suffocate in the darkness beneath the water.

It was plain to Jack that Frank, as well as all the sailors and officers, was thinking along similar lines. The expression on all faces was plain proof of it.

Suddenly the sailors sprang forward, forgetting in an instant heat, bad air and discomfort. Following the gaze of the sailors, the lads turned their eyes to the signboard. There, as if by magic, had sprung up the word:

"Attention!"

The officer in command of the torpedoes had his hand on the lever which would release the first deadly projectile already in the tube. The sailors made ready to launch the second as soon as the first was gone.

Several seconds passed. Frank and Jack stood in deathlike stillness. Both realized the tragedy that was about to be enacted, and both were aware of their powerlessness to avert it.

Into the minds of both flashed a thought of springing upon their captors, but each, after a moment's reflection, realized the futility of such an action. It would merely delay the firing of the first torpedo.

And so they stood while the seconds passed, the heart of each in his throat. Suddenly the first sign on the board disappeared. A moment later and a second command appeared. Frank and Jack read it simultaneously, and both started forward with a cry.

The word that now stared them in the face, in red, glowing letters, was:

"Fire!"

With a single jerk, the officer released the first torpedo, even as both lads, unable to endure the suspense and inaction any longer, leaped upon him. There was a short, metallic click, the noise of water rushing into the empty tube, and it was over. The first torpedo had sped on its errand of destruction and death.

The German officer turned just in time to grapple with Jack, who was now upon him.

"Seize them, men!" he cried, and struck out sharply at the lad. But Jack was too quick for him, and his right fist went crashing into the German's face. Frank was with him now, and the two turned to face the onrushing sailors.

Both struck out rapidly, but in spite of their resistance, they were soon overpowered by the numerical superiority of their foes, and thrown to the floor.

There, realizing the uselessness of further struggling, they gave up and lay still.

The German officer, having struggled to his feet in the meantime, now approached and stood over them. Perceiving they were no longer offering resistance, he motioned the sailors to let them up.

The lads arose and faced the officer.

"I realize your position better than you are probably aware," he said, speaking coldly, "and for that reason I shall overlook your attack upon me. I would have done as you did. I could not stand by and see a German ship sent to the bottom without raising a hand to prevent it. Go to your cabin, sirs." The boys bowed, and obeyed.

But while the boys were scuffling with the German officer and some of the sailors, others had pushed a second torpedo into the tube. And a sailor shouted, making himself heard by dint of a very powerful voice: "Did we hit her?"

Instinctively all kept count -- one hundred meters, two hundred meters, three hundred, four hundred. Under the water no sound penetrated. Waiting was all that could be done. For a few moments nothing happened.

Then, suddenly, every man on the boat, Jack and Frank in the cabin, the captain, officers and all, were almost thrown from their feet by a terrific jerk of the submarine. Another jerk, and still another.

Then the submarine rolled as before -- evenly. A moment and the regular purring of the engines was heard again. The submarine moved rapidly eastward.

She was on her way back home.

And an English battleship was at the bottom of the sea.



Chapter VI

The Avengers


Frank picked himself up from the chair into which he had fallen because of the sudden lurching of the vessel.

"What was that?" he asked in alarm. "Have we been, hit?"

"I fear there is no such luck," replied Jack. "What, I am sure, is the answer to the German torpedo."

"What do you mean?"

"The lurching of this vessel was caused by the explosion of the torpedo when it struck the British battleship."

"But wouldn't we have heard the explosion?"

"No; there is no sound under water."

There were tears in Frank's eyes, and he was ashamed of them, as he said:

"Think of all the poor fellows aboard! Do you suppose any of them will be saved?"

"I am afraid not," replied Jack sadly. "And to think that we had to stand by unable even to warn them!"

"It is terrible!" said Frank, sinking into a chair.

For many minutes the lads were silent, each offering up a silent prayer for the brave men who had gone to death for their country.

The silence was at length broken by the entrance of Lieutenant Stein. He noticed the boys' sadness, and spoke softly to them.

"It is the fortune of war," he said quietly. "Remember, there probably will be many German lives snuffed out just as easily. Come, brace up!"

The lads brushed the tears from their eyes and rose to their feet.

"I shall speak of it no more," said Jack, huskily.

"Nor I," said Frank.

"Good!" said the lieutenant. "Now you had better turn in and get some sleep. You must be tired out."

"Sleep!" ejaculated Jack. "I couldn't sleep now."

"No, I suppose you couldn't," replied the lieutenant thoughtfully. He was silent for some moments. "I'll tell you what I'll do," he said finally, "we have come to the surface again I'll ask Captain Von Cromp to allow you to go upon the bridge, if you wish. He realizes your feelings as well as I do, in spite of his apparent gruffness. The cool air will do you good."

"If you will be so kind, I am sure we shall appreciate it," said Frank.

The lieutenant left the cabin. Frank, espying something at one end of the room, walked over to investigate. He came back to Jack, holding something gingerly in his hand.

"By Jove!" he exclaimed.

"What is it?" asked Jack.

Frank held the object up before his friend's eyes.

"Look at it!" he exclaimed. "Do you know what it is?"

Jack took a long look and then stepped suddenly back, exclaiming:

"Put it down, quick! Do you want to blow us all up?"

"What do you suppose it's doing here?" asked Frank, still holding the object out at arm's length.

"How should I know? But I suppose all submarines carry them. I have heard that many have been planted by submarines."

For the object that Frank held in his hand was a small melinite floating mine!

"I suppose this would blow any ship to kingdom come, wouldn't it?" asked the lad.

"I should say it would; so you had better put it down unless you want to send us all there."

Frank leaned close to his chum, and whispered rapidly:

"See if you can't find a gun around before the lieutenant comes back. Quick! A revolver, rifle, or anything!"

"What for?" demanded Jack, in surprise.

"Never mind what, for. Look quick, while I hide this thing under my coat."

Without knowing what Frank had on his mind, Jack did as requested. After rummaging through the lieutenant's desk, he at last straightened up with a heavy revolver in his hand.

"Will this do?" he asked.

"All right," replied Frank, "but a rifle would be safer."

"Safer? What do you mean?"

"Sh-h-h," whispered Frank.

Footsteps were heard on the outside. Jack hastily shoved the revolver into his pocket. Frank by this time had concealed his explosive under his coat. It bulged out a bit, but the lad folded his arms in front of him, and the bulge was not noticeable.

Lieutenant Stein entered the room.

"It's all right," he said. "Captain Von Cromp has given his consent. If you wish, I will conduct you up."

"Thanks," said Jack, and the two lads followed the officer. Captain Von Cromp was on the bridge when the two boys emerged from below, and he walked over to them.

"I regret," he said, "that you should have had to witness what you have; but it is the fortune of war, you know."

"I have heard that before," said Frank dryly.

"Tell me, would you have blamed us had we put up a more stubborn fight below a while ago?"'

"No," was the reply. "I could blame you for nothing you did to an enemy in time of war and especially under such a stress of excitement."

Lieutenant Stein bade the boys good-night and went below. After some further talk, Captain Von Cromp followed him, and the boys were left alone on the submarine, save for the single man on look out.

Frank walked up to the latter and engaged him lit conversation. A few moments later he turned Away, saying to the sailor that he and his friend "would take a turn or two about before going below."

Walking swiftly up to Jack, Frank said in a low voice:

"See if you can't find that small boat they used to pick us up."

"What -- ?" began Jack, but Frank interrupted him.

"Never mind the reason," he said. "Help me find it, that's all. We'll have to hurry. Where do you suppose they put it?"

A few moments later they came upon the little craft, now above water, placed where the sea could not reach it when the submarine was submerged. Luckily it was out of view of the German on the bridge, and the two lads succeeded in unloosening it and getting it overboard without being seen.

Then Frank walked quickly back to the spot where the periscope protruded from below. Opening his coat he took the explosive out and, drawing a handkerchief from his pocket, tied it to the diminutive mine and hung the latter on the tube.

"Now for this German," he said to himself. "It wouldn't do for him to see that before I am ready."

He approached the man once more and asked several questions.

"Well," he said finally, "I guess I shall have to say good-night."

The German's reply was choked in his throat. Frank sprang forward, flung one arm around the man's, neck, and with the other clutched him by the throat, to prevent an outcry.

Then he freed one arm and struck out heavily. The German fell without a murmur. Frank ran across the deck to where he had left Jack.

"Into the boat quick!" he exclaimed.

Jack needed no further urging. Frank dropped lightly in after him, and soon they were rowing rapidly away.

"Give me that gun," said Frank after they had pulled some distance from the submarine.

"What are you going to do with it?" asked Jack.

"I'll show you," replied Frank grimly. "Give me the gun!"

Without another word Jack passed the weapon to his friend.

"Now," said Frank, "lower yourself over the side of the boat and when I say dive, dive!"

"See here," said Jack, taking Frank by the arm. "Have you gone crazy? What do you think you are going to do?"

"I don't think anything about it," replied Frank, more quietly now. "I know what I am going to do."

"Well, what is it then? Out with it."

"Do you see that object hanging to the periscope tube on the submarine?" asked Frank.

"Yes, I see it. Why?"

"Don't you know what it is?"

"No; what is it?"

"Well, that's the little plaything I found in Lieutenant Stein's cabin. I'm going to bore a little hole through it with this gun you were kind enough to get for me."

"Good Heavens!" exclaimed Jack "You'll blow tip the submarine with all on board!"

"My idea exactly," replied Frank carefully.

"But -- " protested Jack.

"The fortune of war, you know," said Frank, with some sarcasm. "You heard Captain Von Cromp say he wouldn't blame us for anything we might do. Besides, they didn't give the poor fellows on that British battleship any warning, did they?"

"No," said Jack, "but -- "

"Well, there are no buts here. You climb overboard and get ready to dive. When this bullet goes through that little plaything there will be an explosion that will kick up considerable excitement hereabouts. That's why I asked you if you couldn't get a rifle. We could have gone a little farther away then."

"Now see here," said Jack. "I guess those fellows have it coming to them. They don't deserve any better than they will get. As you say, 'the fortune of war.' I'm not kicking about that. What I want to know is if you can hit that thing."

"Hit it? Of course I can hit it. You dive when I say the word, and when you come up, if you do, come up, I'll guarantee you won't see any submarine."

"But how about you?" demanded Jack. "If I dive before you fire, how are you going to get away before the explosion?"

"I don't calculate I'll get away before it, but I'll be in the water the minute I fire. I won't wait to see whether I hit it or not. However, I'll drop the revolver in the boat, so in case I miss the first time, it will be dry enough to use again."

"But -- " began Jack.

Frank stood up in the boat and pointed the revolver directly at the submarine.

"No more words," he said quietly. "Are you ready?"

Jack lowered himself over the edge of the boat, still holding to it with his hands.

"Yes, I'm ready," he said, "but -- "

"Then dive!" cried Frank and pulled the trigger.

With a single movement he dropped the revolver into the bottom of the boat, and plunged deep into the sea himself.



Chapter VII

Off On A Long Cruise

At the very instant the lad disappeared beneath the water there was a flash of fire above the submarine, followed by a violent explosion-fearful, terrific.

The upper work of X-9 was blown high into the air and came down in splinters, scattered to the four winds of heaven. The deck was rent and open up with a great, yawning scam, through which the ocean rushed, driving the craft below the waves as though it had been drawn down by some mighty whirlpool. A minute later, where had been one of Germany's most terrible fighters, there was only a seething flood of water covered with floating wreckage.

The force of the explosion sent the water spouting high in the air like giant gushers. The sea boiled and lashed out angrily at what was left of the German craft. Not a living figure was to be seen upon the wreckage.

The deadly melinite had done its work.

Beneath the waters of the North Sea, where Frank and Jack had sought what shelter they could, the water tossed them about at will, in spite of their frantic efforts to hold themselves steady and remain below the surface.

Frank, not having time to take such a long breath as Jack, because of the suddenness with which he had dived, was the first to come to the surface. He was tossed high on the still angry waves, but by a Herculean effort, the lad managed to keep his head above water.

His first thought was of the small boat he had so recently left. Glancing around, he saw it floating, bottom up, about a hundred yards away. He swam rapidly toward it; and as he hurried along, a head suddenly bobbed up directly in front of him.

It was Jack, struggling and gasping. Frank swam rapidly to him, and lent what assistance he could. Soon Jack was swimming easily with his friend toward the little upturned boat.

They laid hold of the little craft, and after a struggle, succeeded in righting it and clambering aboard, where they sat down, wet and weak, Then, for the first time, Jack turned his eyes toward the spot where so short a time ago had been the German submarine. He saw the mass of floating wreckage.

"Gone," he said simply, "and the poor fellows with it." He turned to Frank. "You certainly did a good job. I never knew that you were so handy with a gun."

"I am a pretty fair shot," Frank admitted modestly.

"But if you had missed the first time -- ?" began Jack.

"I couldn't miss," replied Frank quietly. "I knew that before I pulled the trigger. Some way, I felt certain the bullet would go true. Why, I hardly even aimed."

"Well," said Jack, "I'm sure I don't ever want you blazing away at me."

"I guess we might as well get away from this spot," said Frank. "I wonder where we are?"

Jack stood up in the boat and looked long across the sea. Dawn was just breaking, and in the faint morning light he could see a considerable distance.

"No land in sight," he said finally, and sat down again. "At a guess, though, I should say we must still be off the coast of Holland."

"Yes; but how are we going to tell which way the coast of Holland is?"

"I'm sure I don't know. We'll just have to take a chance at it till the sun comes up, and then we can get our bearings. We'll have to be very careful though, for there are likely to be mines floating about. If we had some oars we could row a bit it would warm us up."

But no oars were in sight, either near the boat or among the floating wreckage.

"They must be at the bottom of the sea," said Frank, in some despair. "I should have thought to have made them fast."

"Never mind that," said Jack. "The question now is, what are we going to do?"

"Well, you know as much about it as I do," replied Frank. "What are we going to do?"'

"It looks to me as though we should have to drift and take a chance of being, picked up," returned Jack.

"Or be blown up by a floating mine," said Frank.

"That's a chance we shall have to take," said Jack calmly. "You should have thought of that before you bored a hole through that mine on the submarine."

Frank did not reply. At length he rose to his feet and took off his coat. Then he turned to Jack.

"Give me yours," he said briefly.

Jack obeyed without question.

Tying the two coats securely together, Frank loosened one of the thwarts in the little boat. He pulled some strong string from his pocket and soon had improvised a little sail. Then tying one sleeve to a cleat on one side and another sleeve to a cleat on the other he soon had his sail bellying before the stiff breeze.

"It's pretty low," he said, leaning back and surveying his work, "but it may move us along a little."

"How do we know we are going in the right direction?" asked Jack.

"We don't; but we might as well be moving as to stay here. We'll let her have her head and keep her steady as she goes."

Slowly the little craft, before the freshening wind began to make headway.

"This does beat lying still," said Jack. "I don't believe I would have thought of rigging up such a sail as that."

"I guess you would if I hadn't," replied Frank. "Now you try and take a little snooze, while I keep a lookout for a vessel of some kind."

"All right; only, you wake me up in a couple of hours and I'll stand watch."

Frank agreed to this, and Jack rolled over in the bottom of the boat, where, in spite of his wet clothing and the chilling wind, he was soon fast asleep. He was completely exhausted, and any kind of a bed would have felt good to him right then.

Frank, holding the rudder of the boat, sat silent, with his eyes scanning the distant horizon for the sign of a ship. But his watch was vain. Not even the smoke of a patrolling vessel did he see in the distance. His two hours of watch up, he shook Jack vigorously.

The latter was up in an instant, and soon Frank was occupying his place in the bottom of the boat.

For an hour Jack scanned the horizon without making out a ship; then, directly ahead, he saw a cloud of smoke.

"Must be a ship!" he muttered to himself, and turned to arouse Frank. Then he drew back, muttering: "No, there is no need to wake him! He's tired out.

"Besides, the ship may not sight us, in which case he would be bitterly disappointed."

Slowly the cloud of smoke grew larger, until at length Jack was certain that the vessel was bearing down on them. As it drew closer, he saw that the approaching ship was a cruiser; and as it drew still closer, that it was British.

Then he bent over and aroused Frank.

"Look!" he said, pointing across the water, "what do you think of that?"

Frank was wide awake in an instant

"A British cruiser," he ejaculated, "and coming right toward us. If she keeps on her course we are sure to be seen."

Frank sprang to the little sail and tore it down. Then each lad picked up a coat, and standing at his full height, waved the garment and yelled lustily.

For some moments this was unrewarded. Then the boys saw signs of excitement aboard the cruiser, and a big gun boomed -- 

"She's seen us!" cried Frank, and dropped into a seat, laughing happily.

Both lads watched silently the oncoming cruiser.

"Can you make her out?" asked Frank at length.

Jack rose and looked sharply across the water.

"Yes," he said finally. "She is the Cumberland."

A small boat was lowered from the cruiser and put off toward them. Soon it scraped alongside the boys' craft, and they were taken aboard where they were received with expressions of great surprise, both by the officer in command and by members of the boat's crew.

"How did you get away out here?" asked the surprised boatswain.

Briefly Jack explained.

"By Jove!" exclaimed the officer when the lad had concluded his story. "You certainly have seen excitement. And so you blew up the German submarine?"

"My friend here did," replied Jack, indicating Frank.

"Sure," said the boatswain, "Captain Marcus will be glad to hear the yarn. It's a good one you can spin."

The little boat now drew up against the cruise and quickly all clambered aboard.

As Jack came over the rail, a man of great height -- fully six feet five inches -- greeted him. He was smooth-faced and ruddy, and the fane-anchor on his collar proclaimed him captain.

"Captain Marcus?" queried Jack, as he leaped to the deck.

"At your service," came the reply in a hearty sailor-like voice.

"I am Lieutenant Jack Templeton, scout cruiser Sylph, sir," said Jack, "and this," turning to Frank, "is Lieutenant Frank Chadwick of the same vessel."

"What are you doing in a dingy in the middle of the North Sea?" demanded the captain.

Briefly once more Jack explained.

"The Sylph sunk!" exclaimed Captain Marcus. "And what of my old friend Lord Hastings?"

"Gone down with his ship, sir," replied Jack, Patiently.

"Hastings dead!" cried the commander of the Cumberland. "It is impossible!"

"No, sir," said Frank. "It is true."

For a moment the commander bowed his head in reverence. Then he raised his eyes and looked at the boys.

"He was my very good friend," he said simply, and motioned the boys to follow him below.

Inside the cabin of the commander of the Cumberland, the captain motioned the lads to seats.

"Now we shall see what is to be done with  you," he said. "At present, because of the loss of the Sylph, you are, of course, unattached. How would you like to go with me?"

"Where to, sir?" asked Jack.

"I'll explain," replied the captain. "Until yesterday the Cumberland was one of the blockading fleet off Heligoland. You can understand, therefore, that I have already heard of you lads. I have been ordered to patrol the west coast of Africa, and, if I mistake not, there will be fighting. I have recently lost two of my midshipmen through illness. You may have their places. What do you say?"

Both lads had taken a great liking to Captain Marcus at first sight, but it was Jack who made answer for both:

"Thank you, sir. We shall be glad to go with you."



Chapter VIII

Patrolling The South Sea

The boys learned from Captain Marcus that they had reckoned rightly and that at the moment they were off the port of Amsterdam, Holland.

"Our course," the captain explained, "will take us through the English channel into the Atlantic, thence south to the African coast. How far south we shall go, I cannot say at present."

He called a midshipman to show the boys to the cabin which was to be their quarters while on the Cumberland. It was very comfortable, but not much like the one they had aboard the Sylph. "However," said Jack, "it's plenty good enough for anyone."

For several days the boys were not assigned to duty, Captain Marcus declaring that they needed, a chance to rest up after their strenuous experience with the submarine. He introduced them to all the officers, with whom they speedily became favorites. It was very evident to both the boys that their relationship to Lord Hastings was well known to Captain Marcus and they felt that the many little favors shown them was because of this. They frequently talked of their former commander and friend and their hearts were sad at his untimely end.

In spite of their new surroundings, the days that they sailed southward were somewhat monotonous, and the boys were more than pleased when the Cumberland put into Lisbon, Portugal, for coal. Here they were given a day ashore and bought a number of things that they greatly needed as all their effects had gone down with the Sylph.

Continuing her journey, the Cumberland sailed south through and past the Tropic of Cancer, almost to the equator, without a sign of an enemy. It was in fact just a day's sail from the equator before the Cumberland sighted another ship.

Quickly the wireless was put to working and it was found that the approaching vessel was the small British cruiser Dwarf. The cruisers came to anchor a short distance apart and the commanders of the two ships exchanged visits.

Upon Captain Marcus' return aboard the Cumberland, both ships immediately got under way, the Dwarf taking the lead.

"Something up!" said Jack to Frank, as they stood leaning over the rail.

"You are right," replied Frank, "and I'll bet you a little red apple I can tell you what it is."

"You can?" exclaimed Jack in surprise. "Let's have it then."

"In my spare moments," explained Frank, "I have been making a study of the maps and charts. We are now almost in the Gulf of Guinea. A small but nevertheless very deep, river called the Cameroon, empties into the gulf. Do you follow me?"

"Yes, but I don't see what you are driving at."

"Well, the Cameroon region is a German possession. Its largest town, several miles up this navigable river, is Duala, strongly fortified. This, if I am not badly mistaken, is our objective point."

"Perhaps you are right," said Jack somewhat dubiously, "but won't the forts be too strong for the cruisers?"

"Not these, I am sure."

"Well," said Jack, "I hope we see some action soon, whether it is at Duala, as you call it, or some other place. This is growing monotonous."

Frank's prophecy proved correct. Even now the Cumberland and the Dwarf were well into the Gulf of Guinea and making all headway toward the mouth of the river Cameroon, which point the vessels reached early the following morning, intending to anchor in the mouth of the stream.

At the approach of the cruisers, however, a fort guarding the harbor broke into action.

A few well-directed shots from the big guns of the Cumberland, and the fort was silenced. Then, instead of coming to anchor, the cruisers steamed slowly up the river.

Rounding a bend in the stream, Duala could be seen in the distance; likewise the forts guarding the town, and a bombardment of the fortifications was at once begun.

The shore batteries promptly returned the fire, but it soon became apparent that the guns on the ships outranged them.

For several hours the bombardment continued, and then two merchant steamers were seen making their way from the shelter of the port directly toward the British ships.

"Wonder what's up now?" said Frank, who at that moment, having been relieved from duty, stood beside Jack at the rail.

"Don't know," was the latter's brief reply. Nor did anyone else, so those on board the cruisers watched the movements of the oncoming steamers with much curiosity.

When the approaching vessels were little more than a mile up the river they came to a stop. Small boats were lowered over the sides and put off hurriedly in the direction from which they had come. Shortly after, a blinding glare rose to the sky, there was the sound of two terrific reports, one immediately following the other, and the two steamers slowly settled into the water.

Captain Marcus, on the bridge of the Cumberland, cried out:

"They have blockaded the river!"

It was true. The ruse was plainly apparent now that it was too late to prevent it. The two sunken vessels made further progress up the river by the British ships impossible.

"Wonder what we shall do now?" asked Frank.

"Haven't any idea," said Jack briefly.

Night drew on and still the British guns continued to hurl their shells upon the German town.

With the fall of darkness there came an answer to Frank's question.

Captain Marcus summoned Frank and Jack.

"The Germans have effectually blocked the river," he told them. "Therefore we cannot capture the town that way. Because of your experience, I have called you two lads to undertake a most dangerous mission.

"You," pointing to Jack, "will lead 400 sailors around through the woods and attack the enemy from the flank. You, Mr. Chadwick," turning to Frank, "I shall put in command of a fleet of four small boats, armed with rapid-firers, and it will be your duty to try and crawl up the river without attracting the attention of the forts. Attacking from two sides, simultaneously, we should take the town. In the meantime we shall continue to shell the town, stopping our bombardment at such a time as I believe you will be prepared for a sudden attack. Therefore, when you reach your positions, you will not attack until the bombardment ceases. That shall be your signal. Do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly," both lads agreed.

"Good, then. Everything shall be in readiness for you in an hour."

The lads saluted and left the commander's cabin.

Two hours later found Jack, with 400 British sailors at his command, already disembarked from small boats and stealing into the woods. Frank, with his little fleet, was picking his way carefully up the river.

The lad easily found a channel between the two sunken merchantmen, and the little boats pushed on.

"Careful of mines!" had been Captain Marcus' parting injunction and the lad peered keenly ahead constantly.

He made out several small objects floating upon the water, and these were carefully avoided.

By dint of careful rowing the boats finally drew up safely, not more than a quarter of a mile from the German forts, where the little party awaited the signal agreed upon.

Jack, in the meantime, had led his men through the dense woods, and by making a wide detour, had penetrated almost to the rear of the enemy's fortress, which, he figured, would be the most likely to be improperly guarded.

Here he and his men lay down, awaiting the signal to attack. But still the British bombardment continued, and shells rained upon the little African town.

Suddenly the sound of screeching shells ceased. Jack sprang to his feet and listened intently for a moment. But the big guns on the warships were now silent. It was time to act.

"Attention!" called Jack, and his men stood ready about him.

Silently they crept forward to the very edge of the little town. Here, moving figures in the glare of many fires gave evidence that the German troops and their native allies were on the alert. But as Jack had surmised, they were not expecting an attack from this direction.

Approaching closer and closer, Jack finally gave the command:

"Fire!"

The crack of 400 rifles followed this command, and under the withering fire of the British, the Germans were mowed down on all sides.

At the same instant, from the river, the rapid firers in Frank's command shattered the stillness of the night with their noise of death. Thus attacked on two sides, the Germans for a moment stood as if paralyzed, men dropping on all sides.

But for a moment only. Then they leaped forward ready to encounter the unseen foe. Under the command of their officers they formed coolly enough, and volley after volley was fired into the woods.

But Jack and his 400 British sailors were not to be stayed. Right in among the Germans they plunged, shooting, cutting and slashing. The Germans at this end of the town were gradually being forced back -- back upon their comrades who already were retreating before the rapid-firers of Frank's command at the other end of the town.

Caught between two fires, they nevertheless fought bravely, pouring in volley for volley. Suddenly the British under Jack ceased firing altogether and rushed upon the foe with cutlasses and clubbed rifles.

The shock of this attack was too much for the Germans, and with the fierce hail of bullets from Frank's end of the field, there was but one thing for them to do.

The officer in command raised a handkerchief on the point of his sword. Jack could barely make it out in the half-light. At the same moment the officer commanding the Germans opposing Frank's small force cried out:

"We surrender!"

Instantly the sound of firing ceased, and the German officer walked up to Frank and delivered his sword. At precisely the same moment, the other German officer, who it turned out was in command of the town, presented his sword to Jack.

Jack gallantly passed the weapon back to him, saying:

"Keep it, sir. I could not deprive so brave a man of his sword. However, I must ask you to accompany me back to my ship."

The German signified his assent, and Jack called out to Frank whom he could now see approaching with his prisoner:

"Are you hurt, Frank?"

"No," came the reply, "are you?"

Jack made haste to reply in the negative.

The boys decided that Frank should stay with the sailors left to guard the town, and that Jack should escort the German commander to the Cumberland. Accordingly the two took their seats in one of the little boats, and were rowed back down the stream.

Frank, after giving the necessary orders to guard the town and fort, established himself in the commander's quarters, where he awaited some word from Captain Marcus.



Chapter IX

The Boys Make An Enemy

Jack with his prisoner returned aboard the Cumberland, where the lad turned the German commander over to Captain Marcus.

"Shall I go back to the town, sir?" he asked, as the commander signified that he might leave the cabin.

"If you like," was the reply.

"Have you any commands regarding the prisoners, sir? Or as to the manner of guarding the place against attack?"

"Yes; you may present my respects to Mr. Chadwick, and tell him that you two are in joint authority until morning, when I shall do myself the pleasure of paying you a visit. You will take whatever precautions necessary to guard against an attack from any of the enemy who may move against you from Boak."

"Very well, sir," replied Jack, saluting.

"Boak, as you probably are aware," continued the commander, "is another small German fortress further up the river. I do not anticipate an attack, but it is best to be prepared. You may also say to Mr. Chadwick that I am well pleased with his work, and with yours."

"Thank you, sir," returned the lad, and saluting again, he turned and left the cabin.

He was over the side of the Cumberland in a few moments, and was soon being rowed swiftly back toward Duala.

Several hundred yards from the little landing, his cars caught the sound of a great hubbub. There were cries and shouts and general confusion.

Rapidly the lad covered the intervening distance, leaped to the ground and sprinted in the direction in which he could see a knot of wildly gesticulating figures.

"Sounds to me like Frank was in trouble of some kind," he panted to himself as he ran along, for at that moment he had detected the sound of his friend's voice raised in anger.

Jack dashed up to the knot of men, all of whom lie now perceived were British sailors, and as he saw his friend standing calmly in the center of them unhurt, he paused on the edge of the crowd to watch developments.

With a flush on his face, plainly evident in the red glow of a camp fire, Frank stood facing a man. The latter, in height, topped the lad by a good three inches, and even from where he stood Jack could see that the man's fingers twitched nervously at his side.

"I am in command here until further notice," Frank was saying, "and while I am, our captives will receive such treatment as is due prisoners of war. Do you understand that, Mr. Stanley?"

"Bah!" cried the other, whom Jack now recognized as an officer aboard the Cumberland; "by seniority I am your superior officer. I am not answerable to you for my actions."

"Aren't you?" exclaimed Frank, taking a threatening step forward, a peculiar glint in his eyes. "We'll see about that later. In the meantime understand that I am in command here and that what I say goes. Molest another of the prisoners and you shall answer to me."

"Is that so?" sneered Stanley. "And what do you think you'll do about it?"

"Try and see," said Frank grimly.

"Do you think I'm afraid of you?" cried Stanley. "I'll show you!"

With these words, he took a sudden step backward, and Jack was able to see the cause of all the trouble. Crouching between two sailors was an old native, black of color and grizzled of hair. Stanley doubled his fist, and before a hand could be raised to stop him, drove it between the old native's eyes.

Jack sprang forward with a cry, but Frank forestalled him. He leaped upon the perpetrator of this inhuman act, and with a quick blow knocked him to the ground.

Stanley rose with blood on his lips and evil in his eye. Quickly he stepped back a pace, and a revolver glinted in his hand.

"You -- you -- " he stuttered.

At that moment the revolver was twisted violently from his grasp, and, turning, Stanley looked into Jack's angry countenance.

"What's the meaning of this?" Jack demanded. "Would you become a murderer?"

"He struck me," shouted Stanley angrily, "and he shall give me satisfaction, and so shall you, you meddling upstart."

"So?" said Jack quietly. "What kind of satisfaction do you want? I'm perfectly ready to accommodate you."

Stanley took one look at Jack's stalwart figure, fully his own height and equally as broad. Evidently he decided he cared nothing for a tussle with this opponent.

"I have nothing to say to you," he said. "But this fellow," pointing to Frank, "struck me and I demand satisfaction."

"Well," said Frank, interrupting. "You shall have it. Pull off your coat."

"I'm not a common bruiser," sneered Stanley. "I will fight you with revolvers at twenty paces."

"Enough of this," broke in Jack. "I will permit no duel."

"I do not want to kill you," said Frank.

"So!" exclaimed the enraged officer, "a coward, eh?"

Frank stepped quickly forward, an angry gleam in his eye.

"Enough," he said. "I'll fight you."

Again Jack started to protest, but Frank waved him aside and turned to the men gathered about.

"Can I depend upon you men not to let this go any further?" he asked.

"You can, sir," they answered in chorus.

"All right, then," said Frank. "Get ready, sir."

One sailor volunteered to act as second for Stanley and Jack stepped to Frank's side. Then the two seconds met and decided the details of the duel. The principals were to be allowed one shot each. This was to be all, whether either man was hit or not.

Before accepting the revolver from the hand of his second, Stanley quickly drew his own revolver, and taking aim at a little knob on a tree some fifty feet distant, fired quickly. The bullet splintered the bark on the tree and the pieces flew high in the air.

"Half an inch away!" called a sailor who stood near the tree.

Stanley turned to Frank with a sneering smile on his face.

"Say your prayers," he taunted. "They will be your last."

Frank smiled grimly.

"I heard a story once," he replied quietly, "about a man who could hit a dime every shot at a hundred yards. But when he fired with a loaded pistol pointed at him he didn't come off with such a good record."

The principals now stood back to back. Each was to take twenty paces forward -- Jack had refused to make the distance any closer -- turn and lire when ready.

"Ready, go!" came Jack's voice, and slowly the two started away from each other.

"Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen -- " counted Frank, and at that instant there was a sound of a shot and a bullet whistled over his head, grazing the scalp.

Stanley, nervous because of the lad's coolness, had fired at the count of nineteen.

"Twenty!" said Frank without a sign of nervousness in his voice. He turned slowly, and aimed his revolver at the ground in front of him.

Very slowly he raised the barrel of his weapon until it pointed at the knees of his now shaking antagonist, then to his belt, to his chest, and finally to his head.

Beads of perspiration stood out on Stanley's forehead. Then, with a quick movement, Frank raised the muzzle of his weapon still higher, and fired over Stanley's head.

Then he calmly replaced the weapon in his pocket and walked back to where Jack was standing.

Having thus escaped what appeared almost certain death, Stanley became bold again. Evidently he had not realized that Frank had missed purposely.

"I demand another shot," he cried angrily.

"There will be no more duel so far as I am concerned," said Frank quietly.

Jack walked angrily up to Stanley.

"He spared your life," he said heatedly.

"Bah!" replied Stanley. "He missed cleanly, and he's afraid to try again."

Frank walked quickly over to his late opponent.

"You fool!" he said quietly. "Look here!"

Quickly he whipped his revolver out, and without taking aim, fired twice in rapid succession.

Although three times as far away as Stanley had been when he gave his exhibition of skill, the little knot on the tree leaped into the air, and as it fell, the second bullet caught it in midair and splintered it into little pieces.

Midshipman Stanley staggered back aghast.

"I could have killed you with ease," said Frank calmly, and walking away, he picked up his coat and put it on.

"I -- I didn't know he could shoot like that!" sputtered Stanley to Jack.

"That's not so very good -- for him," said Jack.

"Why, once -- "

"Never mind," interrupted Midshipman Stanley, backing hurriedly away, "I'll take your word for it. But, remember, I am not through with either of you yet. My time will come, and when it does -- "

He broke off abruptly, an evil sneer in his voice, and walked quickly away.

Now the sailors surrounded Frank and gave him three rousing British cheers.

"You're all right, Frank!" they called, some of them slapping him familiarly on the back.

Frank waved them laughingly aside, and turned to Jack.

"Any orders from Captain Marcus?" he asked, as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

"Lead the way to your excellency's quarters, and I'll tell you," replied Jack with a smile.

Frank led the way.



Chapter X

An Expedition

Briefly Jack repeated Captain Marcus' orders to Frank.

"I took the liberty of making those preparations without awaiting such a command," said Frank. "I have thrown out outposts, and there is no danger of a surprise tonight."

"You mean this morning," disagreed Jack, after a look at his watch. "It's after four o'clock now."

"Then it will soon be daylight," said Frank. "You had better turn in and get a little sleep. I'll stand watch."

Jack well knew the futility of an argument over this matter, so he turned in without further words by the simple process of throwing himself on a pallet on the floor of the tent. Frank took his seat in the doorway, where he remained looking out into the distance.

The sun was high in the heavens when Jack awoke. He jumped up with a start. Frank was not there. Jack made a hasty toilet and set out to find his friend. He came upon him at the river landing, and, as the lad cast his eyes down the stream he made out the launch of Captain Marcus coming, swiftly toward the camp.

He tapped Frank lightly on the shoulder.

"Why didn't you wake me up?" he demanded.

"Well, you were sleeping so comfortably I hated to disturb you," replied Frank.

"And I suppose you would have let Captain Marcus find me asleep?"

"I don't believe he would have minded. He knows we all sleep some time."

"I'll get even with you one of these days," said Jack laughing, and both lads stepped to the very edge of the landing to give Captain Marcus a hand as he clambered from the boat.

"How is everything?" he demanded, as he arose to his feet.

"First rate," replied Frank.

"No signs of the enemy?"'

"Not a sign, sir."

"Good! Evidently he doesn't know we have occupied the town. I believe that by a quick dash we can capture Boak. What do you think?"

"Fine!" exclaimed Jack with enthusiasm.

"Of course we can, sir," agreed Frank.

"All right, then; it shall be your job!"

Jack and Frank saluted.

"Thank you, sir," both said breathlessly.

Several hours later the two lads, in the captain's launch, found themselves at the head of a small flotilla moving slowly up the river. Each boat was equipped with one rapid-fire gun and carried twenty men. In all there were twelve boats.

The farther up the river the little party progressed the narrower became the stream, until finally it was little better than a deep creek. Foliage of large trees overhung the water, making it almost as dark as night. The water was black and murky.

Frank shuddered as he glanced at it.

"Looks like it might be full of all kinds of reptiles and things," he said.

"It certainly does," Jack agreed. "I would as soon think of jumping into the bottomless pit as of diving into this black stream."

Around bend after bend in the small stream the little flotilla proceeded cautiously, and ever, as they progressed, the stream became narrower and more fear-inspiring.

In some of the boats men began to grumble. Jack turned and called out angrily:

"Silence!" Then he added more companionably: "It's all right, men. Where men have gone before men can go now without fear of the unknown. I'll admit it doesn't look very pleasant, but surely an English sailor is not afraid to go where a German foot has trod."

The men started a cheer at the lad's words, but he silenced them by a motion of his hand, and called out:

"Silence! We do not want to warn the enemy of our approach."

Now, rounding a little bend in the stream, the lads could make out, some distance ahead, what appeared to be the huts of a little village. Also, they could see that, at that point, the stream widened out considerably.

Apparently secure in the belief that the forts at Duala could successfully ward off the attacks of any enemy, the German commander at Boak had grown careless, and the lads could not see a single sign of soldiers or sentries.

Frank glanced behind him and ordered softly:

"Take down all flags!"

The command was passed from one boat to another, and soon the little flotilla was moving up the river, looking more like a pleasure party than a hostile force, except for the uniforms of the men. However, these could not be plainly seen from the village, because of the shadow cast by the dense foliage that overhung the river.

Now, through their glasses, the boys could see several German officers peering at them through long telescopes.

"They've seen us," said Jack.

"Yes," was Frank's reply. "But evidently they believe us friends, or they would open fire on us."

"Perhaps their guns are not of the heavy caliber of those at Duala."

"By Jove!  I believe you have hit it!" exclaimed Frank. "In that case, with our rapid-firers, we should have little trouble taking the village."

At the point where the stream widened out, Jack allowed two of the craft behind to come up even and thus, three abreast, the journey was continued.

Every man was now at his post. The gunners were ready to open with the rapid-firers at a moment's notice. All held their rifles ready. Still the Germans did not fire, apparently uncertain of the identity of the newcomers -- or rather, seemingly certain they were friends.

Suddenly a squad of six German soldiers wheeled a small, old-fashioned cannon to the landing near the officers, and a moment later a solid shot plowed up the water in front of the first boat of the British flotilla.

"A signal to show our colors," said Jack grimly. "What do you say, Frank? Are we ready to show them?"'

"Yes!" cried Frank.

An instant and the English Jack floated over each boat, while at the same time the first three boats in the battle line opened with their rapid-firers.

At the distance, scarcely two hundred yards, the execution was terrible. The German officers and the entire gun squad, riddled with bullets, fell forward on their faces.

But this was only the beginning.

Swiftly moving German troops now came marching to the river front, steadily, in spite of the withering British fire, and sternly, to repel the foe. Slowly they came into position, and, dropping on their knees, poured a volley into the little flotilla.

But, deadly as this fire was, that of the rapid-firers aboard the boats was more so. The British did not escape without considerable damage, but the German loss was far heavier.

Steadily, in spite of the grilling German fire, the boats pressed on.

Each man concealed himself as well as he could behind the low sides of the boats, exposing just enough of his head to take aim at the enemy.

The first boats were now but a scant hundred yards away. For some reason, evidently thinking to pick off the men in the boats, the enemy had not brought artillery to bear. But at this juncture a squad sprang forward to serve the gun already used.

A charge was rammed home and the gun sighted; but, as the man detailed was about to pull the lanyard, Frank sprang suddenly to his feet in the boat and his revolver spoke. The German flung wide his arms and toppled to the ground. Another sprang to his place, but only to meet the same fate; and another, and still another.

All this time the little rapid-firers were continuing their deadly work, and at last a bugle sounded the call for the German retreat. Slowly they drew off, firing as they went, but, as the British now moved up faster, the Teutons turned and ran.

Quickly the little flotilla came alongside the wharf and men scrambled ashore. It was but the work of a few minutes to land the rapid-firers, half the British with rifles meanwhile holding off the enemy.

Then, everything in readiness, Frank gave the order for an advance.

Now, from all sides, came a withering German fire. The enemy had taken to the woods, seeking to pick off the English one at a time; but, at a word from Jack, the machine-guns were turned upon the trees, and this scattering fire soon turned the retreat into a rout.

As the English at length poured into the streets of the little village itself, from every house and hut came a German bullet. Many British fell, and it was here that the heaviest losses were sustained by the attacking party.

But Frank soon found a remedy for this. The rapid-fire guns were turned upon the huts and houses, and, as the bullets began to find their way into the openings, the work of the snipers stopped.

For some minutes there was a lull in the fighting, while ammunition for the guns was brought up from the boats; when, suddenly, down the street came a band of Germans at a charge.

Quickly the British formed to meet them, the rapid-fire guns for the moment being useless. Swords and bayonets were bared and rifles were clubbed. The Germans came on with a rush. The impact was terrific, but the British sailors stood firm, and gave thrust for thrust, blow for blow -- and more.

Being unable to force the British back, and, seeing that they were getting the worst of this hand-to-hand encounter, the German officers ordered a retreat. This proved their complete undoing, for, as they drew off at a run, the rapid-firers of the British again came into action, and the enemy were mowed down like chaff.

More rapidly now the British pushed on through the heart of the village, Frank telling off a few men here and there to give notice of a possible approach of reinforcements from some other direction.

But no reinforcements came, and the Germans finally retreated before the victorious British until they were once again sheltered by a dense forest. Then Frank called a halt.

He threw a cordon around the town and dispatched three men in a little boat to inform Captain Marcus of the success of his expedition.

"Well," said Jack, with a laugh, "we've got the town all right. What are we going to do with it?"

"That's the question," replied Frank. "I guess, before making any further move, we had better wait for orders."

"My idea, exactly," said Jack.

"Since we're agreed," replied Frank, "we'll wait."



Chapter XI

Finishing Up The Work

It was not until somewhat late the following morning that Captain Marcus, accompanied by the commander of the British cruiser Dwarf, reached Boak. Frank and Jack were at the little wharf to greet him.

After expressing a few words of commendation for the manner in which they had handled their men in the capture of the town, the two British commanders took a turn about the village.

"It will be impossible for us to remain here for the sole purpose of guarding these towns," said Captain Marcus. "We have other work to do. So now the question arises as to what to do with them."

"I would suggest," said the commander of the Dwarf, "that we put a prize crew aboard the German merchantman still in Duala, iron our prisoners, put them aboard her and send her home. We can make a thorough search of the town and destroy all arms and ammunition to be found."

"But," said Captain Marcus, "we shall first have to dispose of those Germans who escaped to the forest."

"That shouldn't be a hard job," replied the commander of the Dwarf, "I do not imagine there are many of them."

"About how many would you say?" asked Captain Marcus, turning to Frank, who, with Jack, had accompanied the two officers on the tour of inspection.

"Not more than a hundred, sir," was the lad's reply.

"Good!" replied Captain Marcus. "Do you feel equal to the task of rounding them up?"

"Perfectly, sir," Frank made answer.

"So be it, then. You may act at your own discretion; only see that you make a good, swift job of it."

Frank and Jack saluted and hurried away. Leaving half their force to guard the village, the lads, with the other half, which had dwindled to less than 100 by now, were soon lost to sight in the forest. They went quickly, but as silently as they could, for they wished, if possible, to take the foe by surprise.

"This is likely to be, a wild goose chase," declared Jack, when, at the end of an hour of forced marching they had seen no sign of the enemy. "There is no telling where the Germans are. They know the lay of the land and we don't. If they continue to retreat, there is no telling where we may come up with them, if at all."

Frank's lips set grimly.

"We'll get 'em," he said, "if we have to follow 'em clear across Africa."

They continued their march in silence. At length Frank drew his friends' attention to the fact that, a little to the left, the grass had been recently trampled, apparently by a considerable body of men.

"They can't be far ahead of us," he said. "Evidently they are not aware they are being pursued, for they apparently have been traveling slowly."

The British became more wary. Frank divided his men into two bodies, one of which he placed under Jack's command, while he himself led the other.

For another hour or more they continued, still without sign of an enemy.

The two British forces were now separated by at least a quarter of a mile, when Jack unexpectedly came to the edge of the forest. There, just ahead of him, lay the entire German command in a little opening surrounded on all sides by large trees.

Jack raised his hand and his men came to a halt. Frank, at the head of his command, perceived this movement, and also halted his men. Then he covered the distance to where his friend stood peering through the trees as quickly as possible.

Without a word Jack pointed out the Germans. Frank took a quick look, and together the two boys drew back into the shelter of the trees. They had not been seen.

"I believe I have a plan that will deliver the whole bunch into our hands, possibly without bloodshed," said Jack.

"What is it?" demanded Frank.

"Well," said Jack, "you will notice that the opening in which the Germans lie is entirely surrounded by trees. My idea is to completely surround them, and, at a given signal, fire a volley over their heads. Believing that our force is much greater than it is, and apparently cut off from escape in all directions, the Germans may surrender."

"A good idea," exclaimed Frank. "We will act upon it at once."

Quickly he scattered his men in a wide circle around the German camp. Then, when he felt that all was in readiness, he gave the signal -- a shot from his revolver.

Immediately there was a fierce volley from the British, aimed high. The German troops sprang to their feet in a moment; then, at a command from their officer, dropped quickly to the ground again.

Whatever idea Frank had had of a bloodless victory was quickly dispelled, for the German troops -- lying flat on their stomachs, fired volley after volley into the woods at their unseen opponents.

This was ineffective, however, because the British were well protected by the great trees. At a command from Frank, which was passed rapidly along the British line, the sailors trained their rifles upon the enemy and fired.

The effect was fearful. Germans toppled over on all sides, and some jumped to their feet and ran toward the trees. Bullets greeted them from all sides, however, and, after making one last stand, the entire German force threw their weapons to the ground as one man.

"We surrender!" called the officer in command.

Slowly the circle of British emerged from the forest and closed in on them. The German officer delivered his sword to Frank without a word; then, at the lad's command, the British surrounded the prisoners and started on their return journey to Boak, where they arrived after a three hours' forced march, and were greeted with acclaim by the sailors who had been left behind. Not a single sailor had been killed in the short but decisive battle, though two had been wounded.

Captain Marcus, and the commander of the Dwarf also, complimented the lads highly upon the quick success of their expedition. The village had been thoroughly searched for arms and ammunition during their absence, and all was now ready for a quick departure.

"Get the prisoners into the boats, and we will start down the river at once," ordered Captain Marcus.

This was soon accomplished, and the little flotilla was on its way back toward Duala. At Duala a second search was made for arms, ammunition and other munitions of war. This done, the commander of the Cumberland turned to Frank.

"You will go aboard that German merchantman in the harbor," he said, "and take her to London. You are in command, and Mr. Templeton shall be your first officer. The others you may select yourself. A prize crew will be put aboard immediately."

Frank was somewhat taken aback at this good fortune.

"But I am not a navigator," he said in some confusion, wishing now that he was.

"That makes it different," was Captain Marcus' reply.

"But I am, sir," Jack interrupted. "I have studied navigation for years."

"Good then!" said Captain Marcus. "In that event, I shall appoint you to take command and your friend as first officer."

"But -- " Jack started to protest, when Frank interrupted him.

"I shall be glad to serve under him," he said.

So it was arranged, and several hours later the two lads found themselves aboard the German steamer Lena. For the first time in his life Jack trod the bridge of his own ship, and he could not but be proud of that moment; Frank, too, was elated at his good fortune.

With this parting injunction, Captain Marcus dropped over the side of the Lena:

"Make straight for London. Although you carry some guns, if attacked do not fight back unless absolutely necessary. Show the enemy your heels, if possible. However, if you do have to fight, fight as the true sons of Great Britain."

"We shall, sir," replied both lads grimly, and Captain Marcus realized that he could not have put the ship in better hands.

From among the crew Jack now selected a sailor named Jennings for second officer, and another by the name of Johnson for third officer. There was a hissing of steam from below, slowly the cable was loosened, and the Lena put off down the river.

The two British commanders followed in small boats. At the entrance of the river the steamer slowed down, and the boys watched the two commanders go aboard their respective cruisers.

A moment later guns on both ships boomed loudly. It was a salute, carrying a cheery "Good luck" to the ears of the two lads. As they sailed out to sea they could perceive that the cruisers also were getting under way, and were heading in the same direction as the Lena.

The Lena quickened her pace and sped off toward the north, heading for the open water. Night fell and still she steamed rapidly on, the cruisers following in her wake.

Frank took the first watch, and Jack turned in. The sea was perfectly smooth and the Lena steamed on, rolling gently on the even swell of the waves.

At 7 o'clock, the sun streaming high in the heavens, Jack appeared on deck. A moment later Frank who had been relieved by the second officer during the night, also emerged from his cabin.

Both turned their eyes over the stern, where the night before the two British cruisers had been following, offering protection in whatever danger threatened.

The cruisers were not in sight. There was not even a cloud of smoke to show their presence anywhere on the wide sea. They had turned off on another course during the darkness.

"Well," said Jack, "it's up to us to get into port safely. We have been thrown upon our own resources."

"Yes," Frank agreed. "Captain Marcus has put great confidence in us. It's up to us to make good."

"Well," declared Jack slowly, "we'll do it."

"Yes," said Frank, "we will!"



Chapter XII

Quelling An Outbreak

Among the prisoners who were being sent home to England on the Lena was the German commander who had been captured at Duala, Colonel Von Roth. He had given his parole, and accordingly had not been put in irons with the other prisoners in the hold, but had been given a cabin to himself near the one which Frank and Jack shared jointly.

Besides Jack and Frank and the two other officers, the crew of the Lena was made up of fifty sailors, a chief engineer and his assistant and a squad of stokers. In all, there were probably seventy-five British aboard.

All the prisoners captured had not been put aboard the Lena for the reason that there were too many of them. Some were aboard the Cumberland, and the Dwarf was caring for the remainder. However, there were probably a hundred prisoners aboard the Lena besides the colonel.

Colonel Von Roth made himself very agreeable, said, in spite of the fact that he was an enemy, the boys took quite a liking to him. He conversed fluently upon subjects pertaining to America, where he said he had visited more than once, and also spoke familiarly of that spot on the African coast where Jack had made his boyhood home.

Having thus thrown the lads off their guard, Colonel Von Roth set about finding a way in which he could recapture the ship. Of his parole he thought nothing.

"What's a parole worth when given to a couple of children?" he had muttered to himself.

From the start the German officer made himself, perfectly at home, and, although the boys had thought of remonstrating, he was allowed the freedom of all parts of the ship. He went below, when, he felt so disposed, and returned when he was ready.

"It seems to me that our gallant colonel is taking things almost too free and easy," Frank had remarked to Jack, at one of their daily conferences.

"So he is," Jack had made reply, "I'll have to, speak to him about it."

He did so, and was somewhat taken aback at the officer's manner of receiving the rebuke.

"I meant no harm," he replied, with an air offended dignity, "but, of course, if you do not wish me to go below, I shall not do so."

However, he had quickly seemed to forget this and neither lad, because of his apparent sensitiveness, had the heart to remind him of it.

It had just struck four bells two days later a Jack stood on the bridge alone. Frank had gone to his cabin and lain down. He felt somewhat ill, and decided that a rest was what he needed to put him in condition again.

Jack, having just ordered a slight alteration in their course to the man at the wheel, signaled the engine-room for more speed. There was no response to the signal, and Jack tried it again. Still there wits no response.

"That's funny," said the lad to himself, "the bell was working all right a moment ago. Guess I'll go and see what's the matter."

He called the second officer, who took the bridge while Jack went below. As he made his way to the engine-room, he was brought to a sudden stop at the door. He heard a familiar voice inside, speaking in a tone of great satisfaction.

"Colonel Von Roth, or I'm much mistaken," Jack fold himself, laying a hand on the door. "I wonder -- "

Struck with a sudden thought, he drew back suddenly, and then laid his ear to the door.

"You dogs!" came the colonel's voice from within. "Thought to get away with this ship, did you? Well, I'll show you!"

Without a moment's hesitation Jack opened the door and sprang inside. The action almost cost him his life. He had expected to find no enemy but the German officer in the engine-room, but in this he was sadly mistaken. The room was full of men.

The colonel had laid his plans carefully, and they had worked out to his satisfaction.

In a moment when the attention of the sentry guarding the captives had been attracted elsewhere, Von Roth sneaked up on him from behind and struck him a heavy blow with his fist. Then, tying the prostrate man, the colonel had possessed himself of the guard's key and removed the irons from some of the German prisoners.

He did not wait to release all of them, for he was too anxious to try his plan of retaking the ship. Therefore, when he had freed twenty-five men, he led them quickly to the engine-room, thinking first to capture their strategic point and to take care of the rest of the ship's crew later.

He had burst into the engine-room so suddenly, with his men at his heels, that the engineer and his assistants had been too surprised to resist, in spite of the fact that not one of the prisoners, save the colonel himself, was armed -- the colonel having appropriated one of Frank's revolvers.

When Jack sprang into the room it was with his revolver held ready for instant use. In a trice lit took in the situation, and realized that it was no time for talk. The stokers, the engineer and his assistant were standing helpless, evidently awed by the larger number of Germans.

Jack's revolver spoke, and Colonel Von Roth's hat leaped from his head. In his hurry Jack's aim had been poor.

The German officer whirled and his revolver also rang out. Jack felt a sting in his left arm, but he did not pause.

Right into the middle of the crowd of Germans he sprang, his revolver spitting fire as he leaped. Down went three Germans, and then Jack was in among them. The tenth and last shot of his automatic went squarely into the face of a German soldier.

Battling desperately the Germans leaped upon him and overwhelmed him. So closely entwined were the struggling men that Jack was unable to take the time to draw his second revolver; but he was not daunted. His fighting blood was up, and he hurled his six feet of height and 178 pounds of weight into the thick of the conflict.

His revolver reversed in his hand, he struck out often and fiercely. Here and there the sound of a crunch told him a blow had landed. But he had no time to investigate; the press was too thick.

By this time the engineer, his assistant and the stokers had recovered from their surprise and rushed to Jack's aid. Friend and foe alike grabbed up whatever weapon they could lay their hands on wrenches, hand-bars and heavy iron pokers.

Guarding his head as well as he could with one upraised arm, Jack struck right and left with his revolver butt. A man sprang at him with a heavy wrench, but the lad caught it, by a quick move, on his revolver. It saved his head, but the weapon went to the floor in a thousand pieces.

Jack grappled with this antagonist, and, by a quick twist of the arm, whipped the wrench from his opponent's hand. It rose and fell and the German toppled over.

Colonel Von Roth, now the only man in the room armed, stood off to one side, trying in vain to bring his revolver to bear upon Jack. He was afraid to fire, however, for fear of hitting one of his own men. Hither and thither he darted around the struggling mass of men, attempting to get a clear shot at the lad.

Suddenly Jack stooped near the door of one of the furnaces and picked up a heavy iron poker. With this he laid about him right lustily, and in a moment had cleared a little circle about himself. The rest of the English, driven back by the Germans, were still fighting desperately at the opposite side of the room.

Now that Jack was standing alone, he made an excellent target for Colonel Von Roth's revolver and the colonel was not slow to realize it.

Quickly he raised the revolver and fired; but at that same moment Jack suddenly took two rapid steps forward, and the bullet whistled harmlessly over his head.

The lad raised his eyes from the rest of his opponents for a brief instant, and in that instant realized that the colonel had singled him out for his bullet.

With a sudden fierce bellow he raised his heavy poker in both hands, and plunged into the thick of the conflict. There was no stopping him now. His rush was irresistible. He bore down upon the foe like a human catapult.

Heavy wrenches, pieces of steel, nuts and bolts were hurled at him. Some struck him and some flew past. But to these he paid no heed. Strong as a lion he fought his way on. The Germans retreated before this fighting figure of sinew and muscle; they quailed before his grim set mouth and the gleam in the eye of him.

With mighty strokes he swept them aside with broken heads and arms and limbs. His object now was Colonel Von Roth, who still stood at the far end of the room, his revolver raised, ready to fire.

Taking heart from the gallant action of their commander, the British stokers sprang forward anew, and now the Germans tried to escape. The English pushed them back rapidly.

Straight for Colonel Von Roth went Jack. The colonel, with upraised revolver, saw him coming and turned pale. He aimed quickly and fired. Jack staggered back a step and then came on again. A second time the colonel fired, but this time the lad did not even pause.

The heavy iron poker seemed to whirl about his head; there was the sound of a blow. Colonel Von Roth went to the floor with a groan, and Jack fell sprawling on top of him, unconscious.

Even as the lad fell, the one German soldier who still remained in the room, picked up a heavy wrench and sprang forward. Quickly he raised his arm, and was in the very act of hurling it at the head of the unconscious lad when there was the sound of a revolver shot. The German threw up both arms, spun rapidly around once or twice, and fell to the floor.

In the doorway stood Frank. Aroused from his slumber by the sounds of scuffling below, he had sprung up suddenly. At first he could not make out the cause of the disturbance. Then there suddenly flashed before his face a vision of Colonel Von Roth.

This vision spurred him to instant action. Leaping from his bunk he ran on deck. There all was serene and quiet. He paused for a moment, undecided. Then, urged on by some uncanny foresight, he dashed toward the engine-room.

On the steps he met the first of the retreating German soldiers. With a cry over his shoulder to the third officer, who had followed him, he plunged in among them, striking out swiftly right and left. At the door of the engine-room he halted.

At first he could not make out Jack's unconscious figure lying, on the floor. But, as the German stooped to pick up the wrench, the lad divined his purpose. He had fired just a moment before the wrench would have crushed out his friend's life.

Quickly Frank bent over his chum and gently raised his head to his knee. There was no sign of life in the still body and Frank quickly placed his hand over the lad's heart. A faint fluttering was his reward.

"Thank God! he's alive!" he said.

Exerting himself to the utmost, he lifted Jack to his own shoulders, and started toward the door. At that moment the third officer came rushing down the steps. Together they carried Jack to his cabin, where they laid him on his bunk. Then Frank hastily summoned the surgeon.

The lad bent over his friend anxiously as the physician examined him.

"Will he live, doctor?" he asked anxiously.

The surgeon shook his head doubtfully.

"Bullet just grazed his temple," he said. "Also he is badly bruised about the body. So far as I can see there are no broken bones; but he may be injured internally."

"Is there anything I can do, doctor?"

The surgeon looked at the lad's white face.

"Yes," he replied. "Go and see that the prisoners are safely secured. I can work better without your presence here."

Frank started to protest, but the surgeon raised a warning hand. Without another word Frank left the cabin.

Making sure that all the unwounded prisoners had been safely secured, Frank gave orders that Colonel Von Roth's body be prepared for burial. An hour later he returned to the cabin.

"How is he, doctor?" was his first question.

"Still unconscious, as you may see," was the reply. "However, I have made a thorough examination, and I believe that you need have no fear; but he must have perfect quiet for several days. Some one must be with him constantly. It would be well to have someone come now and wait here until he regains consciousness. I have other work to do."

"I'll sit here myself," said Frank quietly. "As you go out will you tell the second officer to keep the bridge until further notice?"

The surgeon bowed and left the cabin. Drawing up a chair, Frank sat down beside his unconscious friend and took up his silent vigil.



Chapter XIII

Pursued

It was hours later that Frank first noticed signs of returning consciousness in his wounded comrade. Jack's pale face took on a little color, his eyelids fluttered, and a minute later he opened his eyes.

Frank bent over him.

"How do you feel, old fellow?" he asked gently.

It was some seconds before Jack replied. His gaze roved about the cabin, and Frank could see that for the moment his friend was unable to recognize his surroundings. At last, however, a look of understanding passed over his face, and he spoke:

"It was a great old scrap, wasn't it?" and he smiled up at his friend.

"It was all of that," replied Frank. "But tell me, how do you feel?"

"Well, I don't feel tip top, and that's a fact," replied Jack feebly, moving about on his bed.

He made as if to sit up, but Frank held him down.

"You stay where you are," he ordered.

"What's the matter?" demanded Jack. "Can't I get up if I feel like it?"

"No," replied Frank, "you can't. You'll stay where you are until the doctor says you are out of danger."

"Danger!" echoed Jack. "You ought to know by this time that I was not made to be killed so easily."

"Nevertheless," said Frank, "you are badly wounded. It will be several days before you will be able to get about."

"Several days!" cried Jack in dismay. "You take my word for it, I'll be up tomorrow."

"You'll stay right where you are until the doctor gives his permission for you to get up," said Frank firmly, "if I have to hold you in."

"Don't you believe it," cried Jack. "I'll be up and out of here tomorrow, or I'll know the reason why."

But he wasn't; for, as Frank had said, he was too badly wounded to be able to get about. The next day and the following one, while the Lena continued steadily on her course toward England, Jack was forced to lie in his bed.

It was not until the dawn of the third day that the surgeon gave him permission to go on deck. Supported by Frank's arm, the injured lad made his way to the bridge, where he took a deep breath of the invigorating air.

"By Jove! this feels good," he exclaimed, as a stiff breeze swept across the ship. "Think I'll camp out up here a while."

"Oh, no, you won't," replied Frank. "Just one hour, and then back to bed for you."

"By George! you'd think I was a baby the way you tell me what to do," said Jack, with some show of temper.

"You'll go back when your hour is up, if I have to drag you," said Frank. "And I don't believe you are in condition to put up much resistance."

"I guess you are right," replied Jack ruefully.

His hour up he returned to his cabin and Frank once more tucked him comfortably in bed.

It was several days before Jack was able to get about the ship with his accustomed alacrity; and then the Lena was well out of African waters, steaming up the coast of Portugal -- the English channel and London now not far away.

Jack had now resumed command of the ship, and the boys, standing together on the bridge one fine morning, were congratulating themselves upon the success of the voyage, when from the lookout came a cry:

"Cruiser off the starboard bow, sir?"

"How is she headed?" demanded Jack.

"Coming right this way, sir."

"Can you make her out?"

"Not yet, sir."

"Let me know as soon as you can," was Jack's command.

It was fully half an hour later, and the cruiser was not yet plainly discernible to the naked eye, when the lookout called:

"She's British, sir."

"I wouldn't be too sure," muttered Jack to Frank. "She may be flying the English flag and still be an enemy. I don't trust these Germans much."

"Nor I," agreed Frank. "However, we will soon know whether she is friend or foe."

Slowly the cruiser drew nearer. Now the boys were able to make out the British flag flying at her masthead. There came a puff of smoke from the stranger, and a shot passed over the bow of the Lena.

"Signal to show our colors," muttered Frank.

At his command the British ensign soon fluttered gaily in the breeze.

Came another shot from the cruiser.

"What's the matter now, do you suppose?" asked Frank. "That's a signal to heave to. If she's British, what does she want us to heave to for?"

The vessels were still a considerable distance apart, and night was drawing on. The answer to Frank's question came from the approaching vessel.

The British ensign flying at the masthead of the approaching cruiser suddenly came fluttering down, and a moment later the Red, white and Black of Germany fluttered aloft in its stead.

"By Jove!" exclaimed Jack. "I was afraid of it!"

At the same moment another shot crossed the Lena's bow.

Jack acted with decision and promptness. At a quick command the Lena raised the German flag. Then, as the German commander hesitated, fearing to fire lest the vessel really be of his own country, Jack signaled the engine-room for full speed ahead.

The Lena seemed to leap forward, and in a moment had turned her stern to the enemy, thus making her a harder target to hit. The German, evidently taken by surprise, could not bring her guns to bear in a moment, and that moment undoubtedly saved the Lena.

The small guns on the Lena, at Frank's command, were made ready for instant use, and the men were piped to quarters. Although well aware he was outranged by the enemy, Jack determined to fight his ship to the last.

"They'll know they have been in a battle unless they sink us before they come in range of our guns," said Jack grimly.

"You bet they will," replied Frank.

"Everything ready?" demanded Jack.

"All ready, sir," replied Frank, with a slight smile and a salute.

The second and third officers made their reports. The British were ready for instant action, and eager for the fray.

"We'll run as long as we can," said Jack, "but, if we can't outrun them, we'll turn about and give them a fight, anyhow."

This word was passed along to the crew, and a loud British cheer rang out across the waters of the North Atlantic. Frank and Jack were forced to smile.

"The British sailor would always rather fight than run," said Frank.

"Right," said Jack. "This running rather goes against me, too."

Now the forward guns of the German cruiser were brought into action, and heavy detonations rang out across the water. But the German gunners had not yet found the range, and the fact that the Lena was so maneuvered as to keep her stern to the enemy made the task of the enemy that much harder.

Darkness fell, and still the flight and pursuit continued, but so far the Lena had not been struck by a single shell. She had fired but one shot at the foe -- from one of her small guns aft -- but this had shown that the German cruiser was not yet within range of the Lena's guns.

Now that darkness had fallen the huge searchlight of the German cruiser played full upon the Lena. Suddenly Jack and Frank felt a terrific shock, and the Lena, for a moment, seemed to pause in her stride. A shell had struck the stem of the vessel. There was an explosion and a single high mast crashed to the deck.

Quickly a score of sailors sprang forward, and at a word from Frank, cleared away the wreckage and tumbled it overboard.

"Nothing serious, sir," reported the second officer, after a hurried investigation.

"Good!" said Jack calmly.

Then, so suddenly that it appeared to be the hand of magic, the searchlight of the German cruiser faded from view. Darkness fell over the Lena intense darkness.

The glare of the searchlight had vanished so suddenly that for a brief moment Frank did not determine the cause of it.

"What is it?" he demanded anxiously.

"Fog," replied Jack laconically, "and just in time. With luck, we may make our escape."

The course of the Lena was quickly altered, and she once more headed toward the coast of England.



Chapter XIV

Misfortune

At full speed the Lena continued her voyage through the dense fog.

"Is there any danger of our colliding with another ship, speeding along like this without knowing what is ahead?" asked Frank in some anxiety.

"Certainly," replied Jack. "However, it is a chance we must take. We know what lies behind, and the way I figure it is that it is better to take a chance on what may lie before rather than on what we know lies behind."

"Right," said Frank, and he became silent.

All night the Lena forged ahead at full speed through the fog, which hung thick and dismal overhead and all about; and all this time the boys did not leave the bridge.

The men were allowed to rest at their posts, but were kept on the alert, for, as Jack said, "we must be prepared for anything."

Jack looked at his watch. It was 8 o'clock in the morning; and, even as he glanced at his timepiece, the fog lifted as suddenly as it had enveloped them.

"This is better -- " Frank began, and broke off with a cry of amazement.

Not a hundred yards to the leeward his eyes fell upon the dark hull of the German cruiser which had pursued them the night before. Evidently the commander of the vessel had anticipated the course of the Lena and had taken the same route. There is no telling in what imminent danger the two had been of a collision during the night, as both had sped along silently, each fearing to betray his presence to the other.

Jack espied the enemy at the same instant that Frank cried out; and he acted upon the instant.

Hoarse commands were shouted across the decks of the Lena, and a moment later her small guns burst into sound. In spite of the fact that the enemy must have been on the lookout for the Lena, it was apparent that the Lena had been the first to realize the presence of the other.

"Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!" spoke the Lena's guns, and the sound went hurtling out across the sea.

"Crash! Crash!"

At this close range a miss was almost out of the question, and the Lena's shells crashed into the sides of the German cruiser. The German vessel staggered and reeled, but in a moment her big guns answered the smaller caliber ones of the Lena.

The Lena quivered like a human thing under the deadly hail of fire from the enemy. The great guns raked the merchant ship from stem to stem, pierced her until her sides resembled nothing more than a sieve. Men fell everywhere, many prisoners being killed by fragments. But still the Lena continued to fight back.

Standing upon the bridge Jack directed the fighting of his ship. He realized in the first moment of contact that the doom of the Lena was sealed. She was no match for the German cruiser, but, before going down, it was his intention to do as much damage as possible to the enemy. And the fire of the Lena was doing terrific damage.

Men fell on the cruiser as well as on the Lena. Shells crashed aboard, tumbling down masts, bursting in the mouths of the guns and hurling showers of iron about. Grimy-faced men ran hither and thither about the decks of both vessels. They had long since lost all resemblance to human beings, and all fought like demons.

The German commander did not call upon the British to surrender. Evidently he did not wish to be bothered with prizes. To sink the enemy -- that was his sole aim.

One by one the guns of the Lena were put out of action, until finally but two remained to reply to the fire of the enemy. Slowly the head of the Lena swung round, to permit of these last two guns being brought to bear.

"Boom! Boom!" They spoke their last message, and two shells pierced the very heart of the German cruiser.

There was a sudden, terrific explosion. A fierce red sheet of flame leaped from the German cruiser, and shot high in the air. The center turret rose with the flame and fell back to the waters of the North Atlantic in a million pieces.

The magazine of the cruiser had blown up! Her vitals were opened and the waters engulfed her.

The two lads stood on the bridge of the Lena, open-mouthed, awed by this spectacle. Both were too surprised to speak. At the very moment when the battle seemed lost, one well-directed shot had turned the fortunes of war in favor of the arms of the British.

At length Frank spoke.

"It is a miracle!" he exclaimed.

"No," replied Jack calmly, "not a miracle; rather, the courage and bravery of the sons of Britain are responsible for this good fortune."

He turned his eyes upon the floating wreckage. Not a survivor was in sight. "Poor fellows!" he said, half aloud, "may they rest in peace!"

At this moment the chief engineer came rushing on deck. Blood streamed down his face and one arm hung limp at his side.

"The engines are out of commission, sir," he reported, "and there is three feet of water in the engine-room. The ship is sinking!"

Jack drew himself up to his full height and shouted out his orders:

"Man the boats!" he cried.

He called the second and third officers.

"Look after the wounded," he commanded. "See that they are all placed in the boats. Release the prisoners, but they must shift for themselves."

"And the dead, sir?" questioned the second office.

Jack lifted his cap from his head.

"The dead," he said softly, "must be left to the mercy of the sea. We can do them no good."

The second officer saluted and hurried away.

Frank and Jack superintended the lowering of the boats. Each small craft already contained a quantity of provisions and water, and, at Jack's command, such small arms as could be hurriedly secured were thrown overboard. The wounded were lifted gently into the boats -- the dead left where they had fallen. The last act was to release the prisoners. That was all that could be done for them.

At last all the boats were manned, and, at a word from Jack, they put away from the ship. Each boat was crowded, for some had been damaged in the battle with the German cruiser and made unfit for use.

Slowly the boats pulled away from the Lena.

"Which way?" asked Frank.

"Due east," replied Jack. "We must be some place off the coast of France, and, unless a storm arises, we stand a good chance of reaching land safely."

He cast his eyes toward the Lena.

"And hurry!" he commanded. "The Lena is likely to go down any moment, and, if we do not put some distance between us, she is likely to carry us under also."

The men in the boats bent to their work with a will, and soon they were out of danger.

"There she goes!" exclaimed Frank suddenly, and, standing up in the boat, he pointed a finger toward the Lena.

Slowly the ship had been settling by the head. Now she sank lower and lower in the water. A terrible hissing arose and went forth across the sea. The water had reached her boilers.

Then the bow of the ship climbed clear out of the water, for a moment pointed almost straight toward the sky -- it seemed that she would turn completely over -- then suddenly lurched heavily forward, and dived.

The water foamed angrily white, parted quietly for the Lena, as she took her death plunge, rose high in the air; then, its fury over, closed calmly over her. The Lena was gone.

"And so," said Jack sadly, "goes my first command!"

Frank laid his hand on his friend's arm.

"It's pretty tough," he said, "but there is no use crying over spilt milk. What can't be cured must be endured, you know."

"You are right," replied Jack, "and the thing do now is to try and reach land."

Standing up in the boat and shading his eyes with one band he looked eastward across the water for a long time. Then he sat down.

"See anything?" Frank asked.

"No."

"Have you any idea how far we are from shore?"

"I don't believe we can be very far away. With clear weather and steady rowing I believe we should make land within twenty-four hours, at least."

"Well," said Frank, "when we get ashore, what then?"

"Why," replied Jack, "we must return to London if we can and report to the Admiralty."

"And then what?"

"Then," said Jack slowly, "I hope we shall once more be assigned to a ship that is going into battle, that we may avenge ourselves for the loss of the Lena, and, yes, the death of Lord Hastings!"



Chapter XV

Under The Tricolor

It was to be many a long day before Frank and Jack were destined to see London again.

All day, following the loss of the Lena, the little boats bobbed up and down on the smooth sea, as they headed eastward as fast as strong British arms could drive them. All day the sun shone brightly, but as night drew on the air became cold and penetrating. The men wrapped themselves up as tightly as they could but even this did not keep out the chill.

Frank and Jack took turns sleeping and in keeping watch. At length the darkness began to give way to light; and, in the cold gray dawn of another day Jack, standing watch in the first boat, made out something in the distance that caused him to utter a loud cry.

Because of the intense darkness they had approached thus close without having gained a glimpse of what Jack now saw.

It was land.

Frank, aroused by Jack's cry, was on his feet in an instant and echoed his friend's cry of joy.

"Where do you suppose we are?" he asked.

"At a rough guess, I should say off the coast of France," was Jack's reply.

"Good! Then we should be perfectly safe."

"I wouldn't be too sure of that," said Jack. "You never can tell what is going to happen in times like these. However, we will land as soon as possible."

The sun was high in the sky when the first of the little boats, rounding a sharp promontory, came in sight of a large vessel. She was plainly a ship of war, anchored a mile off the coast in a little bay. Beyond the lads could make out the houses of what appeared to be a small town.

"Wonder what place that is?" said Frank.

"I don't know," replied Jack, "but we'll soon find out. See! Our presence has been discovered."

Frank looked in the direction Jack pointed. It was true. They were close enough to the vessel now for the lads to make out several figures standing upon the deck, pointing toward them and gesticulating.

A moment later and the guns on the vessel shone in the sunlight, as the ship came about. They were pointed squarely at the little British flotilla.

A flag was quickly, run up to the masthead. The boys made it out in an instant -- the tricolor of France. A cheer went up from the British sailors, and in one of the boats a sailor sprang to his feet and waved a British ensign above his head.

This was seen from the deck of the French vessel, and several small boats were hurriedly manned and came toward the British. Within hailing distance a voice cried out in French:

"Who are you and where from?"

"British prize crew aboard German merchantman, which was sunk by a German cruiser yesterday," Jack shouted back.

The French boats approached closer. The men in them were all armed, and it was plainly apparent they were not too confident of the identity of the British. They held their rifles ready for instant use, and small rapid-firers in the prow of each craft were ready for business.

But now that the French had approached close enough for their commander to distinguish the faces of the English sailors the tenseness of the French sailors relaxed, and they came on more confidently. The French officer ran his boat close to the one occupied by Frank and Jack and leaped lightly aboard it. The lads rose to greet him.

All three saluted, and the French officer said:

"I'm glad to see you."

"Not half as glad as we are to see you," replied Jack with enthusiasm. "This time yesterday we didn't know whether we would ever see land again or not."

"You have been adrift all that time?" questioned the officer.

"Yes, sir."

"You said something about having been sunk by a German cruiser. Why didn't they pick you up?"

"Because they were already at the bottom of the sea," replied Jack calmly.

"You mean that you sunk them with the small guns of your ship?" asked the officer in great wonderment.

"Yes," replied Jack briefly. "We were fortunate enough to do that with our last shot."

"Good for you!" ejaculated the officer. "But come! You must go aboard the Marie Theresa. Captain Dreyfuss will indeed be glad to greet two such gallant Englishmen."

It was fully half an hour later, the lads in the meantime having seen to the disposition of the British sailors aboard the French cruiser, before Jack and Frank were seated in the commander's cabin, relating their experiences to him.

"And what do you plan to do now?" asked the commander, after he had complimented the boys upon their gallant conduct.

"Well," replied Frank, "we had thought of returning to London. By the way, just whereabouts are we?"

The commander swept an arm in the direction of the little town.

"That," he said, "is St. Julien, on the southern coast of France. Bordeaux is to the north, and, in the event that you are planning to return to London, it will be necessary to go that way. If I were bound that way, I would gladly land you there, but I am not."

"May I ask which way you are going?" asked Frank.

"I am bound for the Adriatic," replied the commander, "to join the rest of the French fleet blockading the Austrians there."

"By Jove!" ejaculated Jack suddenly, struck with a sudden idea. "Why cannot we go with you, Captain Dreyfuss."

"Go with me?" echoed the commander of the Marie Theresa.

"Yes," cried Frank, falling in with the idea at once. "May we, captain?"

The captain mused silently for some time.

"It would be very irregular," he said at length.

"We would certainly be pleased to see service under another flag," persisted Jack.

"Indeed we would," agreed Frank; "and we would be willing to go in any capacity. If we go to London we may have a long wait before being assigned to another ship."

Suddenly Captain Dreyfuss slapped his leg with his hand and got to his feet.

"It shall be done," he said; "and, I may say that I shall be glad of your company. I will have you shown your quarters. As it happens, I am short handed. I shall see that your crew is set ashore and given passage for London."

At his signal a young midshipman entered the cabin and came to attention.

"I place these young men in your charge," Captain Dreyfuss said to him. "You will show them quarters. From this time on they will be your shipmates."

The young Frenchman saluted, and the lads followed him from the commander's cabin.

He showed them to very neat quarters and said abruptly:

"You will bunk here."

He departed without another word. Frank and Jack stared after him in some surprise.

"Nice, pleasant companion he'll make," said Frank with fine sarcasm.

"I should say so," answered Jack. "From his actions you'd think we had done something to offend him."

"Oh, well," said Frank, "I guess we don't need to worry a whole lot about him."

"No," said Jack, "but just the same I would rather be on good terms with all on board."

The British sailors had now been gathered on deck and Frank and Jack went up to bid them goodbye. As they were rowed away in the direction of the little town the sailors stood up in the boats and gave three lusty cheers for both lads. The lads waved their hats at them.

"You'd think these English were somebody," came a voice from Frank's elbow, and turning the lad saw several French midshipmen standing nearby. "They leave us to do all the fighting," continued one, whom Frank now recognized as the one who had escorted them to their quarters. "If they fought as well as they talk, this war wouldn't last long."

Frank took a quick step toward the speaker, but Jack's hand fell on his arm and stayed him.

"Quiet," said Jack. "We don't want to have any trouble with them. Besides their words do not apply to you. You are American."

"You are right," said Frank, and turned away.

Suddenly Captain Dreyfuss' voice rang out on the bridge. Instantly all became bustle and confusion. The Marie Theresa was about to get under way. Not yet having been assigned to their duties, Jack and Frank stood a little to one side.

Slowly the big battle cruiser got under way. With her flag flying proudly, she turned her stern toward the shore and made for the open sea. Soon she was heading southward at full speed.

Now a second midshipman approached the lads.

"I am instructed to show you your duties," he said, without enthusiasm, and the boys could see that he was not well pleased with his task.

Frank stepped up to him and held out his hand. "See here," he said, "why can't we be friends?"

The Frenchman took the proffered hand and shook it half-heartedly. He glanced furtively about, evidently in fear that some of his comrades might see him in this compromising situation. Then, as rapidly as possible, he instructed the lads in their tasks.

"And now," he concluded, "dinner is ready. You will mess with the other midshipmen. Come, will show you the way."

Without a word the lads followed him. The long table was already filled. + But there were still some vacant seats. Frank and Jack dropped into these.

"Midshipman Templeton and Midshipman Chadwick," said their escort, introducing them to the rest, with a sweep of his arm.

Frank and Jack rose from their seats and bowed. The young Frenchmen barely acknowledged the introduction with nods of their heads.

Frank's face flushed, and he made as if to rise, but, again Jack stayed him, and they fell to eating in silence. Several times during the meal some Frenchman inadvertently made a remark derogatory to the fighting ability of the English.

Frank held his temper, though his face burned,'' and Jack was fearful that his friend would soon be mixed up in trouble again. However, the meal finally came to an end, and Jack and Frank arose with the others to leave the room.

To the deck below, where the midshipmen were wont to spend most of their leisure hours, the lads followed the Frenchmen. Here some drew cigarettes from their pockets, and, in spite of the regulations against this practice, proceeded to light up in most approved style.

Then they broke up into little knots, and Jack and Frank found themselves left to themselves.

"Come," said Jack at length, "we might as well go on deck."

He took Frank by the arm and started away. As they neared the door, a big, hulking Frenchman suddenly stretched forth a foot, and Frank, who had not noticed this obstruction, tripped and fell heavily to the deck.

He was up in a moment, his face a dull red. He turned on the now giggling midshipmen, angrily.

"Who did that?" he demanded, taking a step forward and doubling up his fists.

A laugh went round the room, but there was, no reply.

"Who did that?" demanded Frank again.

The big French middie who had tripped the lad stepped forward.

"I did it," he replied, thrusting out his face. "What of it?"

"Just this," replied Frank, and started forward. Jack stopped him.

"Here's where I get into this," he said quietly. "I tried to keep out, but it's no use. Stand aside, Frank, can't you see you are no match for him."

"Step aside nothing," said Frank, struggling, in Jack's grasp. "I never saw a Frenchman yet I couldn't lick."

"Well," said Jack calmly, "this is one you won't lick. I'm going to do it myself. It's my fight, anyway in vain did Frank struggle. He was like a child in his friend's strong hands."

The big Frenchman thrust his face forward again.

"So you are going to interfere, are you?" he said.

"Yes," said Jack pleasantly, "and you'll wish I hadn't."

"Then take that," cried the Frenchman, and struck out suddenly.

Jack leaped back quickly, but he was not swift enough to entirely avoid the blow. A tiny stream of blood trickled from his nose. Without a word he calmly drew a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped away the red drops. Then he stepped forward and spoke to all.

"Now," he said quietly, "this chap is going to pay for that. Are you gentlemen here? Will you see that this is conducted in a proper manner, or is it to be a rough-and-tumble?"

One of the French middies stepped forward suddenly. He offered Jack his hand.

"I'll see that it is conducted ship-shape," he said. "You impress me as a brave man, and I'll see that you get fair play."

"Thanks," said Jack laconically, accepting his hand.

"I might as well tell you, however," continued the Frenchman, "that you are up against more than your match. This man is one of the heavyweight aspirants for the championship of the French navy, and has several scalps to his credit."

"I guess he hasn't bumped up against an Englishman," was Jack's reply.

"What's it to be?" asked the Frenchman.

"Anything suits me," said Jack.

"To a finish," grumbled Jack's antagonist.

Quickly a square was marked off, and, enjoining the spectators to silence, the young Frenchman who appeared more friendly than the rest as self-appointed referee called time.

Jack and his opponent squared off.



Chapter XVI

Jack Makes A Name For Himself

Frank, who had never seen Jack exhibit his prowess in the fistic art, and who was rather a skillful boxer himself, though by no means a heavyweight, muttered to himself:

"Why didn't I insist on taking him on myself? Jack is due for a good lacing. He's strong enough, but he hasn't the science, I'm afraid."

He stood nervously in his friend's corner.

The Frenchman opened the fight with a rush, and his friends uttered subdued cheers and encouragement as he dashed at Jack. In size, it appeared that the two were about evenly matched, although the Frenchman was a shade taller than his opponent.

That his comrades believed him a master of the fistic art was evinced by their cries:

"Finish him up quickly."

"Let him stay a couple of rounds."

"No; one round's enough."

The Frenchman rushed, evidently having decided to finish the fight as quickly as possible. His expression showed that he had no doubt of his ability to polish off the Englishman and of his superiority as a boxer.

Jack met the first rush calmly, and with a slight smile on his face. His guard was perfect and not a blow reached him. The Frenchman landed blow after blow upon Jack's arms, with which the lad covered first his face and then his body.

Frank, having a knowledge of boxing, realized that he was witnessing a defense that was indeed remarkable, and muttered happily to himself. But to the rest of the spectators it appeared that their idol was hitting his man at will, and they continued to encourage him with low words, at the same time hurling epithets at Jack.

So far Jack had not attempted to strike a blow; nor had he given ground. He had presented a perfect defense to his opponent, who danced rapidly about him, striking from this side and that. The round ended, and still Jack had not offered at his opponent.

The Frenchman himself, however, skillful boxer that he was, was not deceived. He realized, as he rested in his corner, that he had met a foeman worthy of the best he had to offer. As yet, though, he had no means of telling what the lad had in store for an attack of his own; but he realized that Jack's defense was well-nigh perfect.

Therefore, when they advanced to the middle of the ring for the second round, he was more wary, for he had no mind to let Jack slip over a hard blow through carelessness. Suddenly Jack led with his right, then made as if to land with his left. The Frenchman threw up his arm to guard the latter blow, and Jack's right, which had not been checked -- the feint with the left having made the desired opening -- caught the Frenchman flush on the nose.

The Frenchman staggered back. Jack followed this advantage with a quick left and then another right to the Frenchman's face. Both blows had steam behind them, and his opponent, plainly in distress, covered up quickly and cinched.

In the clinch he attempted to deliver several short arm blows, but Jack was prepared for this kind of fighting, and blocked them with ease. Finally the two broke, and the Frenchman stood on the defensive.

It was apparent to all who were not too prejudiced that he now stood in awe of his opponent's hitting power.

Then they stood off and boxed at long range, and Jack trimmed his adversary beautifully. Tiring of this, the Frenchman rushed, but time was called as he swung wildly. In swinging he left a wide opening. Jack, starting a hard blow, turned it aside when the referee called time.

"Where did you learn to box?" asked Frank breathlessly between rounds.

"Why," said Jack, with a smile, "from my father. He was rather proficient in the use of his fists."

"He must have been," said Frank dryly. "Why didn't you tell me you could box?"

"You never asked me," replied Jack calmly.

He arose and walked slowly to meet his opponent as the referee again called time.

"Now, my friend," said Jack to his opponent, "I am going to give you as good a licking as you ever have had."

He feinted with dazzling rapidity several times, and drove a straight left to the Frenchman's ear. With lightning-like quickness he played a tattoo upon the Frenchman's face and body. Bewildered, his opponent dashed into a clinch.

"If you say so, we'll call this off right here," said Jack.

The Frenchman suddenly freed himself, and his reply to this kindly offer was to send a jab to Jack's nose, drawing blood.

"Just for that," said Jack quietly, who felt somewhat ashamed at having been caught off his guard, "I'll finish this fight right now. There is no need prolonging it."

Once, twice, he rocked the Frenchman's head, and then, as the latter came forward in a last desperate effort, Jack pivoted on his heel, and, starting his left low, swung. The Frenchman checked himself in his attack, and desperately tried to leap back.

But it was too late. Through his guard went the blow, and, catching the Frenchman on the point of the chin, it lifted him from his feet and into the air.

At least four feet through the air went the Frenchman, and came to the deck, head first, at the feet of his friends. He lay there while the referee counted him out.

Quickly Jack leaped forward, and, kneeling, raised his late opponent's head.

"Water, some of you," he called.

It was quickly brought, and Jack, wetting his handkerchief, bathed the Frenchman's face. His efforts were at last rewarded by a slight groan, and finally the unconscious man opened his eyes.

"What hit me?" he asked in a faint whisper.

"It's all right, old man," said Jack. "You'll be all right in a second."

Slowly the light of comprehension dawned in the Frenchman's eyes. He struggled to his feet, where he stood uncertainly for a few moments, looking at his conqueror.

Jack extended a hand.

"I'm sorry I had to do it," he said, a pleasant smile lighting up his face.

The Frenchman looked at him in silence for a full minute, then, stepping forward, he grasped the outstretched hand.

"What are you," he demanded, grinning, "a prizefighter?"

"No," said Jack, with a laugh, "but I guess I have had better training than you."

"Well," said the Frenchman, "if you ever need anybody to help you out, you can count on me. Maybe some day you will bump up against someone who can best you, but I believe the two of us together can put him down."

"Thanks," laughed Jack, "I'll remember that offer when the time comes."

The other French middies now gathered found and shook Jack and Frank both by the hand, while the one who had first made himself odious apologized profusely for his actions.

"Say no more about it," exclaimed Frank. "I'm glad we're all friends at last."

Further conversation was interrupted by the sudden sound of a bugle on deck. It was the call to quarters.

Quickly all sprang to their posts. Men dashed hither and thither, and in almost less time than it takes to tell it the Marie Theresa was cleared for action.

Then, at last having time to glance about, the two lads made out the cause of this sudden call. Several miles across the water could be seen two small cruisers. A closer look showed the boys the German flag flying at the masthead of each.

"Now," said Frank to Jack, "we'll have an opportunity of seeing how the French fight."

"They'll fight," said Jack briefly. "You may make sure of that."

"Nevertheless I would rather that we had an English crew."

Now the range was signaled to the gunners, and the Marie Theresa quivered and recoiled as the first of her big guns spoke. The shot fell short. Again the range was signaled, and once more the shot fell short, though nearer, the first of the German cruisers.

The third shot plowed up the water under her bow.

"We have the range now," said Jack, "we'll hit her next time."

His words proved true. A solid shot, hurled by one of the Marie Theresa's forward guns, struck the first German cruiser squarely in the side. The two following ones hit her just below the water line.

"That's pretty good shooting, if you ask me," said Frank enthusiastically.

But now the Germans also had succeeded in finding the range, and a shell burst over the Marie Theresa, hurling its fragments upon the deck. Five men went down, never to rise again.

As the battle progressed the two German cruisers drew farther and farther apart, until now they poured their fire upon the Marie Theresa from two directions. To avoid this cross fire, the commander of the Marie Theresa signaled full speed ahead, and dashed straight for the nearest of the enemy.

In spite of the galling fire from both of the enemy, the Marie Theresa bore down on the German cruiser. Too late the latter turned to flee from her larger opponent; but her guns continued to pour in her fire.

Although raked from stem to stern, the Marie Theresa had not been hit in a vital spot. The first German cruiser turned to run, but, by a quick maneuver, Captain Dreyfuss plowed into her as she turned. The sharp prow of the Marie Theresa crashed into the German amidships, and so terrific was the impact that the French ship recoiled.

But it was the death-blow of the German cruiser. Men leaped into the small boats and put off from the ship, or flung themselves head first into the sea. The Marie Theresa drew off and turned her attention to the other German cruiser.

But the latter had had enough. She turned quickly and headed west. Boats were lowered from the Marie Theresa and hurried to the aid of the survivors of the enemy. Many were picked up and taken aboard the French ship.

On the bridge of the German cruiser' now settling fast, could be seen the German commander. Several officers were gathered about him. They were gesticulating violently, but to each the captain shook his head negatively.

"They'll all be drowned if they don't hurry," said Captain Dreyfuss anxiously. "Why don't the fools jump!"

Suddenly the German commander drew a revolver from his pocket, and pointed it directly at the protesting officers. They drew back. The German commander followed them.

One by one they threw themselves into the sea all but one. At him the commander pointed revolver, and shook his head vigorously. The latter protested.

Finally the German commander hurled his weapon far into the sea, and held out his hand. The officer took it, and, arm in arm, the two walked, back to the bridge.

The German cruiser lurched heavily, but the two German officers were unmindful of it. Calmly the commander drew two cigars from his pocket, and offered one to the officer. The latter accepted it, and, taking a match from his pocket, struck it calmly.

He held the match so his commander could get a light, then lighted his own cigar. Thus the two stood, calmly smoking, as the cruiser settled.

Slowly the fatally wounded craft sank lower and lower in the water, until nothing was visible below the bridge. Then, with a sudden lurch, this to disappeared -- nothing but the mast remained -- then nothing at all.

The German commander had gone down with his ship -- as had so many before him -- as would so many after him.

The commander of the Marie Theresa lifted his cap, uttering no word -- a silent tribute to a hero.



Chapter XVII

In The Adriatic

The Marie Theresa had not escaped unscathed in the combat, but, although her injuries were not serious, they were such as to prevent a pursuit of the second German cruiser, which was dashing away at full speed.

The crew set to work with a will wreckage, and finally the vessel was shipshape once more. Then, at a command from Captain Dreyfuss, she was put on her course toward the south.

Several uneventful days passed, during which Frank and Jack struck up quite a friendship with their fellow middies. The unkindly spirit of the young Frenchmen gave way to real comradeship, and all were now on the best terms.

It was on a bright, sunny morning that the Marie Theresa steamed through the entrance to the Adriatic Sea, where the French fleet, with one or two British warships, had the entire Austrian naval force cooped up. The Austrians had made several dashes, in an attempt to run the blockade, but so far all such efforts had been unsuccessful.

As the Marie Theresa steamed up to the other vessels of the fleet, she was greeted with a salute. A short time later Captain Dreyfuss put off for the flagship in a small boat to pay his respects to the admiral.

It was late when he returned aboard the Marie Theresa, and immediately he set foot on board a subdued air of excitement became apparent. The midshipmen, not being in the confidence of the superior officers, at first could not account for this; but they soon learned its cause.

The Marie Theresa had been ordered to try and get closer to the Austrian fleet.

It was a well-known fact that all the Austrian ports had been mined, and that the heavy shore batteries of the enemy were more than a match for the big guns on the cruiser -- that they outranged them -- but, nevertheless, the crew of the Marie Theresa made what preparations were necessary with enthusiasm.

It was well after nightfall when the French cruiser moved slowly between the other vessels of the allied fleet, heading for the enemy. Not a light shone aboard the vessel, and there was not a sound to break the stillness of the night.

Beyond the rest of the fleet the Marie Theresa was forced to go more slowly, feeling her way cautiously to avoid being blown up by one of the many floating mines.

"This is ticklish work," said Jack to Frank, they moved slowly along.

"You bet," was the latter's reply. "This thing, of floating along, not knowing the next minute you are liable to be on the bottom, would try anybody's, nerves. By Jove! I can feel my hair standing end now."

"I guess it's not as bad as all that," laughed Jack.

"Well, I have a bad case of nerves, anyhow," replied Frank.

Suddenly, at a subdued cry from forward, the Marie Theresa came to a halt.

"Vessel of some sort dead ahead," the word was passed along.

A moment later a voice of command rang out:

"Pass the word for Mr. Chadwick and Mr. Templeton."

"Wonder what's up?" asked Frank, as they made their way to the bridge, where Captain Dreyfuss was standing.

"I guess we'll know soon enough," was Jack's reply.

They halted before their commander and came to attention.

"If I am not mistaken," said Captain Dreyfuss, pointing ahead, "that dark hull there is an Austrian vessel, whether a warship or not I cannot say. Now, the success of this venture depends upon silence. A shot from a big gun aboard that ship would mean failure for us. I have called you two lads to ask if you would like to undertake a dangerous task?"

"Yes, sir," replied Jack quietly.

"We shall be only too glad," said Frank eagerly.

"Well, then," continued, Captain Dreyfuss, "I believe that by a quick and silent dash you may be able to board her. If You are successful in getting aboard, your first duty will be to prevent the firing of one of the big guns. Luckily, we are still far from shore, so the sounds of a hand-to-hand struggle are not likely to be overheard. Are you willing to undertake this mission?"

"Yes, sir," replied both lads in a single voice.

"Good! You shall have fifty men. With the effect of a surprise, I believe this should be enough."

Half an hour later, while the Marie Theresa remained stationary, not even showing a light, Frank and Jack, with five small boats at their command, were creeping silently toward the Austrian vessel. Nearer and nearer they approached, and at length the first boat scraped the side of the larger vessel.

So far their presence had not been discovered.

Softly and silently Jack led the way to the deck of the enemy, which, it was now plain, was a small Austrian cruiser. Frank and the French sailors followed close at his heels.

As Jack's head came even with the rail, he paused to look about. And it was well that he did so. For not ten paces from him stood an Austrian sailor.

His eyes were turned in the opposite direction, and so stealthily did Jack now lower himself to the deck that he was not heard.

"I hate to do this," he muttered to himself, "but -- "

A moment later his revolver butt crashed down on the Austrian's skull. The man dropped like a log. Hastily the lad led the way to the bridge, where, by quick action, the man on watch was overcome without the sound of a struggle.

Then half of the French turned their attention to the commander's cabin, while the others hastened to see that all means of egress from below were barred.

With drawn revolver Jack entered the cabin first. His eyes fell upon two officers playing checkers, one evidently the commander of the cruiser. So quietly did the lad enter the room that his presence was not discovered until he spoke.

"Hands up!" he commanded.

The officers leaped to their feet with a single movement, and the hand of the commander fell upon his revolver, while the other, unarmed though he was, dashed straight at Jack.

Jack's revolver spoke sharply once, and the second Austrian officer tumbled in a heap to the deck. Before the commander could draw his weapon Jack had him covered.

"None of that," he said sharply, as the commander made another move as though to draw.

The Austrian commander evidently thought better of his act, for his hands flew above his head. Jack advanced quickly and relieved him of his weapons. Then he marched him to the bridge.

"Now," said Jack calmly, "you will signal the engine-room for half-speed ahead."

The officer started to protest, but at the sight of Jack's revolver, leveled right at his head, he reconsidered and did as ordered. Jack now motioned Frank to stand guard over the Austrian commander, and himself took the wheel.

Slowly the Austrian cruiser, her head describing a wide circle, gathered speed and turned in the direction of the allied fleet. Evidently those below had no idea that anything was wrong, for not a sound reached the ears of those on deck.

Now, at Jack's command, the commander signaled the engine-room for full speed ahead, and the pace of the cruiser increased. Swiftly she dashed along in the night, but was suddenly checked in her flight by a hail from across the water:

"What ship is that?"

Jack recognized the voice of Captain Dreyfuss, and called back:

"Captured Austrian cruiser, sir. This is Templeton. What shall I do with her?"

"Take her on to the fleet," came the reply.

"Good work!  I shall not wait for you to return but will continue immediately."

This was a disappointment to the two lads, who had banked on being aboard the Marie Theresa in her raid. However, orders were not to be disobeyed.

Day was breaking when the Austrian cruiser steamed in among the French ships. Jack went aboard the admiral's flagship and reported. It was while he was standing beside the admiral that a fearful commotion broke out on board the captured Austrian cruiser.

There was the sound of a big gun, and a shell screamed overhead.

"The fools!" exclaimed the admiral. "Can't they understand they have been captured?"

Evidently the Austrians could not, for a second shell screamed overhead.

Quickly the flagship signaled the French aboard the captured vessel to leave, and when they were over the side and well out of harm's way the French dreadnought opened fire on the cruiser.

Men now emerged from below on to the deck of the captured vessel, and rushed rapidly about.

An officer leveled a glass and took in the imposing sight of the French gathered about on all sides of him.

In another moment a white flag was run up at the masthead. It was the sign of surrender.

The French admiral complimented both lads highly on the success of their venture; and congratulated them again personally that night, when the Marie Theresa, after a successful raid into the very midst of the Austrian fleet, returned unscathed -- leaving at the bottom of the sea two Austrian torpedo boats.



Chapter XVIII

The Battle In The Adriatic

The French and Austrian fleets were steaming into battle in the Adriatic. This coming struggle, while it was to be by no means decisive, was nevertheless the first engagement of any magnitude to be fought in southern waters; also it was the first in which fighters of the air were to play an important part.

The Marie Tieresa, back from her successful raid, was one of the foremost in the French line of battle. Now, as she steamed forward with the rest of the fleet, her hydroplanes were made ready for action.

Captain Dreyfuss summoned Jack and Frank before him.

"You will each take a seat in one of the hydroplanes," he ordered. "Your duties will be to drop bombs on the enemy. Each machine carries two men, one a pilot. Therefore you will each take separate machines."

Frank and Jack saluted, and a moment later were in their places. What was Jack's surprise to find that the pilot of his machine was none other than the French midshipman he had so lately engaged in fistic combat. The latter, whom the boys had learned to call Pierre, greeted him with a smile.

"I'm glad I am to have you along," he said simply.

"Thanks," was Jack's brief reply.

The French hydroplanes, at least fifty of them, from all the battleships, now skimmed over the water, and a moment later soared in the air. Flying on beyond the French ships, a smudge of smoke came into view, then another, and then many more. Ships of all kinds, Jack could see, dreadnoughts, cruisers, torpedo boats and scout ships, advancing toward them.

Then, as they drew nearer, Jack made out other vessels, lying low in the water, without smoke, approaching. These were the Austrian submarines. Jack counted the enemy -- sixteen ships of all classes, and opposed to these the French had offered almost an equal number. The forces of both sides under and above the sea, of course, he could not count.

Some of the airships from both sides now came into contact, and brisk skirmishes ensued. Rifles flashed from them, and suddenly one tumbled into the sea. It was an Austrian craft, and it was first blood for the French.

Now the aircraft, at a signal, returned to their respective fleets, and hovered over them. The speed of both squadrons was reduced together. The submarines of both fleets suddenly sank from sight, and it was evident to Jack that the first blows probably would be struck from under water.

The aircraft once more advanced, flying low, seeking to learn the positions of the submarines, and to point them out to the gunners on the big battleships and cruisers. A periscope, extending a few feet above water, gave Jack a good target, and the lad dropped a bomb.

There was a terrific explosion below the water. The periscope disappeared. There was one Austrian submarine less.

The two squadrons of ships meantime were drawing nearer together. The first French battleship, flagship of the squadron, was now engaged with the first ship of the Austrian squadron. They were engaged gun for gun.

Now the second ships of each fleet came into action, and then the third. Ship after ship engaged the enemy, until the battle became general. For an instant, after each salvo, the rival squadrons were hidden from each other by the smoke of battle, but a brisk wind soon blew this away, and the cannonading continued.

Now one of the French vessels steered aside and dropped behind the line of battle. She was disabled.

The next ship moved up, and the French advance continued as before.

The torpedo craft of the French, gathered behind the French battle line dashed forward suddenly, headlong for the Austrian fleet. For two miles they sped on, apparently unnoticed by the enemy, then the great turret guns of the Austrians opened on them. The French torpedo craft began to suffer. Two together swung broadside to the Austrians, riddled with holes; the boiler of a third burst, the ship broke in two and sank almost instantly. But the others raced on.

Toward the big Austrian battleships they dashed. Austrian torpedo boats rushed out to meet them.

A shell from a French warship struck one of these, and she went to the bottom immediately. Others suffered by the French fire.

Four thousand yards from the Austrian fleet the French torpedo boats launched their torpedoes; then they fled back to the protection of the battleships, still engaged with the Austrian pursuers with small guns.

But they had done their work. A hundred torpedoes, driven by their motors of compressed air just below the surface, were steering automatically for the Austrian battleships.

Suddenly the fourth ship of the Austrian line staggered; a white spray of water leaped high in the air, and the Austrian vessel split into many pieces. The first torpedo had gone home. The fifth and sixth Austrian battleships also now leaped from the water, and then sank from sight. Farther back another Austrian ship dropped from the line of battle.

Now a school of Austrian torpedo craft dashed forward again. They were met by a fierce hail of fire from the French, but in spite of this they succeeded in launching their torpedoes, and the French battleship, far back, suddenly disappeared from the surface of the Adriatic.

Now the battle grew so terrific that individual ship movements could not be kept track of. The Austrian torpedo craft retreated and the French gave chase. Jack and Frank saw all this, soaring above the sea, a part of it, and yet not a part of it, for so far they had had little to do.

Pierre, seated in front of Jack, suddenly uttered a shout. Following the direction of the pilot's eyes, Jack perceived a great, gray, pencil-shaped object approaching through the air. He recognized it instantly -- a German war dirigible, sent to help the Austrians. Under it flew smaller forms, aeroplanes accompanying it as guard. And now a second Zeppelin appeared -- and then a third.

Swiftly they swept over the sea. A moment and they had passed over the broken line of Austrian battleships, and sped on toward the French fleet. The French perceived the menace, and their special quick-firers, elevated for aeroplane defense, came into action.

But the Zeppelins bored on, and their powerful guns fired down macarite shells. The first French battleship, already stripped by the raking fire of the Austrian fleet, seemed to crumple up, and a moment later disappeared altogether.

The rain of shells from above found breaches in the armor of a second French ship, caught a magazine forward and exploded it, almost at the same time blew up a magazine aft, and the ship, broken in two, sank.

The first dirigible, having passed over the French fleet, now turned and came back. The shells of the ships burst harmlessly below it. As the torpedo boats had gathered for an attack against the Austrian fleet, so now did the French aircraft gather for an assault upon these enemies of the air.

But the enemy's airmen did not wait for them. They charged. Machines met, wing against wing, and toppled into the water. Others, their propellers crushed, met the same fate. But some of the French machines burst through, only to be met by the deadly fire of the Zeppelins and sent into the sea.

Yet a few survived, and their rifle bullets riddled the gas chambers of the big balloons, but these tiny perforations availed nothing. The French flyers who survived darted beyond the Zeppelins and withdrew. The attack had accomplished little, for, while some of the Austrian aeroplanes had been sent into the sea, the dirigibles were still intact. A mean for successful attack against these giants of the air had not been found.

But now, in response to a word of command from Jack, Pierre nodded his head in understanding. In the meantime the French birdmen had re-formed and had rushed forward in another gallant attack. But the result was the same, and, while they succeeded in accounting for some of the smaller planes' the Zeppelins continued to fight as before, dropping their powerful shells upon the French fleet below.

But this time there was one plane that did not swerve as it burst through the Austrian line of small planes, and darted toward the first dirigible. Straight on it rushed, absolutely reckless, and crashed into the first giant balloon, head-on-collapse the great forward gas chamber, setting it on fire, exploding it, blowing all the mighty war balloon to atoms.

In this plane were Jack and Pierre. It was Jack's eye that had made out the only means of effective attack against the dirigible. Even as he had ordered the attack, the lad knew that it meant almost certain death, but he had not hesitated. He realized that the French aircraft must be shown some means of destroying these huge air fighters, and knowing that there was time to convey his ideas to the other, had acted at once.

Now, this accomplished, the plane in which Jack and Pierre had performed this success, driven deep into the flaming mass of wreckage, was falling with the broken war balloon down into the sea.

The wreck fell slowly, for the fabric, yet unconsumed, parachuted and held in the air. Then, finally, hissing and splashing, it fell into the sea.

To Jack's ears, as he came again to the surface, came the cries of men wounded and burning. An arm flung toward the sky sent his eyes in that direction, even as he swam.

He saw the two remaining dirigibles fighting together against another aeroplane attack. But the way had been shown, and no longer did the French sheer off when they broke through the Austrian air line. Two small planes crashed into the dirigibles, one into each, and exploded them.

They fell to the sea, burning, men tumbling out upon all sides. A form struck the water close to where Jack, miraculously uninjured, swam. The latter stretched out an arm, and grasped the body by the shoulder, as it reappeared upon the surface. Then a cry of amazement burst from his lips.

The form that he thus clutched so tightly was that of his friend Frank.



Chapter XIX

From The Dead

At Jack's cry of amazement Frank slowly opened his eyes. His constitution was not nearly as strong, as that of his huge friend. He was almost unconscious as the result of his terrible fall. But he recognized his chum in an instant, smiled feebly, and then his muscles relaxed. He lay a dead weight in Jack's arms.

Quickly the lad looked round for some sign of a vessel, or a piece of wreckage to which to cling until he could be picked up. There was none, so still carrying his friend he struck out in the direction of the nearest ship, which could even now be seen approaching.

The sounds of battle still continued, but they gradually grew less as the Austrian fleet, or what was left of it, retired to the protection of its land batteries.

Four warships sent to the bottom of the sea, three submarines missing, and undoubtedly gone forever, and a half score of torpedo boats sunk, was the Austrian loss. The French had lost two battleships, a submarine and three torpedo boats. The heaviest losses sustained by both sides had been to the air fleets.

Now the approaching vessel drew closer to Jack, and he at length realized that he had been seen. A small boat put off to him. Strong arms gripped him and pulled him and Frank into the boat, and a hearty voice exclaimed in English:

"By Jove! They're English! Now, how do you suppose they got here?"

Jack was conscious of a pleasant sensation at hearing his native tongue spoken thus, but he was too exhausted to take much interest in it then. He fell back unconscious.

But, if the lad was surprised at thus being addressed in English, there was still a greater surprise and joy in store for him -- and for Frank.

When Jack reopened his eyes, he lay in a small but well-furnished cabin. Frank lay near him. He already had returned to consciousness, and even now was glancing curiously about.

He glanced at Jack as the latter opened his eyes.

"By George!" he ejaculated. "I was afraid you were done for, you lay there so quietly. How did I come here?"

"Why," said Jack, "you toppled into the sea right beside me, and I grabbed you and held on until we were picked up."

"Then," cried Frank excitedly, "you were aboard the first plane that dived into the dirigible?"

"I was there," replied Jack briefly.

"By Jove! I thought so. It looked like some your doings. And, if you hadn't thought of that method of attack, the whole French fleet probably would have been sunk!"

"Well, somebody had to do it," said Jack modestly. "I notice you weren't far behind yourself."

"Well," said Frank quietly, "I am glad we accomplished the task successfully. Where are we now?"

"I don't know exactly," replied Jack. "But, as we were picked up, I heard someone talking in English. I believe that we are on an English ship that happened on the scene just in time to get into the battle."

"Well -- " began Frank, and stopped suddenly, staring open-mouthed at a figure now framed in the doorway of the little cabin.

Jack turned his eyes in that direction, and also was stricken speechless.

"Am I dreaming?" muttered Frank at last. "It -- it can't be."

"'But it is," exclaimed a well-known voice, and a dignified and military figure marched into the room -- the figure of Lord Hastings, whom the boys had so long mourned as lost.

In spite of their exhausted condition, both boys were upon their feet instantly, and each had him by the hand.

"But you went down with the Sylph," protested Jack.

"You were drowned," declared Frank. "I saw you go down."

"So you did," replied Lord Hastings, laughing a little. "But I came up again. I came up near a piece of floating wreckage, to which I clung for more than twenty-four hours before I was finally picked up by a British torpedo boat."

There were tears in the eyes of both boys as they clung to their old commander.

"But what happened to you?" Lord Hastings continued. "I inquired everywhere, and could find no trace of you. I was certain that you had gone down, and I was never so surprised and overjoyed in my life as when you were lifted aboard the Sylph a few hours ago."

"The Sylph!" ejaculated Jack.

"Yes," replied His Lordship, smiling a little, "I have christened this vessel the Sylph II, but I always speak of her as the Sylph. But come, tell me about yourselves."

Briefly Frank related the experiences they had gone through since the Sylph had been sunk.

"Nothing you do can surprise me any more," declared Lord Hastings, when Frank had finished his narrative. "But now, as to the future, do you wish to remain aboard the Marie Theresa, or would you like to come with me?"

"Would we!" ejaculated Jack fervently.

"I should say we would!" declared Frank decisively.

"Well," said Lord Hastings, "I have no doubt that it can be arranged. I shall speak to Captain Dreyfuss at once."

"Is Lieutenant Hetherington alive?" asked Jack suddenly.

"No," replied Lord Hastings sadly, "we three are the sole survivors of the Sylph."

"But what are you doing in these waters?" demanded Frank.

"Well," replied Lord Hastings, "it's somewhat of a secret, but I don't mind telling you. I am on the trail of the German cruiser Emden."

"The Emden!" ejaculated both lads.

"Exactly. She has become a terrible menace to British shipping. While she is probably more than a match for the Sylph, if I come up with her I shall stay on her trail until I can raise a cruiser big enough to tackle her. My job is to find her, and, when I do, I guarantee I shall never lose sight of her."

"Good!" cried Jack. "Now, if you can fix it up with Captain Dreyfuss, we are ready to go with you."

"Would you like to accompany me?" asked the commander of the Sylph.

The lads signified their assent. An hour later they were all seated in Captain Dreyfuss' cabin aboard the Marie Theresa.

"And where is Pierre?" demanded Captain Dreyfuss of Jack.

"Gone!" replied the lad quietly. "He died the death of a hero."

"And do you mean to tell me," demanded the captain, "that you two lads were in the machines that dived head first into the enemy?"

"It was Jack who conceived the idea and made the first attack," replied Frank.

Captain Dreyfuss turned to Lord Hastings.

"And these are the two lads you are asking me to give up to you, eh?" he said severely.

"Well," replied Lord Hastings, "I certainly should like to have them back again. But, of course, if you do not give your consent -- "

Captain Dreyfuss interrupted him with a wave of the hand, and turned to the boys.

"And what do you say, sirs?" he demanded. "Have you not been treated well aboard my ship?"

"Yes, sir," replied Jack, "but -- "

Frank's heart fell. From the captain's tone, it was apparent that he did not intend to let them go.

"And you, sir?" demanded the captain of Frank.

"We have no cause to complain," replied Frank. "But Lord Hastings -- "

"Enough!" interrupted Captain Dreyfuss. "It shall be as you say." He turned to Lord Hastings.

"Take them," he said, "and I am sure you will never find two braver lads."

"Thank you, sir," said both boys.

The commander of the Marie Theresa arose to his feet, signifying that the interview was over, and extended a hand to each lad.

"Good luck," he said simply. "You may go now. I have some matters to discuss with your new commander."

The boys saluted and went on deck, where they awaited Lord Hastings.

It was several hours later before they returned aboard the Sylph. No sooner were they aboard, however, than Lord Hastings ordered that the vessel be put under way immediately.

"I have wasted time enough here," he told the lads. "I must get on the trail of the Emden at once."

The lads were given quarters corresponding to the ones they had had on the old Sylph. The vessel was built along the same lines as the Sylph I, and had been fitted out just as luxuriously and comfortably. It was, in times of peace, well adapted for a pleasure yacht.

The Sylph II carried a goodly array of fighting material, however, and a crew of 150 men.

It was while dining that night that Lord Hastings gave the boys the surprise of their lives.

"I presume you know," he said quietly, "that as the two surviving officers of the Sylph, you now move into the vacancies left by the death of my first and second officer?"

"What!" exclaimed both lads in the greatest surprise.

"Oh, you heard me," replied Lord Hastings. "But which of you is to be which?"

"But how about your present officers?" demanded Jack.

"They will understand when I explain to them," replied Lord Hastings. "Now, which is to be my first officer?"

"Jack, sir," said Frank.

"Frank, sir," said Jack.

"Come," said His Lordship, "I have a way to decide."

He took two toothpicks, and broke one off a little shorter than the other. He put them behind his back for a moment, and then held his hand out in front of him.

"Whoever draws the shortest stick," he said, "shall be my first officer. Draw!"

Jack took one of the toothpicks and Frank the other. Then they compared them.

Frank dropped his and slapped Jack heartily on the back.

"Good!" he said joyfully, "you've won."



Chapter XX

The "Emden"

"The Emden," said Lord Hastings to Jack and Frank, "has probably done more damage to British, French and Russian shipping than all of the other German raiders and fleets at large."

"Has she accomplished anything lately?" asked Frank.

"Yes," replied Lord Hastings, "she has indeed. I suppose you have not heard the story of her raids?"

"No," replied both lads, and Jack added: "Will you tell us what you know of her?"

"Well," began Lord Hastings, "the Emden is commanded by Captain Karl von Mueller, a courteous gentleman and a competent officer -- also, by the way, in times of peace, a friend of mine."

"Then you know him well?" asked Frank.

"Very well," returned Lord Hastings. "He has visited me more than once, and I have been his guest in Berlin. But to proceed. The first report of the activity of the Emden was received on August 6, when word came that the German cruiser had sunk the steamer City of Winchester the day before.

"The Emden has contributed to the history of the war one of its most remarkable chapters. For sheer audacity and success it has few parallels. Twenty-two ships, mostly British, have been sunk and one has been captured by this German cruiser, rightly named 'The Terror of the Sea.'

"Since early in August the Emden has been at work. Most of this time she has been preying on shipping in the Indian Ocean. The vessels destroyed by Captain von Mueller had a total value of about $4,000,000, exclusive of their cargoes. The Emden's largest guns, according to the best figures obtainable, are only 4-inch, and of these she has ten. Her speed of 24.5 knots is her greatest asset, but the Sylph has the heels of her. She has been able to run down merchant ships with ease and then escape from larger but slower vessels that pursued her. British, Russian, French and Japanese warships in the East have been trying for weeks to put an end to her, but without success."

"But," Frank broke in, "how has she been able to keep to sea month after month without replenishing her coal supply?"

"That," said Lord Hastings, "is a mystery that is as yet unsolved. It is assumed, however, that she has obtained sufficient food and fuel to meet her needs from captured ships. In at least one instance this is known to have been done. The captain of the British steamer Exford, captured by the Emden, informed his owners that Captain von Mueller said that before he sank the Exford he intended to take on board his cruiser the 7,000 tons of steam coal with which the Exford was laden."

"Captain von Mueller must indeed be a capable officer," said Jack.

"He is," said Lord Hastings. "But to continue. After sinking the City of Winchester the Emden steamed into the Bay of Bengal, five days later, and sent two more British vessels to the bottom. Within three days she had sunk four vessels there. She was accompanied by the Markommania, a converted liner, as a collier. The collier was sunk off Sumatra October 16 by a British cruiser.

"Leaving the Bay of Bengal, the Emden sank three British steamers in the Indian Ocean on September 14. September 22 she appeared off Madras and shelled the city, and, extinguishing her lights, disappeared when the forts replied. Then she renewed her activity in the vicinity of Rangoon, where more British ships fell to her prey. Where she is now I don't know."

"How large a vessel is she?" asked Jack, greatly interested.

"She has a complement Of 361 men," replied Lord Hastings. "Her armament, besides the ten 4-inch guns I referred to before, consists of eight five pounders and four machine guns. She is also understood to be equipped with two submerged 17.7-inch torpedo tubes. She displaces 3,600 tons. She is 387 feet long and has a beam of 43 1/3 feet. She was built in 1908. That's about all I can tell you about her."

"And Captain von Mueller," said Frank, "is he an elderly man?"

"No," replied Lord Hastings, "I should hardly call him that. I don't know his age, of course, but he is under forty. I understand that the Germans are bailing him as the modern Nelson and Paul Jones, in memory of two of the greatest sea fighters of all time."

"Well they may," declared Jack, "for he must be a man of exceptional ability. I should like to see him."

"So you may, with good fortune," said Lord Hastings. "It is my hope to see him again before he has done further damage to England."

Lord Hastings' account of the brief history of the Emden made quite an impression on Frank and Jack. The brief though active career of probably the greatest of German sea fighters interested them greatly, as it should all young readers.

The boys talked much of the gallant German captain as the Sylph II continued on her course from the Adriatic into the sunny Mediterranean once more, through the Suez Canal into the Red Sea, after a stop for coal at Port Said, and on into the warm waters of the Indian Ocean.

And more news of the Emden was not to be long forthcoming. Lord Hastings had no means of knowing just in what part of the sea the Emden might be in so, after two days of fruitless cruising, he put into the port of Penang, on Malacca Straits. Here Lord Hastings received first-hand information concerning the whereabouts of the German "Terror of the Sea."

There were two Russian cruisers, two French destroyers and one British vessel in the harbor, under the guns of the little fort, when the Sylph steamed in. These vessels also had been in search of the Emden, and had put in for coal.

The commanders of the various ships exchanged visits. The Emden was practically the sole topic of their conversation. The Russian commander had just returned aboard his own ship after a visit to Lord Hastings. There came a call from the lookout-on the Sylph.

"Cruiser coming into the harbor, sir!"

Lord Hastings, Frank and Jack hurried to the bridge.

"She shows no colors," muttered Frank. "Wonder who she is?"

"Maybe the Emden come to pay a little social call," said Jack.

"No," said Lord Hastings; "this cruiser has four smokestacks; the Emden has but three."

"They could easily rig up another one," said Jack.

"Lord Hastings, some way I feel that all is not right."

"Nonsense," replied Lord Hastings.

There was the sound of a shot from one of the Russian cruisers.

"She'll show her colors now," said Lord Hastings.

All glanced toward the approaching vessel. A flag was run tip the masthead. Lord Hastings made it out immediately.

"Japanese," he said, unconsciously breathing easier.

Slowly the cruiser came closer, heading right for the other ships of war in the harbor. Lord Hastings returned to his cabin and Frank followed him.

Jack continued to gaze over the rail at the cruiser. Suddenly, why he never knew, he rushed hurriedly after his commander.

"I am sure that is not a Japanese cruiser, sir," he cried. "I don't know why, but something tells me it is an enemy."

"Nonsense," said Lord Hastings again. "You are a bit nervous. That's all."

"No, sir, it isn't that," replied Jack. "I -- "

He was interrupted by the boom of a single big gun followed by a heavy outbreak of cannonading. Lord Hastings jumped to his feet and dashed to the bridge, Jack and Frank close at his heels.

They glanced quickly at the supposed Japanese cruiser. But the Japanese ensign had been hauled down, and now there floated from the cruiser the flag of Germany! And the cruiser's fourth smoke stack had come down.

"The Emden!" cried Lord Hastings.

Bugles were sounding on all the allied ships, of war in the harbor, calling the men to quarters. Caught thus unprepared, the allied vessels were at an immense disadvantage.

Suddenly there was a loud explosion aboard one of the Russian cruisers, and a moment later it burst into flames. Now the other ships poured broadsides into the Emden, but she stuck to her post. One of the two French destroyers suddenly dived, head-first, into the sea, one of the Emden's submerged torpedoes having dealt her a deathblow.

A shell sped over the stern of the Sylph, but did no damage. Then, calmly, almost ignoring the remaining ships of the allied fleet, the Emden put about, and made off. Her raid had been successful, and it was another victory for the Kaiser.

The Emden continued to rain shells at her foes until she was out of range. Not minded to take any unnecessary risk, Lord Hastings let the Emden get well out of range, before he gave the command for the Sylph to follow.

Then, stripped for action, the Sylph set out upon the trail of the German cruiser.

"We are on the trail at last," said Lord Hastings, "and on the trail we'll remain until the Emden has been sent to the bottom." He turned to Jack. "Hereafter," he said, "I'll place faith in your premonitions."

The Sylph kept just far enough in the rear of the Emden to be out of range. After three hours, it became apparent that the commander of the German cruiser was aware that he was being followed. He slowed down, waiting the Sylph to come within range and give battle.

But while Lord Hastings was a brave man, he had no idea of accepting battle now. For had the day gone against him, the Emden would have been able to disappear once more. With the superior speed of the Sylph, Lord Hastings knew that he could remain on the trail, using his wireless to pick up some British vessel big enough to put an end to the "Terror of the Sea."

Accordingly, the Sylph also slowed down. After waiting in vain for the little scout cruiser to approach closer, the Emden again set out on her course, at full speed. The Sylph also quickened her pace, and the Emden was unable to shake her off.

Then the Emden slowed down again. So did the Sylph. The wireless operator approached Lord Hastings with a message.

Lord Hastings read it aloud:

"Remain where you are till I come up, or I shall sink you. Signed, von Mueller."

Followed by the two lads Lord Hastings made his way to the wireless room, and ticked off this message himself:

"The Emden is doomed. Signed, Hastings."



Chapter XXI

On The Trail

A reply to this message was not long coming. It read:

"Lord Hastings: Sorry you are aboard, but I must sink you."

To this Lord Hastings replied:

"It can't be done."

Now the Emden put about and headed for the Sylph. Quickly also the Sylph came about and headed westward.

"If he'll only follow long enough, we'll lure him into the path of some British vessel," said Lord Hastings.

"Well," said Jack, "I don't believe he will. As soon as he finds he cannot overtake us, he'll continue on his way."

"And he'll try to lose us in the night," said Frank.

"That is my idea," said Lord Hastings. "To prevent that we must be on the alert continually. We'll follow him for months, if necessary. At nights we shall have to close up a bit, and take a chance that they cannot hit us."

It was nearing dusk when the Emden finally gave up the chase of the Sylph as futile, and once more put about. Immediately also the Sylph's head came about, and she once more set out, to trail the German. Occasional messages were exchanged between Captain von Mueller and Lord Hastings.

Night fell, and now the Sylph began to draw closer to her quarry. She closed up the distance gradually, until Lord Hastings decided that they were near enough; and this position the Sylph maintained, her searchlight playing upon the Emden and making her as light as day.

All night and all the following day the Sylph followed the Emden. Several times the Emden put about, and made as if to give chase, but on each occasion the Sylph also changed her course. The relative positions of the two vessels remained the same, except that in the light of day the Sylph put more distance between her and her quarry.

Night drew on once more, and again the Sylph approached closer. It was plain that this remorseless pursuit was worrying the commander of the Emden and that he did not know which way to turn to avoid his pursuer.

Lord Hastings sniffed the air.

"Feels like there would be a fog tonight," he said. "I hope it is not so dense as to dim the glow of the searchlight."

But in this he was doomed to disappointment. The fog descended, but still those on the Sylph could dimly make out the outline of the Emden. But with the approach of morning, while Jack had the bridge, the fog suddenly thickened, and blotted out the pursued vessel entirely.

Quickly Jack summoned Lord Hastings.

Immediately Lord Hastings ordered the searchlight extinguished and all lights on board put out.

"We don't want to let him know where we are," he said. "I feel absolutely certain that Captain von Mueller will double back and try to come up upon us in the fog. We must avoid that at all hazards, and at the same time must so maneuver as to be near enough to pick him up when the fog lifts."

Lord Hastings altered the course of the Sylph slightly, but continued to go forward. Six o'clock came and no sign of the Emden, and then seven. And then the fog lifted as suddenly as it had descended, and at that moment there was the sound of a big gun and a shell whistled over the stern of the Sylph.

A mile in the offing, having put about, was the Emden. She had maneuvered even as Lord Hastings had figured, and had run clear by the Sylph in the darkness.

"Full speed ahead!" commanded Lord Hastings.

The Sylph leaped quickly forward, as the bell tinkled the signal to the engine-room, running rapidly to get out of range of the Emden's guns and torpedoes.

Several times, without reducing the speed of his ship, Lord Hastings swerved in his course, and thus spoiled the aim of the German gunners. And then the Emden's shells began to fall short. The Sylph was out of range.

For an hour the Emden continued her pursuit, and then once more put about and herself became the pursued, the Sylph following relentlessly on her heels.

It was near noon when the wireless operator aboard the Sylph approached Lord Hastings.

"Have just picked up the Australian cruiser Sydney, sir. I gave him our identity and Captain Glossop pays his respects to you, sir."

Lord Hastings jumped to action in a moment.

"Where is he now?"

The operator gave the position of the Sydney.

"A hundred miles away," mused Lord Hastings.

He led the way to the wireless room.

"Send this in code," he told the operator, handing him a slip of paper on which he had written a few words, "and instruct him to reply in code."

The operator did as he was commanded.

The reply was plain to Lord Hastings, himself an operator upon occasion.

"Good!" he said to himself.

He turned to the boys.

"I gave the Sydney our position and told him we were trailing the Emden. He replied that he would head for us immediately; for us to keep up the chase and keep him constantly informed of our position."

"But don't you suppose the Emden has picked up the message, sir."

"Undoubtedly; that is why I sent it in code. Von Mueller may surmise what we are up to, but he cannot be sure."

That the commander of the Emden had picked up the message became apparent a few moments later.

"Emden has signaled the Sydney her presence not needed, sir," said the operator, "and signed the message Hastings."

Lord Hastings scribbled rapidly.

"Send this," he ordered.

The message read:

"Disregard all communications not in code. Emden trying to throw you off the track."

The Sydney acknowledged the receipt of this message, and Lord Hastings and the two lads returned to the bridge.

"What do you suppose Captain von Mueller will do now?" asked Jack.

"Run as long as he can," replied Lord Hastings.

"However, the Sydney is considerably faster, so it is only a question of time till we get him."

The Emden now headed east, on a course that eventually would land her, if she maintained it, somewhere along the Malay archipelago. The Sylph gave chase.

Continual messages were flashed between Lord Hastings and the commander of the Australian cruiser, and it became apparent that the latter gradually overhauling them.

Came a message to Lord Hastings from the commander of the Emden:

"Sorry you were afraid to fight it out."

Lord Hastings wired back:

"I wasn't afraid, but I will take no chance of losing you."

All day and all another night the chase continued; and it was near noon of the following day that the lookout gave the welcome cry:

"Ship off the stern, sir!"

Quickly all eyes were turned in the direction indicated. A smudge of smoke could be seen off the horizon. Came a message from the Sydney:

"Have sighted you."

But the Sydney was still far in the rear when land came in sight.

"What do you make it, sir?" asked Frank of Lord Hastings.

"I should say it is one of the Cocos Islands group," was the reply.

The Emden headed straight for it. Two hours later she landed, and the Sylph stood off.

"Do you suppose Captain von Mueller will desert the ship or sink her?" asked Jack.

"Not without a fight," replied Lord Hastings positively.

It was three hours later before the Emden lifted anchor and put to sea again. Those on board did not know it then, but a landing party from the Emden had destroyed the wireless station on the island while there.

Slowly but surely the Sydney overhauled the Sylph, and at length drew up on even terms with her. Then she forged slowly ahead, drawing closer and closer to her prey.

Now, realizing that escape was impossible, the Emden turned. Brought to bay, Captain von Mueller had decided to give battle.

"Will we go into action, sir?" asked Jack of Lord Hastings eagerly.

"Not unless it is absolutely necessary," replied the commander of the Sylph. "The Sydney can handle the Emden alone."

Both lads were disappointed, for they had felt certain, that when the Emden was brought to bay they would have a hand in putting an end to her.

"Well," said Jack, "we can at least see the battle."

"Right," said Frank, and fortifying themselves with glasses, they took posts of vantage.

Now the Emden steamed forward to meet the Sydney, and the Sylph hove to. The crew, relieved from duty, scattered about the decks, seeking advantageous places to witness the encounter.

Slowly the two cruisers approached each other.

The Emden already has been described, and a few words here concerning the Sydney will not be amiss.

The Australian cruiser Sydney carried a main battery of eight 6-inch guns, thus giving her an advantage over the German ship. She had a complement Of 400 men. She was 400 feet long and was much greater in the beam than her antagonist. She carried several smaller guns and a number of rapid-firers. As did the Emden, the Sydney carried two submerged torpedoes.

Across the water came the call of a bugle, as the crew of the Sydney made ready for action. She was almost within range now. There was no question but that she outranged the Emden slightly, but the German cruiser was steaming rapidly forward to overcome this disadvantage as quickly as possible.

Now there was a puff of smoke from the bow of the Sydney. "Boom!" came the sound of a big gun.

The Sydney, within range at last, had opened the battle.



Chapter XXII

The Battle

"Now for it!" cried Jack, as the first shell from the British cruiser splashed up the water only a few yards in front of the Emden.

A second concussion was heard and an English shell struck the heavy armored side of the German cruiser.

The sailors and officers raised a loud cheer. It was first blood for the Sydney, and the sailors aboard that vessel also let out a yell of delight.

So far the Emden had not answered the Sydney's fire. However, she was dashing rapidly ahead, seeking to get within range. Two more shells from the Sydney struck the Emden before she finally managed to get within range, and opened fire with the 4-inch guns in her forward turrets.

The results of the first salvos from the German guns were nil. The range finders on the Emden had evidently not calculated properly. The water leaped into white sprays ahead of the Sydney, indicating that the Emden's first fire had been wasted.

But the next attempt o the Emden met with better success. A solid shot struck the Sydney, squarely on the bow. The Sydney's armor was, too strong for the German guns at this distance, however, and while the vessel staggered slightly, she was not damaged to any extent.

It became apparent early in the battle that the marksmanship of the Sydney's gunners was much superior to that of the foe. The range-finders were attending to their work with coolness and precision. The fire was deliberate and accurate. It was slower than that of the Emden, but far more deadly.

A shell struck upon the Emden's deck near the forward smokestack and burst.  Iron and steel flew high in the air and came down in a deadly hail, killing and maiming many members of the crew. The smokestack toppled to the deck, pinioning many more beneath it.

Quickly a squad of men sprang forward and soon cleared away the wreckage. But the carrying away of the smokestack now hampered the draught of the Emden and made progress much more difficult. Nevertheless, she still continued to pour her shells against the armored sides of the Sydney.

Now the first shot landed among the gun crew of the Sydney, putting one of the guns out of commission, killing three of the crew and wounding several others. Those three men were the only ones killed on the Sydney in the whole course of the battle.

Suddenly those aboard the Sylph became aware that the fire of the enemy was not as rapid as before. The reason for this they soon made out.  One of the forward guns of the Emden had been, silenced by the well-directed fire of the Sydney.

A moment later another of the enemy's guns became silent -- and then another. Up to this moment the Emden had been rushing as rapidly as possible toward the Sydney, but now she paused in her advance, almost stopped, swung about in a wide circle, and made off in the other direction.

It was plain that she had had enough. A cheer went up from the British sailors, both on the Sydney and aboard the Sylph. But Captain Glossop, of the Sydney, had no mind to let his prey escape. The Sydney dashed in pursuit of the enemy at full speed, and a fierce running battle ensued.

The Emden's stern guns continued to play upon the Sydney as she made a wild dash for the distant shore. She was headed for the nearest point of land, and the question that now rose in the minds of the spectators aboard the Sylph was whether the Sydney could come up with her before she could find a certain amount of refuge in what appeared to be a small cove.

The excitement aboard the Sylph was intense. Men shouted and yelled, calling words of encouragement and advice to the fellow sailors aboard the British battle cruiser, forgetting their voices could not be heard.

As the Emden turned and made off, Jack cried out:

"She's running! She's liable to get away!"

"Don't you believe it!" called Frank excitedly. "The Sydney'll catch 'em!"

"What's the Emden heading that way for?" asked Jack of Lord Hastings, who stood beside the lads.

"My idea is," replied the commander of the Sylph, "that von Mueller intends to beach the ship."

"In that event will he and his men try to escape inland?"

"I suppose so."

The Sydney continued her chase, seeming to gather additional speed at every furlong. Her heavy shells played a merry tattoo upon the stem and deck of the fleeing German cruiser.

But the Emden was now gradually drawing toward land. Suddenly, she swerved and headed straight for a huge reef that could be seen protruding above the surface of the water. A cry of dismay went up from those aboard the Sylph.

But the cry was uncalled for. For even as the Emden swerved in her course, a British shell burst squarely upon the bridge of the German cruiser.

At the same instant a second found 'its way through the various compartments to the engine-room.

There was the sound of terrific explosion, and a red sheet of flame sprang above the cruiser. Even above the cries of battle came the cries of German sailors, maimed and suffering horribly.

Another salvo from the Sydney put the steering apparatus of the Emden out of commission, and now instead of steering straight for the rocky reef, she turned her broadside toward it.

Swiftly she floated toward this dangerous projection. Almost helpless as she was, Captain von Mueller evidently had no thought of surrender. The three guns still in commission aboard the vessel continued to hurl their messages of defiance at the Sydney.

Suddenly rapid movements of those aboard the Emden told that one of the submerged torpedoes, still undamaged, was about to be launched. Quickly the Sydney maneuvered a trifle to the left, and the huge explosive sped on to the sea beyond, doing no damage. Now the second torpedo was launched, but it had no better success.

Now the Sydney made use of her own torpedo tube, and a moment later this engine of destruction sped through the water toward the Emden. There was no need for a second. A terrible explosion told that the torpedo had found its mark.

High above the burning cruiser a second sheet of flame flared up, and at almost the same instant the Emden beached. There was a loud crunching sound as the cruiser grounded on the rocky reef and was battered by the heavy waves against the uneven projections.

To launch the small boats in this place and make for the shore was impossible. The boats were launched, and the crew tumbled in. One made off toward the shore, but it could not live in the fierce breakers, and in a moment disappeared.

The other boats, warned by the fate of the first, put off toward the open sea.

"Do you suppose Captain von Mueller will remain and perish with his ship?" asked Frank of Lord Hastings.

"I do not believe so," was the reply. "There is no need for it. If the ship were sinking, it would be another matter, but as you see, it is not. It appears to be caught hard and fast on a ledge, and is burning up."

It was true. Stuck suddenly fast on a rocky ledge, the Emden was almost stationary. Flames continued to leap on all sides of her, and it was plainly apparent that it would not be long before they would reach her magazine; and when they did reach it, that would be the end.

As the German small boats headed seaward, the Sydney ceased firing at the now helpless vessel, and bore down on them. It was plain that Captain Glossop was bent upon capturing the survivors.

Small boats and the Australian cruiser were now probably a mile from the burning vessel, and the Sylph had started forward also to pick up some of the German sailors.

At this moment the flames reached the magazine of the Emden. There was a blinding flash, a terrific detonation. The Emden sprang from the sea like a thing alive, seemed to hang in the air for a brief moment, then turned and dived head-first into the sea. The waters closed over her with an angry hiss, and the German cruiser Emden, for months a terrible menace to British, French and Russian shipping, "The Terror of the Sea," was no more.

"A fitting end for so noble a vessel," was Lord Hastings' only comment as the cruiser disappeared from the world's ken.

The Sylph was nearing the little flotilla of small boats, and several were put off from the vessel to join the small craft of the Sydney and take the surviving Germans prisoners.

Frank and Jack were in the first boat. As they, drew closer, Jack made out a uniformed figure in one of the German boats that he felt sure was the commander of the Emden.

He steered his boat closer. It was plain that there would be no further resistance from the Germans, and Jack finally managed to steer his boat alongside that of Captain von Mueller.

The latter made no protest when Jack ordered him to step aboard the Sylph's small boat, and did so without a word. Immediately, the little craft turned about and put back to the Sylph, leaving the other small craft to attend to the rest of the German survivors.

Of the Emden's crew Of 361 officers and men, there were less than 75 left alive. Dead and wounded alike had gone to a deep-sea grave when the German cruiser took her death plunge.

Lord Hastings stood at the rail of the Sylph as the little boat drew alongside.

Jack and Frank clambered over the side of the ship ahead of the German commander and, with Lord Hastings, stood waiting to receive him.



Chapter XXIII

Captain Von Mueller

As Captain von Mueller clambered over the rail, Lord Hastings advanced to meet him with outstretched hand.

"It is indeed a pleasure to receive you aboard the Sylph!" he exclaimed, with real pleasure in his voice.

Captain von Mueller grasped the outstretched hand and wrung it heartily.

"And I am glad to see you," he returned quietly, "though I would rather it were under more fortunate circumstances. But the battle is over and with your permission, we will not refer to it again."

"Agreed," replied Lord Hastings, and led the way to his cabin, motioning for Captain von Mueller, Frank and Jack to follow.

He introduced the lads to the great German commander, and the latter expressed his pleasure at seeing them. At this moment the third officer entered and spoke to Lord Hastings.

"Launch from the Sydney coming alongside, sir," he said.

"Show Captain Glossop here when he comes aboard," he said.

The third officer withdrew. He appeared again a moment later, however, followed by the commander of the Sydney. Introductions followed.

"Captain von Mueller," said Lord Hastings at length, "it will be necessary for me to turn you over to Captain Glossop. You will go with him aboard the Sydney. Were I returning direct to England, it would give me pleasure to have you accompany me. However, the Sydney will go straight back to Melbourne, and you will be taken there and held as a prisoner of war."

Captain von Mueller signified his understanding of the situation. He expressed pleasure at having met Lord Hastings again, and that the fortunes of war had made him the prisoner of such gallant Englishmen.

After some further talk, Captain von Mueller and Captain Glossop disappeared over the side of the Sylph, and put off toward the Sydney. Before either vessel proceeded on its way, several further messages were exchanged between the commanders of the Sydney and the Sylph; but at length the Sydney began to draw away toward the east.

"And so," said Lord Hastings to the two lads, as they stood leaning over the rail, after the Sylph was once more under way, "so goes the 'German Terror of the Sea.'"

The Sylph now turned her head once more to the west, and started on her journey back toward the Mediterranean. She steamed along slowly, Lord Hastings, greatly satisfied with the success of his mission, being in no particular hurry. They put in at Ceylon for coal; then once more resumed their journey.

It was the second day after leaving Ceylon that the lookout made a startling discovery.

"Submarine off the starboard bow, sir!" he called.

Instantly there was excitement on board the Sylph, for there was no telling whether the submarine were friend or foe. At length those on the bridge were able to make out the periscope of the vessel, close to the water. And at this very moment it stood higher and higher in the water. The submarine was coming to the surface.

The Sylph had been quickly stripped for action, for Lord Hastings had determined to give battle should the submarine prove to be an enemy. All available guns were turned upon the spot where the submarine was rising.

But hardly had the under-sea craft come to the surface than a British ensign was run up.

Lord Hastings breathed easier.

"Good!" he exclaimed. "I wouldn't care much to encounter a submarine."

The commander of the submarine, Captain Nicholson, came aboard the Sylph to pay his respects to Lord Hastings.

"I suppose you are aware," he said during the course of the conversation, "that Turkey has declared war on England, France and Russia?"

"What!" cried Lord Hastings. "Turkey has declared war! I hadn't heard of it."

"Well, it's true, nevertheless," replied Captain Nicholson.

Lord Hastings smiled grimly.

"I guess it will be 'The Sick Man of Europe's' last illness," he said pointedly.

Captain Nicholson laughed.

"It will," he said briefly.

"But what are you doing in these waters?" asked Lord Hastings, having already explained his own presence there.

"Well," said Captain Nicholson, "I understand that there are at least three Turkish cruisers anchored in the mouth of the Euphrates, in the Persian gulf. I suppose they are there to protect Bassora, about 70 miles up the river, from possible attacks. I had thought of attempting to sink them."

"What, alone?" said Lord Hastings.

The captain of the submarine shrugged his shoulders.

"Why not?" he wanted to know.

"Well," said Lord Hastings, "it's a desperate venture, but if you are successful, it will be a feather in your cap."

"I'm not looking for glory," replied Captain Nicholson. "But I would give my right arm to destroy those Turkish cruisers, guarded as they are by a fort. And I mean to have a try at it."

"I'd like to go with you," said Lord Hastings, "but the Sylph would be worse than useless in such an encounter."

"True," said Captain Nicholson. "But I have an idea. Have you ever been aboard a submarine in action?"

"I have been aboard many submarines, yes," replied Lord Hastings, "but one in action, no."

"Then why not come with me?"

"I would like to," said Lord Hastings, "but what of the Sylph?"

"Your first officer could take command until you returned."

"No," said Lord Hastings, "it can't be done." He was struck with a sudden idea, and turned to Jack and Frank. "How would you two lads like to make such an excursion?" he asked.

"We would like nothing better, sir," replied Frank.

"Indeed, we would like it immensely," agreed Jack.

Lord Hastings turned again to Captain Nicholson.

"Why not take these two lads as substitutes for me?" he asked.

The commander of the submarine looked somewhat dubious.

"Oh, I'll guarantee they won't be in the way," said Lord Hastings with a laugh, and he proceeded to relate to the astounded commander some of the things the lads had already accomplished.

Captain Nicholson arose, and took each lad by the hand.

"I shall account it an honor to have you with me,"' he said quietly.

"So be it, then," said Lord Hastings. "I shall remain here with the Sylph until you return."

Both lads thanked Lord Hastings heartily for giving them this opportunity of seeing something of under-the-sea fighting aboard a British vessel.

"How soon do you plan to start?" Lord Hastings inquired of Captain Nicholson.

"Immediately," replied the commander of the submarine Y-3.

"And how long do you figure it will be before you can return here?"

"Not more than thirty-six hours."

Lord Hastings turned to the two lads.

"You had better take a few clothes with you," he told then. "Do you prepare now, while I have a few words with Captain Nicholson."

The lads hastened to their own quarters, and rapidly threw a few belongings together, so anxious were they to be off.

"Lord Hastings is a brick!" exclaimed Jack.

"I should say he is!" agreed Frank. "He agrees to wait in this outlandish spot two days just to give us this opportunity. How many other commanders do you suppose there are who would go to all that trouble?"

"Not many," replied Jack dryly.

"I guess not. Are you ready;"'

"Yes."

"Come on then, let's go back to Lord Hastings' cabin."

Captain Nicholson was already on his feet, ready to go, when the lads re-entered the commander's cabin.

"I see it didn't take you long," he observed.

"We are very anxious to go, sir," Jack explained.

"They are always quick and prompt," said Lord Hastings.

"An excellent trait," commended Captain Nicholson.

Lord Hastings accompanied Captain Nicholson and the two lads to the rail.

"All you two lads have to do," he said, "is to, look on. You are not supposed to do any fighting, just keep out of everybody's way and make no trouble. Also, keep out of mischief."

"Very well, sir," replied Jack.

The three clambered over the rail and dropped into the little boat that was rising and falling gently with the swell of the waves on the sea below.

Quickly the launch put off toward the submarine.

Lord Hastings raised his voice and shouted after them.

"I'll wait here until you return. Don't be gone any longer than you can help."

"We'll be back within the time I mentioned," Captain Nicholson called back.

Lord Hastings signified that he was satisfied, and waved his hand to the departing boat.

Jack and Frank waved in return.



Chapter XXIV

Under The Sea Again

"I have not yet told the men what I propose to do," Captain Nicholson informed the boys, ass they made their way aboard the Y-3.

Captain Nicholson introduced the lads to the man at the helm.

"Old Jansen," he said with a flourish of his arm.

The boys acknowledged this introduction, and Old Jansen touched his cap.

"Jansen," said the commander, "we are going to attack the Turkish battleships at the mouth of the Euphrates."

The old man let out a siren-like yell, and turned crimson all over his pink and white face.

Captain Nicholson turned the submarine over to him, and, followed by the two lads, made his way below.

"I never knew eighteen throats could make so much noise," said Frank to Jack, after the crew had been informed of their project.

And it was indeed a terrific noise the men made when they learned they were about to go into action.

"The 'subs' aren't like the big ships," Captain Nicholson explained. "With such a small crew I know the men personally, and I know I can count on each and every one of them, particularly Old Jansen, and Brown, the gunner's mate. I need not caution the engine-room crew for special watchfulness. Every oiler aft knows a warm bearing would condemn him forever in the eyes of his shipmates."

A few moments more and the submarine was racing along toward the mouth of the Euphrates, where the enemy was known to be. Just as dusk was setting in, Brown, the gunner's mate, reported an aeroplane to leeward. Captain Nicholson, Jack and Frank, who stood on the bridge, could just make it out with binoculars.

"I hate to use any electricity out of my batteries now," said Captain Nicholson, "for it is likely to be very precious later. However, I don't want to run chances of being discovered. We'll dive."

The three made their way below. The entrance was hermetically closed, and soon the tanks were being filled. A moment later the Y-3 began to submerge.

At a depth of 60 feet Captain Nicholson trimmed down, and f or an hour the vessel ran along at eight knots, the commander wishing to make sure of complete darkness before coming up.

"How do you manage to keep your course under water, captain?" asked Frank.

"Simple," was the reply. "Gyroscopic compass."

At that moment the man on watch at the bell receiver reported the sound of a ship's propellers above. Captain Nicholson turned his place at the periscope over to his first officer and listened himself.

The steady rhythmic beat was well off the port bow.

At Captain Nicholson's command, the main ballast tank was emptied until the conning tower was well awash. Then the commander, Frank and Jack went up to have a look around, for the airship, as well as for the vessel.

"Those sky pilots," said the commander, "maintain that they can see us and get us with bombs at any depth. However, I see nothing of our friend. Looks like he had lost his bet this time."

They returned below, and Frank put his eye to the periscope.

Almost instantly he made out the outline of large vessel of some kind. He reported this to Captain Nicholson, who brushed him quickly aside and peered into the periscope himself.

"Merchant vessel of some kind," he said aloud. "We haven't time to fool with him now. May be able to get him as we come back."

Once more now the three made their way to the bridge. The clouds had gradually thickened and it was very dark.

"I wish it would rain," mused Captain Nicholson, "or that we would at least have a dull sunrise, for it will be better suited for our work. Brown says he's sure we'll be favored with suitable weather because of the righteousness of our cause; but I am pinning my faith to the barometer, which has already fallen two points."

"Well, I hope everything goes all right," said Jack.

"It will," said the commander grimly. "You can bank on that, son. Might as well give the men a little rest," he added.

He poked his head down and called out:

"Turn in and pipe down!"

Then the commander and the two lads stood watch on the bridge.

At 2 o'clock, according to the captain's reckoning, the submarine was well off the mouth of the Euphrates.

"Can we find our way in by the navigation lights?" asked Frank.

"Not much," replied Captain Nicholson. "We'll stand off and on near where I place the shore line till we have daylight enough to see what we are about. Anyhow, I don't suppose there will be any lights, or if there are, they will likely be misplaced, to lure somebody to death."

Now the commander went below and bent over the charts for perhaps the hundredth time.

"About two miles off yet!" he muttered.

The chart gave the bottom on the sandbar in front of the entrance as shell and hard sand.

"Lucky," Captain Nicholson told the boys when he returned to the bridge. "This will allow us to run with very little under our keel in no fear of rocks."

"Is it very deep along here?" asked Jack.

"No," replied the commander. "That's what worries me. The chart shows a bare six and a half fathoms over the bar, continuing slightly deeper until it sheers off into the deep basin that is the inner harbor."

"And how much water does the Y-3 draw?"' asked Frank.

"From the top of her periscope to the bottom of her keel," replied Captain Nicholson, "the Y-3 displaces exactly 20 feet. It will be ticklish work to navigate in those six and a half fathoms (39 feet) without being drawn down by suction and striking bottom so hard as to rebound up to the surface, where the Turks are sure to see us."

At 4:30 o'clock in the morning there was light enough to make out the small gray fort guarding the entrance to the Euphrates. The submarine did not lie more than a mile away.

"It's up to us to get out of sight before the fort watchers see us," said Captain Nicholson.

Being satisfied of how far his run should be and verifying his course by the compass while still on the surface, Captain Nicholson quickly ordered the vessel trimmed down to a depth of 60 feet, and then started forward at about four knots -- as low a speed as was consistent with good handling.

"Lucky it's high tide; just beginning to ebb," said Captain Nicholson. "We'll find all the water on the bar that is ever there."

There was to be no more sleep now on the Y-3. From the gunner's mate down every man of the crew was on the qui vive.

As the submarine neared where the bar was charted, it came up till the pressure gauge showed only ten feet of water above.

"Ten feet to hide us from the forts' lookouts and guns," explained Captain Nicholson.

Suddenly there was a jar that stirred all on board off their feet. There was a sensation of sinking. As previously instructed, the diving rudder man immediately gave the submarine up-rudder. Captain Nicholson ordered full speed ahead, although he knew it would mean that the vessel's periscope would show, giving the enemy a good look at the vessel.

"If we hadn't come up," said Captain Nicholson, "we would have been sucked down solidly into the sand, and good-bye to our chances at those men-o-war inside."

He was silent a moment and then added: "This is what I call tough luck. We shall have to porpoise."

In a second the submarine was again down in the deep basin beyond the bar. The vessel hadn't been up long enough for the commander even to get a look around.

"Here's where we get busy," said Captain Nicholson. "It's up to us to rush the work along before the men in the fort, who must have seen us, can take measures against us."

The submarine ran along at a speed of ten knots at a depth of forty feet and in almost no time at all had covered the mile from the entrance to where the men-of-war lay.

"Now's the time," said Commander Nicholson.

Quickly the torpedoes, 18-inch superheaters, were placed in the tubes. It only remained to arise, sight the enemy and fire.

Quickly the little vessel rose until her periscope gave the commander a view of the first Turkish cruiser. The commander gave the word for a quick rise and the submersion, and took a firm grip on the periscope.

Through the spray that broke, the keen eyes of the commander made out the form of his first target. There, on the port side of the submarine, was a large Turkish cruiser, stern to.

Midstream, to starboard, lay a light cruiser of the first class, and 800 yards up the basin, between the two, a small armored cruiser.

The flat country was thickly veiled with mist and a drizzling rain. A choppy sea added to the chances of making the first attack on the Turks unobserved.

Captain Nicholson steered a course straight to the starboard side of the first Turkish cruiser, to launch the torpedo just forward of amidships at a distance of about 300 yards.

The lookout on the cruiser had not picked up the submarine. Captain Nicholson saw an officer at the stern, sighting the fort with his glass. The Y-3 crept on unnoticed.

Suddenly a seaman on the forecastle of the cruiser made out the periscope of the submarine, waved his cap frantically and ran toward an officer.

All this, as it progressed, Captain Nicholson repeated to the lads, who stood just behind him.

Jack glanced at the range scale. It read 349 yards.

The cross wires of the periscope were on her middle funnel. Captain Nicholson jerked the firing valve for No. 1 torpedo. There was a hiss of air and a rush of water.

The first torpedo had been launched!



Chapter XXV

A Successful Raid

Without pausing to learn the effect of the first shot, Captain Nicholson sent the submarine below with a lurch, ordered the helm hard a-starboard and made for mid-channel, where he knew the second first-class cruiser lay at anchor, stern to and nosing the strong ebb-tide.

All members of the crew, as well as Frank and Jack, were jubilant. The men insisted that they had heard a roar that meant the explosion of the cruiser, though this was highly improbable. Jack and Frank had heard nothing, and they turned to Captain Nicholson.

"Did you hit her, sir?" asked Jack eagerly.

"Sure," was the reply. "The shot couldn't have failed to go home."

But the work was only one-third done, even less than that, when the fact that the submarine had to get out of the harbor again is considered.

The submarine, well down, now ran across the harbor at an angle, aiming to come up to the starboard of the second cruiser. Captain Nicholson explained his reason for doing this:

"I figure they will expect us on the side nearest the first cruiser," he said. "Therefore, I believe we stand a fair chance of surprising them by attacking on the starboard. At the same time, we will have our movements masked from the third and smaller cruiser by our second victim itself."

This sounded reasonable to the two lads, but they made no comment.

To foster an appearance of an attack off the second cruiser's port side, Captain Nicholson let go a decoy periscope to float with the tide's decided sweep to the left shore and draw the fire of the enemy in that direction.

Slowly the submarine advanced, and presently those on board could hear the unmistakable boom of heavy guns. The ruse had succeeded, and the cruisers and guns of the fort were aiming at the spot in the water where the decoy periscope led them to believe the submarine was floating.

The submarine rose so that the periscope took in the scene above the water. Captain Nicholson, glancing through the instrument, saw that he was at least 500 yards to the starboard of the second cruiser. Under full speed, the Y-3 ran straight up to her enemy's bow.

The periscope, protruding above the water, was quickly sighted by the cruiser, but before the vessel's guns could be brought to bear, Captain Nicholson released the second torpedo. Immediately the Y-3 dived again.

But before the submarine had entirely disappeared under the water, there came a loud roaring boom. The second torpedo had gone home.

"Magazine must have gone too," said Captain Nicholson briefly.

Frank and Jack glanced curiously at the members of the crew. Not at all nervous themselves, they were nevertheless surprised at the apparent coolness of the British sailors.

Captain Nicholson noticed the expression on their faces, and took time to remark:

"I suppose we should all be thinking with pity of the dead and dying above us, but when you're a hundred feet or so below, the shots and cries of battle are neither exciting nor gruesome."

The gallant commander was now steering a course for the third of the Turkish cruisers.

"Guess I won't go so close this time," he remarked. "I'll fire at longer range, so we won't have so far to go among the wreckage of all three when we leave."

Ten minutes, later the submarine came within the desired range, unobserved by the cruiser, which was lowering her boats to go to the help of the others. Captain Nicholson stood with his hand on the toggle of the firing valve, reading the range scale.

Suddenly there was a terrific shock. Every man on board the submarine was knocked off his feet, and the submarine went rapidly to the bottom. Jack was knocked unconscious by the suddenness and force of the shock.

When he opened his eyes again, Frank was bending over him.

"What's the matter?" he gasped.

"Shot hit us, I guess," was Frank's calm reply.

The lad was right. Two small Turkish gunboats, whose presence in the harbor was not known to Captain Nicholson, had approached the scene of battle, and making out the submarine's periscope, had opened on her with the big guns. One shot had gone true, and it was this that had sent the Y-3 careening to the bottom.

"Are we going to sink?" asked Jack.

"We've already sunk," replied Frank. "Whether we'll get to the surface again or not I don't know."

The lads heard the hiss of air through the vent in the manifold. Brown was letting water into the ballast tank to keep the submarine down. He turned as Captain Nicholson walked over to him.

"They got our periscopes, I think," he said coolly. "But our torpedo went just the same!"

Sure enough the tube was empty. The force of the shock had caused Captain Nicholson to launch the torpedo before he was ready, and there was no knowing whether it had been aimed true or not.

The commander now took account of the casualties. One of the men had an ugly gash across his forehead from being thrown against a stanchion, another had a bleeding and probably broken nose. Brown applied first aid to the injured, while Captain Nicholson got the submarine under way again and headed for the mouth of the harbor.

"I wonder if that last torpedo went home," said Frank. "Do you suppose it did, captain?"

"I don't know," was the reply. "We are blind now, our periscope having been shot away, and there is no way of telling without going to the surface and exposing ourselves to gunfire."

"Is there any danger of our being sunk?" asked Jack.

"Danger!" he repeated. "You bet there's danger. Still, thanks to a tight hull and a true compass, we have a fighting chance."

The Y-3 was now making ten knots, for, as Captain Nicholson said, "there was no use wasting time and giving the enemy time to plant a barrier."

Still five hundred yards from the sandbar which must be crossed, there was a jar, a moaning, grinding sound, and the motors went instantly dead. From the battery compartment there was a rush of water into the living quarters.

It was but the work of a moment for the crew to "dog down" the doors of that compartment to segregate the damage and prevent the flooding of other compartments. But even then, the Y-3 was in a bad way, and all on board realized it.

"I guess we are gone this time," said Frank quietly to Jack.

"Looks like it," was Jack's cool reply. "However, while there is life there is hope."

Captain Nicholson noticed the look of anxiety on the lads' faces.

"Don't you worry," he said cheerily. "We'll get out of here yet."

But now the deadliest foe of the submarine was at work -- chlorine gas. The action of the salt water on the sulphuric acid of the battery cells was generating it with fatal quickness. Already the boys could feel a deadly burning sensation in their throats and noses.

Fifteen minutes of that atmosphere would have left all on board the submarine gasping and stifling sixty feet below the fresh air that meant life. There was but one thing to do -- come to the surface and run for it in the face of the fort.

Captain Nicholson realized that it would be the end if the upper exhaust of No. 3 cylinder failed now, for with the electric engines gone, running on the surface with the Diesels was the only hope. He acted on the instant.

The submarine rose rapidly to the surface, and when well awash, the engines were started at full speed. The hatches were opened and the ventilating fans started, blowing out the gases and letting in the cold, damp air. All on board drew a breath of this invigorating air, and then Captain Nicholson turned his attention to escaping from beneath the big guns of the fort.

From his place in the conning tower he cold plainly see the activity of the fort when the lookout made out the submarine. Now the two lads, at a sign from the commander, joined him.

Glancing in the direction he pointed, they made out the fighting tops of the first two cruisers, victims of the submarine's daring raid, just reaching out of the water. The third cruiser was afloat, but from her heavy list to starboard, it was plain that she was badly damaged and sinking fast.

The fort was getting the range now, and shells fell all around the Y-3. One struck the water nearby, hurling water over the conning tower and drenching the three who stood there.

"Well," said Captain Nicholson, "they may get us, but we got three of them."

"And there is some satisfaction in that, anyhow," said Frank.

"You bet there is," Jack agreed.

The submarine was halfway across the bar, and had not been hit, and every instant meant that much more chance for life. The helmsman stuck nobly to his post, head down, and without a look at the fort. The submarine shook and trembled with the vibrations of the hard-pushed engines, straining to get the submarine to deep water.

The gallant lads in the engine-room were doing their best. A shell from long range, with most of its force expended, glanced off the port bow of the submarine, carrying away the towing pennant. The nose of the Y-3 ducked under a bit, but came up serenely in half a second.

The commander of the vessel, perceiving deep water ahead, encouraged the helmsman with a cry. Already the vessel was almost over the bar. The fire from the fort was decreasing. Only the longer range guns could come into play now.

Looking back, the lads saw two destroyers racing in the wake of the submarine, preceded by a small gunboat.

The first shells of the gunboat whizzed by the submarine. Captain Nicholson slammed down the hatch.

"Water armor for us!" he cried.

A moment later the submarine was on the safe haven of the bottom with 100 feet of solid protecting water between it and hostile shells.

"That was pretty ticklish," said Frank, drawing a breath when they were out of reach of the gunboat's fire.

"It was," was the commander's response, "and we are not safe yet by any means."

"Why -- ?" began Frank.

"We can't go up again now, can we?" demanded Captain Nicholson. "We shall have to stay down here until they believe we have escaped. Then we will rise and try to sneak out."

"But surely we are safe enough down here."

"Don't you believe it. They'll trawl for us all day; but luckily for us they don't know we have lost our batteries, so they'll probably search over a wide area, and we run that much more chance of not being discovered."

"But surely no shell would reach us here," said Frank.

"No," replied the commander grimly, "but if they discover us, they are likely to dump a few barge loads of pig iron or something down on us and crush our steel plating."

But the submarine was not discovered by the enemy and remained below the water all the rest of the day "went to sleep on the bottom," as the phrase goes. And that is what literally was done, for all on board were tired out.

An hour after sunset, the Y-3 came once more to the surface. There was no sign of an enemy. The sky was still banked with heavy clouds, and there was a choppy sea running.

Captain Nicholson started to run for safety at full speed ahead. Having no batteries for submerged running now, the Y-3 had to remain on top of the water, or else sink to the bottom and lie still; and for this reason Captain Nicholson kept prepared for a quick submersion.

Mines were the worst dangers the Y-3 bad to encounter now, and a careful watch was kept and the speed of the vessel reduced. Twice the vessel was picked up by the searchlight on the fort, and each time submerged.

But the engines stood up well, and at last Captain Nicholson said quietly to the two lads:

"Well, we're safe at last."

"Good," said Frank, "but I wouldn't have missed this experience for a fortune."

"Nor I," declared Frank.

"You take my advice," said Captain Nicholson, as he headed the Y-3 for the spot where they had left the Sylph almost 40 hours before, "and stay on the top. Don't spend any more time on a submarine than you have to."



Chapter XXVI

Cruising Again

It seemed long hours to Frank and Jack before they once more made out the form of the Sylph, still cruising slowly to and fro close to where they had left her nearly two days before. The submarine drew up to her rapidly, and soon Captain Nicholson ordered a small boat launched.

Into this climbed first a seaman, then Captain Nicholson and Frank and, Jack. Lord Hastings greeted the boys warmly as they dropped over the rail of the Sylph.

"I was beginning to fear something bad gone wrong," he said. "I certainly am glad to see you back safe and sound. Was the raid a success?"

"It was indeed," replied Frank.

"Three Turkish cruisers sent to the bottom," said Jack briefly.

"Good!" cried Lord Hastings enthusiastically. "And the submarine wasn't damaged, eh?"

"Oh, yes, it was," broke in Captain Nicholson, and proceeded to relate the details of the encounter.

"And how did the two lads behave themselves?" questioned Lord Hastings.

"Admirably," was Captain Nicholson's reply. "We were in a pretty ticklish situation for a moment, but they never lost their nerve."

The lads blushed at this praise.

"Well," said Captain Nicholson, after some further talk, "I guess I shall have to say good-bye."

He shook hands all around, and was soon on his way back to his own vessel. Immediately the Sylph was got under way, and proceeded on her course westward. But she had gone hardly a mile when the wireless operator rushed up to Lord Hastings, and handed him a message.

"Relayed by the Gloucester and Terror, Sir," he said.

Lord Hastings read the message:

"Strong German squadron somewhere off coast of South America. British fleet on watch. Get in touch."

The message was signed by Winston Spencer Churchill, first Lord of the Admiralty.

Lord Hastings pursed his lips and whistled expressively.

"Another long cruise," he said briefly.

Soon the Sylph's head was turned toward the South, and for several days thereafter she pursued her uneventful way down the coast of South Africa. Rounding the Cape of Good Hope, she steamed straight for the distant coast of South America.

Lord Hastings stopped to coal once or twice, and so it was some days before the lookout picked up, land ahead.

"Should be the Argentine coast, if we have not drifted off our course," Lord Hastings informed the two lads.

He was right, and the following day the Sylph put in at one of the small South American ports for coal.

"We'll have the ship looked over a bit," said Lord Hastings. "We are permitted to stay in this, port 24 hours, and at the expiration of that time we must leave or be interned."

It was in this place that Lord Hastings and the members of the Sylph's crew learned of the disaster that had overtaken several British cruisers in those parts. Here, for the first time, they heard of the defeat of a small British squadron by the Germans, and of the death of Admiral Sir Christopher Craddock, who had gone down fighting to the last.

"Never fear," said Lord Hastings, "Sir Christopher's loss shall be avenged, and that shortly, or I am badly mistaken."

The following day the Sylph put to sea again, and headed down the Argentine coast.

It was late the next afternoon, when the wireless operator aboard the Sylph picked up a message.

"German squadron some place near, sir," he said laconically, as he handed a message to Lord Hastings.

The commander of the Sylph glanced at the message. In regular maritime code, it read:

"Close in."

"I haven't been able to pick up the position of the ship that sent that, sir," the operator volunteered.

"If you can do so," said Lord Hastings, "let me know immediately."

"Do you know what German ships are supposed to be in these waters?" Jack asked of Lord Hastings.

"Why, yes," was the latter's reply. "The armored cruisers Scharnhorst and Gneisenau, the former the flagship of Admiral Count von Spee, and the protected cruisers Leipzig, Dresden and Nurnberg. Why?"

"Well," Jack explained, "judging by the message just picked up, they must be separated. Couldn't we, by representing ourselves as one of these vessels, possibly pick up a little useful information?"

"By Jove!" said Lord Hastings. "We could."

"But how are we to know which ship sent that message?" asked Frank. "We wouldn't want to make a mistake, and we might try to pass ourselves off as the very cruiser that flashed that message."

"The message was undoubtedly sent from the flagship," said Lord Hastings, "so we are safe enough there. Come with me."

He led the way to the wireless room, where the operator was making unsuccessful efforts to pick up more messages from the air.

Now, at Lord Hastings' direction, he tapped his key.

"Scharnhorst! Scharnhorst!" the instrument called through the air.

There was no reply, and the call was repeated.

"Scharnhorst! Scharnhorst!"

A moment later and there was a faint clicking of the Sylph's apparatus. The call was being answered. The operator wrote it off.

"What ship is that? Admiral von Spee orders all to close in," and the exact position of the German flagship was given.

"'Dresden!" flashed back Lord Hastings. "Signed, Koehler."

"I happen to know Captain Koehler commands the Dresden," Lord Hastings confided to the boys.

He sent another message to the German admiral:

"Where are you headed?"

"Falkland Islands," came back the answer.

"To attack the British?" was the message Lord Hastings sent through the air.

"Will sink one British ship in harbor and destroy Wireless plant," was the answer to this query.

"Good!" said Lord Hastings to the lads. "We now know his objective point, and if we could pick up the English fleet we would be prepared to receive them."

"Is there a British fleet in these waters?" asked Jack, in some surprise.

"Yes," replied the commander of the Sylph. "Vice Admiral Sir Frederick Sturdee, chief of the war staff, is hereabouts with a powerful fleet. The fact has been generally kept a secret, but I am in possession of that much information."

"Do you make the Germans' position closer to the Falkland Islands than ours?" asked Frank.

"No," replied Lord Hastings. "Judging by the action of the wireless, I should say we are fifty miles closer."

"Then," said Frank, "why cannot we make a dash for the Islands? We can put in there and give warning. Besides, it may be that some of the British fleet is near there."

"A good idea," replied Lord Hastings. "It shall be acted upon at once."

Under full speed the Sylph dashed forward toward the Islands.

"I don't expect we shall pick up the Falklands before morning," said Lord Hastings, "and we shall have to keep a sharp lookout tonight, for we are likely to bump into a German cruiser prowling about here some place."

"Scharnhorst trying to raise the Dresden again," said the wireless operator to Lord Hastings, with a grin.

"Let her try," replied Lord Hastings. "Guess Admiral von Spee will think it funny he gets no reply, but he'll think it funnier still when he finally does raise the Dresden and learns that it was not she who answered his other call."

And it was not long until the real Dresden did reply. The Sylph's operator picked up the messages that were exchanged.

"Dresden, Koehler!" came the response to one of the flagship's calls.

"What is the matter?" came the query. "Why did you cease communicating?"

"Don't understand," was the reply. "Have not communicated with you before."

"Didn't you acknowledge my call fifteen minutes ago?"

"No!"

Even the ticking of the wireless instrument now grew nervous, and it was plain that the sender was laboring under stress.

"Received message signed 'Dresden, Koehler, fifteen minutes ago," came from the flagship. "Did you send it?"

"No," was the reply flashed back. "Picked you up now for the first time."

"Enemy must have picked up call and answered then," flashed the flagship. "Heed only code messages in future, and answer in kind."

Thereafter, although the operator picked up the messages passing between the two ships, they were only a jumble. In spite of all attempts of Lord Hastings and the two lads to decipher the code, they remained in ignorance of further communication between the enemy's ships.

"Well," said Lord Hastings. "We have scared them up a little bit, anyhow."

"I should say we have," replied Jack. "They don't know whether we are one or a dozen."

"But," said Frank, "they probably will make for the Falklands now faster than ever."

"Right," replied Lord Hastings, "and it's up to us to get there well ahead of them."

"Other cruisers coming within zone, sir," reported the wireless operator.

"Can you make out their conversation?" inquired Lord Hastings.

"No, sir," was the reply. "They have reported to the flagship, and after being warned, have continued in code."

"Did you pick up their identities?"

"Yes, sir. Besides the Dresden, the Gneisenau, Leipzig and Nurnberg have reported."

"That's all of 'em," said Lord Hastings dryly, "and they make a pretty powerful squadron. Here's where we have to begin to hustle."

The Sylph seemed to go forward even faster than before.



Chapter XXVII

Trapping The Enemy

"Land ahead!" came the cry of the lookout.

It was now early morning, and Lord Hastings, Jack and Frank stood on the bridge taking a breath of the fresh, invigorating air.

Glasses were quickly leveled, and soon the distant shore was made out.

"What port are we making for, sir?" asked Jack.

"Port Stanley," was Lord Hastings' reply.

Rapidly the Sylph steamed on, and finally, rounding into the little harbor, they made out a welcome and unexpected sight. Frank and Jack cried out in surprise, and even Lord Hastings was moved to an expression of wonder.

In the little harbor, screened from the sea, riding gently on the swell of the tide, were eight British ships of war!

"Oh, my!" exclaimed Frank joyfully, doing a little clog dance on the bridge, "won't we give it to the Germans now!"

Jack was equally as enthusiastic, though he was not given to such outbursts of emotion, being naturally more quiet.

"It looks like the end of the German squadron to me," he said simply.

As the Sylph steamed into the little harbor, one of the British war vessels turned slightly, and a shell screamed over the Sylph's bow.

"Want to know who we are," explained Lord Hastings.

The British ensign was quickly run up, and there followed a loud, cheer from the sailors of the fleet.

On the ship closest to shore flew the flag of Vice Admiral Sturdee.

"I guess I had better pay my respects to the admiral at once," said, Lord Hastings. "Would you boys care to come with me?"

"Nothing would please us more," replied Frank, speaking for both.

The Sylph steamed close to the British fleet, and then the three put off for the flagship in a small boat. Aboard, they were shown immediately to the admiral's cabin, where the nearness of the German squadron was rapidly related.

"Fortunate!" cried Admiral Sturdee. "I feared I would have to chase them all over the sea. I didn't expect them to come to me. Have you a plan to suggest, Lord Hastings?"

"I fear, Sir Frederick," replied Lord Hastings, "that if you put to sea to give battle, the Germans will turn and flee upon recognizing the power of the British fleet."

"True," mused the admiral.

"May I offer a suggestion, Sir Frederick?" asked Jack.

The admiral glanced at the lad sharply, but Jack bore up bravely under the close scrutiny.

"Speak, sir," ordered the admiral.

"Then I would suggest, sir," said Jack, "that one of your cruisers be sent out so the enemy may be able to get a bare glimpse of her. Believing that she is alone, they undoubtedly will approach to attack. Let the cruiser, retiring slowly, give battle. When she has drawn the enemy close enough, the remainder of the fleet can make a dash and nab the Germans before they have time to flee."

"An excellent plan!" cried the admiral, springing to his feet. "It shall be put into execution."

With a wave of his hand he signified that the interview was over, and Frank, Jack and Lord Hastings made their way back to the Sylph.

That Admiral Sturdee was a man of action became apparent in a few moments. Unaware just how far off the German squadron was, Sir Frederick took the necessary steps immediately.

Less than an hour after Lord Hastings and the two lads had returned aboard the Sylph, the British battleship Canopus got under way, and steaming away from her sister ships, made for the entrance to the little harbor, going slowly.

Here she took up her position, steaming slowly back and forth. As yet, however, there was no sign of the enemy. Meantime, other vessels in the fleet continued to coal swiftly. Steam was gotten up and every ship prepared for action.

Against the German fleet of five ships -- the armored cruisers Scharnhorst and Gneisenau and the protected cruisers Leipzig, Dresden and Nurnberg, accompanied by two colliers -- the British admiral, besides the Sylph, would go into battle with eight ships of war -- the battle cruisers Invincible and Inflexible, the former Admiral Sturdee's flagship, the cruisers Kent, Cornwall, Carnarvon, Bristol and Glasgow, and the battleship Canopus.

At Sir Frederick's command, every sailor in the English fleet was given a light meal, and then each man took a cold bath. Following this, those who were not on watch, turned in for a brief rest. And to show the hardihood and bravery of the British tar, there was not a man who showed signs of nervousness or fear.

There was a signal from the Canopus -- a signal by flags, for the British did not wish to betray their presence by the use of the wireless, which could be as easily picked up by the enemy.

"Enemy approaching," read the signal.

Admiral Sturdee signaled back.

"Engage him when he has approached so close that he believes you are unable to get away."

The commander of the Canopus signified his understanding of this command, and continued steaming to and fro, ostensibly guarding the harbor.

At last the first gray form of a German cruiser came within sight of those on the Sylph. It was steaming slowly forward, apparently in no hurry and secure in its belief that there was no enemy near to be feared.

The Sylph had been stripped for action with the rest of the British fleet, for Lord Hastings had no mind to keep out of the battle.

"We've come a long ways to see an engagement," he told the lads, "and I think we are entitled to a hand in the affair."

"Hurrah!" shouted Frank.

"Good!" said Jack, quietly. "I was afraid we would have to stand off and look on."

"That's what I was afraid of, too," declared Frank.

"Well, we won't," said Lord Hastings. "Not this time, at any rate. I guess you will see all the fighting you wish presently."

Still the German squadron came on, apparently unconscious of the presence of the British battleship Canopus, the only English vessel that could be seen from the open sea. All seven ships -- five vessels of war and the two colliers -- could be plainly discerned now.

"What's the matter with 'em?" demanded Frank. "Surely they can see the Canopus."

"I guess they are figuring she hasn't spotted them yet," said Jack. "Believing he has only one enemy to contend with, Admiral von Spee evidently is trying to get as close as possible without being seen."

Indeed, this seemed a plausible explanation. At any rate, in lieu of a more reasonable one, it answered. Men on the Canopus now rushed hurriedly to and fro, officers darted hither and thither. The Canopus was ready for instant battle.

All the other ships of the British fleet also had come to life. Men who had been sleeping hurried to their posts. The gun crews stood at their places, the range finders were at their posts, and the officers stood ready to repeat the signal for advance as soon as Admiral Sturdee should give it.

Stripped to the waists, in spite of the chilly atmosphere outside, the crew of the Sylph also was ready. There was grim determination written plainly on the face of every man. In spite of the apparent superiority of the British fleet, each man realized that the battle would be to the death.

They knew that, although surprised, the Germans would not give up without a struggle -- that they would battle desperately for supremacy although outnumbered. Confident of their own prowess and marksmanship, they nevertheless did not discount the ability of the foe.

"It will be a furious battle," said Lord Hastings to the lads, who stood beside him.

"I have an idea," said Frank, "that when the enemy finds he is outnumbered, he will not engage all his ships, but will try to protect the flight of most of them with one or two."

"By love!" said Lord Hastings. "I hadn't considered such a contingency. I wouldn't be surprised if you have hit it."

"I believe he has," said Jack.

"Well," said Lord Hastings grimly, "we will make that our business. Admiral Sturdee can take care of the fighting part of the fleet, and we will try to intercept any vessel that tries to escape."

"But do you suppose we can?" asked Frank.

"We can try," replied the commander of the Sylph, with slightly compressed lips. "As soon as the Germans engage the Canopus, we will try to get out ahead of the rest of the fleet and, keeping out of the thick of battle, steam to sea. Then if any of the enemy try to get away, with our superior speed we can at least head them off and engage them until help arrives."

"A first-class plan," Jack agreed. "However, I shouldn't be surprised if Admiral Sturdee had anticipated such a maneuver by the enemy."

"Even if he has," said Lord Hastings, "we probably wouldn't be selected to accomplish the work, and that's what we want to do. Therefore, we will act without being ordered."

"Good," said Jack.

In the meantime the German fleet had been approaching steadily. It was apparent that the presence of the British battleship Canopus, in the entrance to the harbor, had at last been discovered. A wireless message flashed through the air.

"Surrender or I shall sink you!" it read.

"An Englishman never surrenders!" was the reply flashed back by the commander of the Canopus.

The German admiral tried again.

"I would avoid all unnecessary loss of life," he signaled.

"Thanks," was the laconic response of the Canopus. "We are able to take care of ourselves."

To this there was no reply, and still the German squadron came on without firing a shot.

"Wonder why they don't shoot?" asked Jack.

"Guess they want to get as close as possible first," replied Frank. "Remember, they believe they have only one to deal with."

"True," said Jack. "But why doesn't the Canopus fire?"

"I suppose," replied Frank, "it's because the commander wishes to draw the enemy so close that escape will be impossible."

And the lad had hit upon the exact reason. Mindful of his instructions to draw the enemy in as close as possible before engaging him, the commander of the Canopus had no mind to open the battle.

And ever the German squadron was steaming closer and closer to destruction. But there is an end to everything, and so there finally came an end to this inaction.

"Boom!"

A single German gun had opened the battle.

There was no reply from the Canopus.

"Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!"

Two of the enemy's ships cut loose at the Canopus.

Still the British battleship did not reply.

But the Germans had not yet found the range, and the Canopus was untouched, although several shells struck near her.

Then: "Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!"

The Canopus had at last opened fire on her foes. And, even as the first British shell sped across the water, the Canopus turned and began to retreat.

Fearful of losing their prey, the German vessels increased their speed and steamed rapidly after her, their big guns continuing to hurl shells across the water.

The Canopus was replying gun for gun, now, and with each moment the roar of battle increased.

And then, suddenly, in perfect battle formation, imposing and majestic in their advance, out of the little harbor steamed proudly the battle fleet of Great Britain, moving swiftly forward to engage the enemy!



Chapter XXVIII

The Engagement

The enemy perceived the advance of this formidable squadron in an instant, and there was a lull in the fire of the German ships. Then the guns opened with redoubled vigor, and the entire German fleet turned to flee.

Not unwilling to take advantage of the apparent fact that they had but one enemy to encounter -- the Canopus -- now that the odds were somewhat against them there was a different story. Evidently the German admiral held five German ships against one British vessel fair odds, but he was not minded to have the odds eight to five against him.

But the German fleet, secure in the belief that it had but one enemy to contend with, had advanced too far. Escape now was impossible. The greater speed of the British ships became apparent as the chase continued, the English ever gaining.

At last, realizing that there was no hope of escape, Admiral von Spee turned to give battle. The Scharnhorst, Gneisenau and Leipzig immediately formed in battle line.

Immediately the British ships slowed up. The Nurnberg and Dresden, the two smaller German cruisers, did not join the other three German ships in battle formation, but continued their flight.

This was what those on board the Sylph had expected, and the little scout cruiser, making a slight detour, to avoid, as far as possible, shells from the three German cruisers, started in pursuit, full speed ahead. The German vessels, however, had considerable of a start, and it was plain that the Sylph would not overhaul them for hours.

In the meantime the battle was raging fiercely. From the first the British concentrated their fire on the German flagship. The huge thirty-four centimeter guns of the British fleet, as against the twenty-one centimeter guns of the enemy, made the outcome of the engagement certain from the first. All that remained was to see how well the Germans could fight, and what damage they could inflict on Admiral Sturdee's fleet before being sent to the bottom.

A huge shell from the British flagship dropped squarely aboard the Scharnhorst and exploded with a deafening detonation. Metal and bodies flew high in the air, shattered, and dropped into the sea for yards around. But the Scharnhorst had not been hit in a vital spot, and she continued to fight back desperately.

Now a shell from the Canopus struck the Scharnhorst amidships; a second from the Inflexible and a third from the Invincible followed in quick succession, and every one went home. The marksmanship of the British gunners was remarkable.

But the British were not escaping unscathed. A shell from the Leipzig struck the Cornwall just below the waterline and pierced her armor, and then exploded. Two men were killed by flying pieces of steel, and several others were wounded. So far this was the only loss sustained by the English.

As the battle progressed the fire of the British became more and more deadly. Hardly a shot was wasted now. The Scharnhorst, wounded unto death, fought back with the courage born of desperation.

A well-directed shell burst aboard the Invincible, killing three men outright and maiming practically every member of a gun crew near which it struck. But new men were in their places in a second, and the gun did not even pause in its fire.

Gradually the fire of the Scharnhorst became slower and slower, as one after another her guns were silenced by the accurate fire of the British gunners.

Then came the sound of a terrific explosion aboard the German flagship, and she staggered perceptibly. There was a lull in the British fire, as a demand was made for the Scharnhorst to surrender.

The German admiral hurled back a message of defiance to his foes, and the few remaining guns on his flagship continued to spout fire and smoke. He had determined to fight to the last, and go down with his ship, if need be.

The fire from the British ships, the demand for surrender having been refused, broke out afresh, and finally, struck in a vital part, the Scharnhorst burst into flames, at the same time beginning to settle in the water.

Admiral Sturdee could not but admire the way in which the German sailors stuck to their posts in the face of certain death, and he ordered the fire against the Scharnhorst to cease, that those on board might have a chance for life.

But of this chance neither the German admiral nor his men would take advantage. There were still several guns fit for action, and these continued to rain shells at the British. And, as the ship burned like a raging furnace, at the same time settling lower and lower in the water, these brave men continued to fire their guns.

Now the last gun had either been silenced or had disappeared below the water. Admiral von Spee appeared upon deck, in full view of his enemies. His officers and surviving members of the crew gathered about him. The sweet music of a band carried across the water. The Germans stood erect about their commander, as the flames crept close and the ship settled.

Suddenly it was all over. With a startling movement the Scharnhorst disappeared beneath the waters of the Atlantic Ocean. Her commander and crew had stood with bared heads to the last, and had gone to death, standing as though drawn up for inspection. There was a faint cheer from them as the ship disappeared beneath the waves.

The sinking of the German flagship Scharnhorst had required just a few minutes less than an hour.

Now the entire British fleet concentrated its fire upon the Gneisenau. In spite of the loss of the flagship and their admiral, the Germans would not give up; in fact, they seemed determined to rejoin their companions in the world beyond a watery grave.

The fire from both German cruisers became fiercer. Shells played a merry tattoo on the armored sides of the Canopus, upon which the two German cruisers were concentrating their fire, but the shells rattled harmlessly off the well-protected sides, and the Canopus was not damaged.

Gradually now the British squadron closed in on the Gneisenau and Leipzig, spreading out in a half circle as they advanced. Both German ships had been vitally wounded, but they continued to fight back gamely. Shell after shell burst on their decks, pierced them below the waterline, or carried away their fighting tops or superstructure.

Battered almost to pieces, and their decks strewn with dead and dying, they nevertheless fought on.

There would be no surrender. This fact was apparent to the British, and they directed their fire so as to end the battle as quickly as possible.

The Gneisenau staggered, and seemed about to go under. She recovered her equilibrium in an instant, however, and renewed the battle with even greater vigor than before.

Now the two German cruisers, crippled and battered as they were, steamed as rapidly they could right toward the British fleet, making a final effort to inflict a serious blow upon the British before themselves going to the bottom.

Closer and closer they came, their guns hurling shells at all the British vessels without favor. A shell struck squarely upon the bridge of the Canopus, killing an officer; and the splintering wood that flew about accounted for two more, making the British death list now eight.

And still the German cruisers came on; and then the Gneisenau wavered, halted and staggered back. A shell had pierced through to her boilers. There was an explosion, followed by a great hissing sound.

Without steam the Gneisenau could steam neither forward nor backward. Stationary, rising and falling on the swell of the waves, she continued to pour in her fire, even as the Leipzig continued on alone.

A British shell struck the Leipzig's steering gear, rendering it useless, and the German cruiser staggered about at the mercy of the sea. Still the gunners continued to hurl shells at the British whenever the guns could be brought to bear.

But this was not often, for the fact that she could not be steered properly rendered the work of the British much easier.

Admiral Sturdee, greatly impressed with the bravery of the Germans, decided to give them one more chance for life. He ordered a cessation of firing and called upon the two cruisers to surrender.

The merciful offer was met with a cry of defiance, and a shell burst over the admiral's flagship, dropping half a score of men, two of whom never arose.

Now the British ships closed in on the two German cruisers, and poured broadside after broadside into the almost defenseless hulls.

Suddenly the Gneisenau disappeared beneath the waves, with all on board, the last that was heard of her being a cheer from her crew.

The Leipzig lasted but a moment longer. She was listing badly, and now, suddenly rising on her beam's end, she dived beneath the water.

The battle of the Falkland Islands, the greatest British sea victory since the battle off Heligoland, was over.

Boats were quickly lowered from the British ships to rescue, if possible, survivors of the German ships. A few were picked up, but not many. Of the more than 1,800 men aboard the three German cruisers, at least 1,700 had gone to the bottom.

The Scharnhorst and the Gneisenau were the largest cruisers of the German fleet. They were sister ships, of 11,600 tons' displacement, 450 feet on the waterline, and were rated at a speed of 22 1/2 knots. Each carried a complement of 765 men, and was armed with eight 8.2-inch guns, six 6-inch guns, twenty 24-Pounders, four machine-guns and four torpedo tubes.

The Leipzig had a displacement of 3,250 tons and carried 286 men. She was 341 feet long on the waterline, had a beam of 43 1/2 feet, and was rated at 23 knots. Her largest guns, of which she carried ten, were 4-inch. She had also ten 1-pounders, four machine-guns and two torpedo tubes.

And these were the three mighty vessels of the battle fleet of the Emperor of Germany which, after having preyed for months upon British shipping, had finally been sent to the bottom of the Atlantic by Admiral Sir Frederick Sturdee, chief of the British War Staff.



Chapter XXIX

Rule Britannia

Meanwhile, what of the Sylph?

When the German cruisers Dresden and Nurnberg had fallen back in an attempt to escape, the Sylph dashed after them at full speed.

"'Will you engage both of them?" asked Frank of Lord Hastings.

"If necessary,"' replied the Sylph's commander. "We at least may be able to hold them off until help arrives."

The Sylph sped on; but it became apparent that the Dresden was gradually drawing ahead of the Nurnberg. Jack noticed this, and spoke to Lord Hastings.

"If we stay well behind, and give them the impression that we are not fast enough to overtake either of them," he said, "the Dresden may leave the Nurnberg to take care of herself. Then we can get them one at a time."

"A good idea," said Lord Hastings.

The speed of the Sylph was reduced somewhat. Still the Dresden continued to draw away from her consort, and, after hours of tireless pursuit, finally was almost out of sight.

All that night the pursuit of the Nurnberg continued, and it was early morning, and the sun was streaming over the sea, when the Sylph, having increased her speed during the darkness, finally drew within range of the Nurnberg.

A shot from the Sylph's forward gun brought the Nurnberg to a sudden halt, and she turned immediately to give battle. This was what Lord Hastings had hoped for.

The first shell from the Nurnberg kicked up the water a good half mile in front of the Sylph.

"We have the range of her," said Lord Hastings calmly.

The Sylph slowed down, and continued to plump shells and solid shot upon her opponent at long range. Some of these struck home, and it was plain to the two lads, who stood on the bridge, that some of them had done considerable damage.

Realizing that he was outranged, the commander of the Nurnberg ordered full speed ahead and dashed toward the Sylph, that he might get within range before the Sylph had crippled him with her long-distance fire.

Before she managed to get within range, however, her fighting top had been shot away, she had been pierced in vital spots several times and was otherwise very badly crippled.

But now a shell came screaming over the bridge. Involuntarily both lads ducked, so close had the shell passed to their heads. It sped on over the Sylph and plowed up the water over the stern.

"Close call," said Jack briefly.

"It was, indeed," agreed Frank.

So close were the two vessels now that the machine-guns on both vessels were brought into play, and a perfect hail of shot fell upon both ships.

So far the Sylph had not been hit, but suddenly the little cruiser staggered back. A shot had struck her squarely in the bow. The damage was not serious, and she again leaped forward.

For two hours the battle continued, with advantage to neither side. Both vessels were badly battered by this time, and one of the Sylph's smokestacks had been shot away. Now, glancing suddenly astern, Frank uttered a joyous cry.

"British cruiser coming up, sir," he informed Lord Hastings.

The commander of the Nurnberg had noticed the approach of the British cruiser at the same instant, and, realizing that he could not successfully battle with another enemy, he ordered the Nurnberg put about, and made off as fast as his crippled condition would permit, his stern guns still playing upon the Sylph.

Evidently the Nurnberg's commander figured that the Sylph, being as badly crippled as he was, could not successfully pursue. The British cruiser was still some distance off, and he hoped to be able to outrun her also.

But he was doomed to disappointment. No sooner had the Nurnberg turned to flee, than the Sylph made rapidly after her. At the same moment there came a wireless from the British cruiser, which proved to be the Glasgow.

"Stick to her close," the message read, "we'll be with you in a jiffy."

So, at Lord Hastings' command, the Sylph stuck closely. For perhaps an hour the commander of the Nurnberg tried to shake off the pursuer; and then, realizing that this could not be done, and that the Glasgow was also rapidly gaining on him, he once, more turned to give battle.

The Nurnberg came about suddenly and dashed straight at the Sylph. In fact, so sudden was this maneuver that the Sylph was caught unprepared, and for a moment was at a disadvantage. However, this disadvantage did not last long.

Lord Hastings ordered the Sylph put about, and turned to flee.

"What on earth are we running for?" demanded Jack.

"Why," replied Lord Hastings, "if the Nurnberg will chase us, we'll run her right up to the Glasgow. And, if she puts about and makes off again, we have gained just that much time."

"I see," said Jack.

The Nurnberg refused to chase the Sylph. Instead, she put about and continued her flight. Immediately the Sylph was after her again. Once more the Nurnberg came about and made a dash at the Sylph, and again the Sylph turned and ran.

But this time the Nurnberg did not turn to run again. Lord Hastings' maneuver had succeeded so well that the Glasgow was now within striking distance, and a shell fired at long range dropped close to the Nurnberg. The Sylph came about again and dashed forward, hurling her instruments of death at her opponent as rapidly as her crippled condition would permit.

From the Glasgow came a command for the Nurnberg to surrender, but the commander of the German ship did not even take the trouble to reply to this message. The Sylph and her enemy came close together rapidly.

Shells were dropping aboard both vessels, and it seemed miraculous that both did not go to the bottom. The blood of both commanders was up and neither would give an inch. It all depended now upon which ship was struck in a vital spot first.

Fortunately for those aboard the Sylph it was the German who suffered. A shell pierced the Nurnberg's side and penetrated the engine-room, where it exploded the Nurnberg's boilers with, a thundering roar. On the instant the Nurnberg seemed to turn into a sheet of flame.

Another explosion followed, and still another, and almost quicker than it takes to tell it, the German cruiser Nurnberg, the fourth of Admiral von Spee's fleet, disappeared beneath the waves.

While the Sylph lay waiting for the Glasgow to come up a hasty examination was made. One man had been killed and two injured That was, the extent of the damage to the Sylph. Every man of the German crew of 300 men had gone to the bottom.

"Nothing serious the matter with us, sir," Jack reported, after an investigation.

"Good!" replied Lord Hasting.

"Nothing broken that cannot be fixed in two hours, sir," Frank reported.

"Good!" exclaimed Lord Hastings again.

Half an hour later the commander of the Glasgow came aboard the Sylph, and was speedily closeted with Lord Hastings in the latter's cabin. Soon, however, the two emerged on deck, and approached where Frank and Jack were standing.

"I understand," said the commander of the Glasgow to the two lads, "that it was your plan Admiral Sturdee acted upon when he lured the German fleet to give battle. Also that it was your idea that has resulted in the sinking of the Nurnberg. I am glad to know you."

He extended a hand to each, and the boys grasped them heartily.

"Now," continued the commander of the Glasgow, "it is up to us to follow and sink the Dresden. Besides her there is but one German ship in these waters -- the Karlsruhe, and we'll get her before we are through."

"Have you any idea where she is?" asked Frank.

"I imagine she has gone around the Horn into the Pacific."

"In that case," said Jack, "the Dresden has probably gone to join her."

"By Jove!" exclaimed the commander of the Glasgow. "I believe you are right. What do you think, Lord Hastings?"

"I believe Mr. Templeton has hit the nail on the head, as usual," replied the commander of the Sylph. "Therefore, I should say that we had better head in that direction."

"Agreed!" returned the commander of the Glasgow, and, after some further talk, he put over the side and returned to his own vessel.

Several hours were now spent on board the Sylph repairing the damage caused by the German shells and getting the little vessel in shipshape again. Then, at last, the Sylph was once more under way, beading for the Pacific.

A mile to the stern followed the British cruiser Glasgow. For two days and nights, after rounding the Horn, the two British vessels sought some trace of the Karlsruhe and the Dresden. They put into port after port, but could get no trace of her.

But at last they came upon the German cruiser. It was the fourth day after rounding the Horn, and the German ship was just putting out of a little Chilean port. The commander was not unaware of the presence of the British ships outside, for it had been reported to him; but he had already been in the port for twenty-four hours, and the laws of neutrality demanded that he either put to sea again or that his ship be interned.

Captain Koehler, of the Dresden, was a man of action. Therefore, he spurned the suggestion of having his ship interned. And his last words to the German consul, as he stepped aboard his ship and ordered that she be put to sea were:

"We are going to join our comrades!"

Well out of neutral waters, the Sylph and the Glasgow lay in wait for the enemy. Outside the port the Dresden attempted to flee; but, after an hour's chase, Captain Koehler realized the futility of this, and, at last brought to bay, turned to fight.

In the action that followed, an action that lasted for more than two hours, the Dresden put up a terrific battle. But there could be but one end. Outnumbered, she fought well, but at length the waters of the calm Pacific closed over her.

"Only one left," said Frank to Jack, as they stood upon the bridge after the sinking of the Dresden.

"Only one -- the Karlsruhe."

"And we'll get her, too!" said Jack quietly.

Slowly the two British cruisers, the Sylph and the Glasgow, their damages having been repaired, turned their noses north, and set out on their search for the only German vessel remaining in American waters.

As they sail away over the mysterious Pacific we shall for a brief period take our leave of Frank Chadwick and Jack Templeton, than whom no more courageous lads (nor men, either, for that matter) engaged in the greatest war of all history.

But we shall meet them again; and, if the readers of this volume are interested in their further adventures and exploits, as well as in the personal side of the great war, they will find it all in the third volume of The Boy Allies with, the Battleships Series, entitled, "The Boy Allies with the Flying Squadron; or The Naval Raiders of the Great War."

<eob>

Treat 'Em Rough: Letters From: Jack The Kaiser Killer

By

Ring W. Lardner



CAMP GRANT, Sept. 23.

FRIEND AL: Well Al I am writeing this in the recreation room at our barracks and they's about 20 other of the boys writeing letters and I will bet some of the letters is rich because half of the boys can't talk english to say nothing about writeing letters and etc. We got a fine bunch in my Co. Al and its a cinch I won't never die in the trenchs because I will be murdered in my bed before we ever get out of here only they don't call it bed in the army.

They call it bunk and no wonder.

Well Al I have been here since Wed. night and now it is Sunday and this is the first time I have not felt sick since we got here and even at that my left arm is so sore it is pretty near killing me where I got vacinated. Its a good thing I am not a left hander Al or I couldn't get a ball up to the plate but of course I don't have to think of that now because I am out of baseball now and in the big game but at that I guess a left hander could get along just as good with a sore arm because I never seen one of them yet that could break a pain of glass with their fast ball and if they didn't have all the luck in the world they would be rideing around the country in a side door Pullman with all their baggage on.

Speaking about baseball Al I suppose you seen where the White Sox have cinched the penant and they will be splitting the world serious money while I am drawing $30.00 per mo. from the Govmt. but 50 yrs. from now the kids will all stop me on the st. and make me tell them what hotel we stayed at in Berlin and when Cicotte and Faber and Russell begins to talk about what they done to the Giants everybody will have themself paged and walk out.

Well Al a lot of things come off since the last time I wrote to you. We left Chi Wed. noon and you ought to seen the crowd down to the Union station to bid us good by. Everybodys wifes and sisters and mothers was there and they was all crying in 40 different languages and the women wasn't allowed through the gates so farewell kisses was swapped between the iron spokes in the gates and some of the boys was still getting smacked yet when the train started to pull out and it looked like a bunch of them would get left and if they had I'll say their wifes would of been in tough luck.

Of course wife Florrie and little son Al was there and Florrie was all dressed up like a horse and I bet a lot of them other birds wished they was in my shoes when the kissing battle begun. Well Al we both blubbered a little but Florrie says she mustn't cry to hard or she would have to paternize her own beauty parlors because crying makes a girl look like she had pitched a double header in St. Louis or something. But I don't know if you will believe it or not but little Al didn't even wimper. How is that for a game bird and only 3 yrs. old?

Well Al some alderman or somebody had got a lot of arm bandages made for us with the words Kaiser Killers printed on them and they was also signs stuck on the different cars on the train like Berlin or Bust and etc. and the Stars and Strips was flying from the back platforms so we certainly looked like regular soldiers even without no uniforms and I guess if Van Hindburg and them could of seen us you wouldn't of needed a close line no more to take their chest measure.

Well all our bunch come from the south side and of course some of them was fans and the first thing you know they had me spotted and they all wanted to shake hands and I had a smile for all of them because I have got it doped out that we are all fighting for Uncle Sam and a man ought to forget who you are and what you are and be on friendly turns with everybody till after the war.

Well Al they had told us to not bring much baggage and some of the boys come without even their tooth brush but they hadn't some of them forgot to fetch a qt. bottle and by the time we got outside of the city limits the engineer didn't have to blow his whistle to leave people know we were comeing. Somebody had a cornet and another fellow had a trombone and a couple of them had mouth organs and we all sung along with them and we sung patriotic songs like Jonah Vark and Over There and when they started on the Star Spangled Banner the guy I was setting along side of him hollered for them to not play that one and I thought he was a pro German or something and I was going to bust him but somebody asked him why shouldn't they play it and he says because he couldn't stand up and he wasn't the only one either Al.

The train stopped at a burg called Aurora and a bunch of the boys needed air so they got off, some of them head first and one bird layed down on the station platform and says he had changed his mind about going to war and he was going to sleep there a while and catch the first train back to Chi so we picked him up and throwed him back on our train and told him we would have the engineer back up to Chi and drop him off and he says O.K. and of course the train started ahead again but he didn't know if we was going or comeing or looping the loop.

Well the trombone blower finely blowed himself to a nap and while he was asleep a little guy snuck the trombone away from him and says "Look here boys I am willing to give my life for Uncle Sam but I am not going to die to no trombone music." So he throwed the trombone out of the window without opening the window and the guy woke up that owned it and the next thing you know the Kaiser Killers was in their first battle.

Well Al by the time we got to Camp Grant some of the boys looked like they was just comeing from the war instead of just going and I guess I was about the only one that was O.K. because I know how to handle it but I had eat some sandwiches that a wop give me on the train and they must of been poisoned or something because when I got off everything looked kind of blured.

We was met by a bunch of officers in uniform. The guy that had throwed the trombone away had both eyes swelled shut and a officer had to lead him to the head quarters and I heard the officer ask him if he was bringing any liquor into the camp and he says yes all he could carry, but the officer meant did he have a bottle of it and he says No he had one but a big swede stuck his head in front of it and it broke.

Over to the head quarters they give us a couple of blankets a peace and then they split us up into Cos. and showed us our barracks and they said we looked like we needed sleep and we better go to bed right after supper because we would have to get down to hard work the next A.M. and I was willing to go to bed without no supper after eating them dam sandwichs and the next time them wops trys to slip me something to eat or drink I will hang one on their jaw.

Well Al the buggle has blowed for mess which is what they call the meals and you would know why if you eat some of them so I will close for this time and save the rest for the next time and my address is Co. C. 399th. Infantry, Camp Grant, Ill.

Your Pal, JACK.




CAMP GRANT, Sept. 24.

FRIEND AL: Well Al they give us some work out today and I am pretty tired but they's no use going to bed till 9 o'clock which is the time they blow the buggle for the men to shut up their noise. They do everything by buggies here. They get you up at a quarter to 6 which is first call and you got to dress in 15 minutes because they blow the assembly buggle at 6 and then comes the revelry buggle and then you eat breakfast and so on till 11 P.M. when they blow the taps buggle and that means everybody has got to put their lights out and go to sleep just as if a man couldn't go to sleep without music and any way a whole lot of the boys go to sleep before 11 because with so many of us here how could the officers tell if we waited for the buggle or didn't wait for it?

Well Al about all we done the first 3 days was try and get the place to looking like something because the men that built the buildings was to lazy to clean up after themself and I wouldn't of minded only for feeling so bad all day Thursday on acct. of that sandwich and Friday I felt rotten because a Dr. vacinated me and fixed me up so as I can't catch small pox or tyford fever and I would rather have the both of them the same day then have that bird work on me again.

Thursday A.M. after breakfast a bunch of us went to the Drs. and they give us a physical examination and before the Dr. examined me he says "Well is they anything the matter with you outside of a headache?" So I said "How do you know I got a headache" and he says because they was a epidemic of them in the camp. Well Al I could of told him why only of course I wouldn't squeel on the rest of the boys so all I told him was about me eating that sandwich and he says all the boys must of eat them and that shows how much them wise Drs. knows.

Well of course he didn't find nothing the matter with me physicly and he says I was a fine specimen and the next place I went was to the head quarters or something where they give us our uniforms and you ought to see me in mine Al only the shoes is 6 sizes to big and I made a holler about it but the man says they wouldn't be so big after I had wore them a while. They must be fine shoes that will srink Al because all the shoes I ever seen the more you wear them they get bigger. They give us each 2 pair shoes one to march in with cleats on the bottom and a hat and a hat cord and 5 pair sox and 2 shirts and a belt and 3 suits under wear and 2 cocky suits.

And we had to tell our family history to a personal officer that writes down all about you on a card and what kind of work you done before so if the General or somebody tears their pants they won't have to chase all over the camp and page a taylor because they can look at the cards and find out who use to be a taylor and send for him to sow them up.

A lot of the boys give this officer a song and dance about how good they can drive a car and etc. so they can get a soft snap like driveing one of the officers cars and I could of got some kind of a snap only I come here to be a soldier and fight Germans and not mend their pants.

The officer asked me my name and age and etc. and what I done in civil life so I said "I guess you don't read the sporting page." So he says "Oh are you a fighter or something?" So I said "I am a fighter now but I use to pitch for the White Sox." So then he asked me what I done before that so I told him I was with Terre Haute in the Central League and Comiskey heard about me and bought me and then he sent me out to Frisco for a while and I stood that league on their head and then he got me back and I been with him about 3 years.

So the officer asked me if I ever done anything besides pitch so I told him about the day I played the outfield in Terre Haute when Burns and Stewart shut their eyes going after a fly ball and their skulls come together and it sounded like a freight wreck and they was both layed out so I and Lefty Danvers took their place and in the 8th. inning I come up with 2 on and hit a curve ball off big Jack Rowan and only for the fence that ball wouldn't of made no stops this side of Indpls.

So then the officer says "Yes but didn't you do something when you wasn't playing ball?" so I told him a pitcher don't have to do nothing only set on the bench or hit fungos once in a while or warm up when it looks like the guy in there is beggining to wobble. So he says "Well I guess I will put you down as a pitcher and when we need one in a hurry we will know where to find one." But I don't know when they would need a pitcher Al unless it was to throw one of them bombs and believe me when it comes to doing that I will make a sucker out of the rest of these birds because if my arm feels O.K. they's nobody got better control and if they tell me to stick one in a German's right eye that is where I will put it and not in their stomach or miss them all together like I was a left hander or something.

Well Al we done a little training Friday and Saturday but today was the first day we realy went to it. First of course we got up and dressed and then they was 10 minutes of what they call upseting exercises and then come breakfast which was oatmeal and steak and bread and coffee. The way it is now you got to get your own dishs and go up to the counter and wait on yourself but of course we will have waiters when things gets more settled. You also got to make your own bed and that won't never kill nobody Al because all as we got is 2 blankets and you don't have to leave the bed open all A.M. like at home because whatever air wanted to get in wouldn't let these blankets stop it.

Then they give us an hour of drilling and that was duck soup for me on acct. of the drilling we done on the ball club last spring and you ought to seen the corporal and sargent open their eyes when they seen me salute and etc. but some of the birds don't know their right from their left and the officers had to put a stick of wood in their right hand so they would know it was their right hand and imagine if some of them was ball players and played left field. They would have to hire a crossing policeman to tell them where to go to get to their position and if they was pitchers they wouldn't know if they was right hand pitchers or left hand pitchers till they begun to pitch and then they would know because if they were hog wild they would be left handers.

The corporals and sargents come from the regular army but after a while Capt. Nash will pick some of us out to take their place and it is a cinch I will be picked out on acct. of knowing all about the drills etc.

The next thing was a lecture on what they could do to us if we got stewed or something and how to treat the officers and we got to sir them and salute them and etc. and it seems kind of funny for a man that every time he walked out to pitch the crowd used to stand up and yell and I never had to sir Rowland or Collins. I'd knock their block off if they tried to make me.

Well every time we wasn't doing something else they sprung some more of them upseting exercises on us and I called the corporal to one side and says if he would excuse me I would pass up some of them because I didn't need to exercise on acct. of playing baseball all summer and besides I was tired and he says these exercises was to fix me so I wouldn't get tired and he made me go through with all of them. How is that for brains Al and I suppose if a man was up all night watching a corpse or something this bird would make you stay awake all the next day so you wouldn't get sleepy.

For dinner we had roast chicken and sweet potatoes and cream corn and biscuits and coffee and for supper they was bake beans with tomato sauce and bread and pudding and cake and coffee and the grub is pretty fair only a man can't enjoy it because you got to eat to fast because if theys anything left on your plate when the rest of them birds gets through you got to fight to keep it from going to the wrong address. Well Al its pretty near time for the tattoo buggle which means the men has got to shut up and keep quiet so I am going to get ready for bed but I don't know if I would rather have them keep quiet or not because when they are keeping quiet you don't know what they are up to and maybe they are snooping a round somewheres waiting for a man to go to sleep so they can cut your throat. Some of them has been use to doing it all their life Al and they are beggining to miss it. But I don't know if I wouldn't just as leave die that way as from them upseting exercises.

Your pal, JACK.




CAMP GRANT, Sept. 26.

FRIEND AL: Well Al don't be surprised if you pick up the paper some A.M. and see where I'm gone and you may think I am just jokeing Al but I am telling you the truth and I am glad Florrie is fixed so she can make a liveing for herself and little Al because I wouldn't bet a nickle I will be alive by the time this gets to you.

I guess I all ready told you the kind of birds we got in our Co. Well the worst one in the bunch is a guy named Sebastian and of course he would have to be the one that got the bunk next to mine. Well Al you remember me writeing to you about the little runt that throwed that guy's trombone away, well his name is Lahey but we call him Shorty on acct. of him being so short. Well I hadn't payed much attention to this here Sebastian because he has always got a grouch and don't say nothing only to mumble at the officers when they ask him some question but Shorty knows him and last night he told me all about him and he has been pinched 50 times for stabbing people but he has got some pull or something and they can't never do nothing to him except once he served a turn at Joliet for cutting off a guy's ears because he wouldn't get up and give him a seat on a st. car. He has always got a knife hid on him somewheres and his first name is Nick so they call him Nick the Blade on acct. of always haveing a knife on him.

I don't know if I told you or not but we got a shed outside of the barracks with shower baths and etc. and everybody is supposed to take baths and keep themself clean and of course its a pleasure for a man like I because I got use to takeing them every day after the game and I don't feel right unless I am clean but some of the birds hollered like a Indian the first time the officers made them get under the shower and you would think they never seen water before and I guess some of them hadn't because when they come out afterwards the officers had to ask them their name.

Well Al I was takeing a bath yesterday and this big Nick bird was standing there striped and he couldn't get up the nerve to step under the shower and Corporal Daly come up behind him and give him a shove under the water and he give a bellow that you could hear from here to Rockford and I didn't know who he was then and I couldn't help from laughing and he seen me but he didn't say nothing and I wouldn't of thought no more about it only for what Shorty told me afterwards. Well Shorty was there to and he laughed at him to but Nick didn't see him but he seen me and Shorty says I better keep my eyes pealed because Nick wouldn't think no more of stabbing a man then picking his teeth and if theys one thing he won't stand for its somebody laughing at him.

Well I been keeping my eyes pealed all right and I kept them pealed all night last night but I can't stay awake all night every night and the first time I doze off it will probably be the last time.

Sebastian hasn't spoke to nobody or looked at nobody today and when a man acts like that it means they are makeing plans. Well Al I only wish he was planning to dessert from the army and if I seen him trying to make his get away I wouldn't blow no buggle to wake up the guards. I'll say I wouldn't Al.

I pretty near forgot to tell you that Teddy Roosevelt was here today over looking us and he made a speech but they was about 20 thousand for him to talk to and I was a mile away and couldn't hear nothing but I suppose he told the boys they was fine physical specimens and etc. Well Al that stuff is O.K. but if I wasn't a fine physical specimen I might be somewheres where I could go to sleep without some stabber waiting to carve their initials in my Adams apple.

Your pal, JACK.




CAMP GRANT, Sept. 29.

FRIEND AL: Well old pal you see I am still alive and I guess that is because by the time night comes a round Nick the Blade is all wore out with them upseting exercises and etc. and hasn't got enough strenth left to carve nobody or maybe he has figured out the truth which is that I wasn't realy laughing at him Al but when I am takeing a bath I feel so good that I am libel to bust out laughing at nothing you might say.

But Sebastian isn't the only bird I got to watch now Al because last night they sprung a new one on me and he just come into the camp yesterday and the man that was sleeping on the other side of me is sick in the infirmiary so they stuck this new one in his bunk and now I got them on both sides and I don't know which is the worst Nick or him because this one wispers all night and it would be O.K. if he was wispering in his sleep or wispering to himself but he isn't.

I didn't turn in till 11 and Nick was buzzing away like a saw buck and I figured on getting some sleep myself but I hadn't no sooner layed down when the wispering begun on the other side. First I didn't catch what he was trying to get at but I heard him the second time all right and he says "Do you want me to kill?" Well Al for 2 or 3 minutes I couldn't get enough strenth up to turn over and look at him but the next time he repeated it over again I couldn't stand it no more so I said "Are you talking to me?" And what do you think he said Al? He says "I am talking to God."

Well Al the connection couldn't of been very good you might say because he kept asking the same question over and over and not getting no answer but how was I to know when the party at the other end would speak up and maybe say yes and they wasn't nobody closer to him then me for him to work on so you can see what a fine nights rest I got Al and this A.M. I told Shorty Lahey about him and sure enough Al the bird is a gun man named Tom the Trigger and Shorty says he is a nut that thinks he is aces up with the all mighty and some times he imagines that they are telling him to go ahead and shoot and then he takes aim at whoever is handy.

Well Al this was inspections day and everybody was supposed to have a clean shave and their hair brushed and all their buttons sowed on and their beds made up neat and their shoes and mess kits shinned bright and etc. and Capt. Nash and the lieuts. give us all the double O and some of the boys got a nice little baling out for the way they looked but I looked like a soldier ought to look Al and didn't give them no chance to ball me out.

But what difference is it going to make Al for me to look good and have things neat when I am sleeping between a man that if he can ever stay awake till I doze off he will dig a trench system in my chest with a stilleto and on the other side of me they's a bird that the minute the lord says Fire he will make me look like a soup strainer. It don't hardly seem like its worth while to be strick about looks when sooner or later they are bound to muss me and my bed both up.

Your pal, JACK.




CAMP GRANT, Oct. 3.

FRIEND AL: Well old pal I just got some good news and this it is Al. Next Saturday they are going to let some of the boys go home on leave and I asked Corporal Daly to fix it up for me to go and he says he didn't know if he could or not because most of the ones that's going is men that has been here a mo. or more but on acct. of me haveing been with the White Sox they fixed it so as I could go and the world serious opens up in Chi Saturday and I won't get away from here till Saturday noon so I can't get there for the first game but I will see the Sunday game and won't Gleason and them pop their eyes out when I go down to the bench with my cocky suit on and shake hands with them and I bet Rowland will wish I was wearing the White Sox uniform instead of Uncle Sam's uniform.

Well Al I can't hardly wait to get home and see Florrie and little Al and of course I will see them Saturday night and I will take them to the game Sunday and leave for back here after the game because a man has got to be back in camp at 11 Sunday night and the funny part is that Florrie was going to bring little Al and come and see me next Sunday but now I am going to see her and I have wrote her to not come.

Well I am feeling to good to go to bed but that is where I ought to be Al because I wasn't never so tired in my life because they hung a new one on us this P.M. Instead of giveing us upseting exercises from a quarter to 4 till a quarter after they made us all run 20 minutes without stopping and they says it was to improve our wind. Well before we was half through I didn't have no wind to improve and I suppose some day they will pull all our teeth so as we can chew better. At that I would of been O.K. only my feet got to hurting and now I can't hardly walk and all because the shoes they give you are about 6 sizes to small and they keep lectureing us about feet hygeine but how is a man going to keep your feet O.K. when they make you wear shoes that Houdini couldn't get in or out of them.

But listen Al the news about going to Chi isn't the only peace of good news I got today because I also found out that this bird that Shorty called Tom the Trigger isn't no gun man at all and this here Nick the Blade won't do nothing to me because he is scared of the officers so I won't have to lay awake no more nights worring but I didn't find it out till today and here is how it come off.

This A.M. I went to sleep right at breakfast and couldn't keep my eyes open so Corporal Daly come up to me afterwards and asked me what was the matter so I told him I was to nervous to sleep nights on acct. of a crazy man bunking next to me and any minute he might take a notion and shoot me full of holes. I didn't say nothing about Nick the Blade on the other side of me because he was standing where he could hear us. So Corporal Daly asked me who I was talking about and I told him and he laughed and says that if I waited for Castle which is this other bird's name to start shooting I would probably die of old age or something because he is one of these objecters that don't beleive in war and he told them about it the first day we got here and says he objected to being a soldier. So Capt. Nash asked him if he would object to unloading a few cars of coal and that is what he has been doing up and till last Friday and then he begun objecting to a shovel and he says he would like to join the rest of us and see what it was like and maybe he would loose his objections. So now they are giveing him a week to make up his mind what he is going to do and he is talking it over all the while with the Lord and if the Lord tells him its O.K. to kill people why well and good but he won't practice on us because in the first place he hasn't no gun and if he had one he wouldn't know if it was to shoot with or stir your coffee.

So afterwards I told Shorty Lahey he had made a mistake about Castle and he says "All right and if he is a objecter it is up to us to talk him out of it." So after supper tonight Castle was seting right near me in the recreation room and Shorty come up to him and says "Well Castle haven't you been able to get that party on the wire yet" so Castle asked him what he meant and he says he heard Castle was waiting for a message from somewheres telling him if he should be a soldier or not so Castle didn't answer and begun to read. So Shorty says "You ain't the only one that objects to war but we got to make the world safe for Democrats and you shouldn't ought to object to getting your head blowed off in a good cause." So Castle spoke up and said he didn't object to getting killed but what he objected to was killing other people. So Shorty says "Well then all you got to do is stick along side of me in the trenches and when you get orders to go over the top you can slip me your gun and bayonet and I will see that they don't nobody sneak off with them dureing your absents." So then Castle got up and walked out on us.

So I says to Shorty I said, "You certainly had the wrong dope on that bird and maybe you got Sebastian wrong to." So he says "No I haven't and I may as well tell you what he told me today. He told me he would of cut you up in slices long ago only if he done it here in the camp he wouldn't have no chance to make his get away and he is waiting till some time he catchs you outside of the camp and then he will go to work on you. And if I was you and a married man I would rather get it here then in France because if you get it here your Mrs. can tend the funeral provide it they find enough of the slices to make it worth while."

Well Al he has got a sweet chance to catch me outside of the camp because when he is outside of the camp I will be inside of the camp and I am glad I found out the truth about both he and Castle and now maybe I can get some sleep.

So all and all I feel a whole lot better then I did only for my feet but feet or no feet I will enjoy myself in Chi and I only wish I was going tomorrow instead of wait till Sat.

Your pal, JACK.




CAMP GRANT, Oct. 7.

FRIEND AL: Well Al its Sunday night and I haven't been to Chi or nowheres else and I don't care if I ever go anywheres and the sooner they send me to France to the front line trenches I will be tickled to death.

Well old pal I decided yesterday A.M. to stay here and not go and I made up my mind all of a sudden and it was partly because I wasn't feeling good and my feet pretty near killed me and besides they are going to pick some of us out for corporals and sargents pretty soon and I figured a man would have a better chance of getting a officer job if you didn't ask them for leave all the while. So as soon as I changed my mind about going I found one of the boys that was going and asked him to call Florrie up as soon as he got to Chi and tell her I couldn't get off and for her to come out here today and see me and bring little Al.

Well Al yesterday and today has been the 2 longest days I ever spent and it seems like a yr. since yesterday A.M. and it don't hardly seem possible that I was feeling so good yesterday A.M. and now I don't care if school keeps or not as they say. Yesterday A.M. I was up before the buggle blowed all ready and so excited I couldn't hardly eat breakfast and just before inspections Shorty Lahey seen me smileing to myself and asked me what was the joke and I told him they wasn't no joke only I was going home and he says he hoped I would have a good trip and come back safe in sound so I said I guessed they wasn't no danger of anything happening to me and he says "You will he O.K. if you keep your eyes open." So I said "What do you mean keep my eyes open."

So he says "Your a game bird but they's no use of you takeing reckless chances so you want to be on the look out every minute till you get back."

So then I asked him what and the hell he was talking about and he says "Didn't you know that Nick the Blade was going along with you?"

Well Al it seems like Sebastian got wise that I was going home on leave and he seen a chance to get even with me for laughing at him or that is he thought I was laughing at him but I really wasn't but any way as soon as he found out I was going he told them his brother in law had fell and struck his head on the brass rail and was dying and wanted him to come home and they eat it up and give him leave. So when Shorty tipped me off I said I would wait and go on a later train but Shorty says that wouldn't do me no good because Nick wouldn't be a sucker enough to try and pull anything on the train amidst all them soldiers but would wait till we was in Chi and then he would get his gang and lay for me and the way he generally worked was come right up to your flat and get you and if your wife or kid says I yes or no it would be taps for them to. And Nick could come back here to camp and they wouldn't never know he was mixed up in it.

Well Al I guess you know I am not scared of anything in the world as far as myself personly am concerned but Florrie isn't one of the kind that would set there in a rocker and pair her finger nails while their husband was getting massacreed and little Al is a game bird to and a chip of the old block and they would both holler like a Indian and call for the police and you know what would happen to the both of them and I wouldn't care for myself but if anything happened to them I would feel like I was the murder.

So while I just laughed at Sebastian and his gang on my own acct. I would be a fine stiff to in danger my wife and baby and besides as I said I eat something for breakfast that didn't set good on me and I don't know if it was the coffee or the milk or what it was but I eat something that was poisoned and that's a fine way to treat soldiers is to give them poison food and the easiest way to get the Germans killed off would be to invite them out here and board a while. And in the second place if a man asks for leave when he hasn't only been here 2 wks. it would hurt my chance to get a corporal or a sargent and any way I figured Florrie would rather see something new like the camp then set through a ball game and of course it would be different if I was pitching but I suppose it was Faber's turn today and I see where Cicotte trimmed them yesterday but at that the score would of been 1 and 1 if Felsch hadn't of hit that ball out of the park and Sallee must be his brother in law or something to give him a ball like that to hit. If I was pitching he would be lucky to hit one up in the press box.

So I told Sargent Leslie I wasn't feeling good and would he fix it for me to take my leave some other time and he says I was the only soldier he ever seen that was to sick to go on their leave so then I told him my wife and kid was comeing out here to see me today and he says all right.

So I didn't go Al and the funny part of it is that somebody must of tipped Sebastian off that I wasn't going and what does he do but get his leave called off to and he has been here all yesterday and today and that proves he is laying for me and just wanted to go because I was going and it looks like the only way I can ever get away from here is sneak out without letting nobody know I am going and even then he would probably send word to his gang in Chi to keep their eye on me till he come.

I have caught him looking at me 2 or 3 times and I had a notion to ask him if he seen anything green but what is the use Al of starting something with a man like he and if I was to loose my temper and bust him Capt. Nash might hear about it and shut us both up in the guard house together and one or the other of us wouldn't never come out alive and which ever one it was it would give the camp a black eye.

Well Al about all I done today was look for Florrie and little Al and I didn't give them up till 5 o'clock tonight because I thought maybe they had missed the A.M. trains and would come later and every time I seen a woman and kid toddleing up the road I would think sure it was them this time and I was dissapointed about 30 thousand times because they was at least that many women and kids here today and if they was all somebody's wife Camp Grant must be infected with Mormons.

All the women had baskets and boxs full of pie and jell and fried cakes and what all but they wasn't no package of goodys with my name and address on them Al and they wasn't no little schaefer yelling theres daddy when they seen me and running up to get huged.

Well Al the man that was to call up Florrie come back this P.M. and come in the barracks just before I started this letter and I asked him I said "Well Bishop did you call up my wife like I told you?" His name is Bishop. "Hell" he says "I forgot all about it." And honest Al his size is all that saved him the little srimph and if he was anywheres near a man I would of Bishoped him right in the eye. But I managed to keep my hands off of him and all as I said was for him to get out of my way before it was to late and then he begun to whine and says how sorry he was and he says "I got some excuse because I reached home just in time to be presented with a baby girl."

How is that for an excuse Al and the only wonder is that he didn't forget if it was a boy or a girl before he got back here but of course a man like he wouldn't have nothing but a girl. But isn't it just my luck Al for me to trust somebody to do something and then for them to go and have a baby on me? And I hope every time he gos home she is yelling all night with the collect.

Your pal, JACK.




CAMP GRANT, Oct. 10.

FRIEND AL: Well Al I wrote to Florrie Sun. night and told her what had came off and about this fat head forgetting to call her up and I just got a letter back from her and she says her and little Al both of them cried themself to sleep Saturday night because I didn't show up and she had let little Al set up till 9 o'clock so as he could see his daddy in a uniform and when I didn't come then or Sun. A.M. neither they thought I didn't care for them no more so they went to the ball game Sun. P.M., and McGraw started another left hander and you probably read what happened to him and I suppose everybody is saying what a whale Faber is and who wouldn't be a whale if they get 5 runs for you in one inning but even if you are a whale that don't excuse you from trying to steal a base that one of your own men all ready got there ahead of you and hasn't left yet.

But Florrie and little Al are comeing out here next Sunday Al and this time they won't be no mix up because I won't depend on no half wit that the minute they become a father they go all to peaces.

But what I wanted to tell you about was Sebastian. Well Al Shorty Lahey was trying to make me believe this bird was a bad egg and that they called him Nick the Blade because he always went a round with a knife and whittled you if you looked X eyed at him but the next time Shorty wants to kid somebody he better try it on some yapp that hasn't been in the big league and I let him think he was stringing me just to see how far he would go with it but if he thought he had me fooled the shoes was on his feet not mine.

Well Al Sebastian's name is just plain Nick without no Blade on it and the only blade he ever pulled was a blade of grass or something because he use to help take care of the grounds at Washington Pk. before he was drafted and he has been one of my admirers for a long while and that is why he kept looking at me and he says he use to always try and get to the games when it was my turn to pitch and he has been wanting to talk to me ever since we been here but today was the first time he got up the nerve and he never had no intentions of going on leave last Sat. and to prove it he showed me a letter he got from his wife last Friday and she don't spell very good but she spoke in the letter about comeing here to see him this next Sunday and nothing about him comeing there to see her and she is going to bring their 2 kids along and he says he never seen a man with a prettier wind up then I got and all together he is O.K. and when Shorty trys to make you beleive somebody is a murder he ought to pick out a man that looks like the part.

I haven't said nothing to Shorty and I won't but what I will do is play a joke on him right back only I will make it a good one and not no fizzle like some of his.

And oh yes Al they have sent Castle over to the quarter masters dept. and he won't have a chance to kill nobody there except when they come after a pair of shoes.

Your pal, JACK.




CAMP GRANT, Oct. 12.

FRIEND AL: Well old pal I am writeing this in the Y.M.C.A. where a man has got some chance to hear yourself think as they say but if you try and write over in the barracks if they don't joggle your arm or tip your seat over for a joke they are all the time jabbering back and forth in foreign languages till you get so balled up that instead of writeing a letter a man is libel to make out his will in Eskimo or something.

Speaking about foreign languages Al the next time I see you I will be talking French like a regular Frenchman and you will have to ask me to translate what I am talking about. Of course I am just jokeing about that because I wouldn't spring a lot of stuff on you that you wouldn't understand and I might just as well go up to a statue and ask them how their father stood his operation or something. But what I am getting at is that I am going to join the French lesson class here and its something that you don't have to belong to it unless you want to but I figure a man is a sucker if they don't take advantage of a chance like this because in the first place it don't cost you nothing and in the second place the men that knows how to talk French will have all the best of it when we get over there because suppose you was in Paris and felt like you wanted a glass of pilsner and if you said it in French they would fetch it to you but if you just said pilsner they wouldn't know if you was asking for something to drink or a nasal dooch or what not.

But besides that Al after we get to France the French officers will want to tip us off on this and that about the Germans and of course they won't talk to the privates but they will only talk to the officers and if I am a officer by that time which it looks like a cinch I will be one by that time at the outside why suppose I was standing by 1 of our genls. and a French genl. wanted to tell him what was what and etc. but couldn't talk nothing but French and our genl. couldn't make head or tales of it then I could act like an interpeter between the both of them and the first thing you know all the high monkey monks when they want to talk back and forth will be pageing Capt. Keefe or Major Keefe or whatever officer I am by that time.

Some of the boys laughed at me tonight when I told them about going to attend the lessons but I will be the one that does the laughing when we get across that old pond and Shorty Lahey the smart alex that I told you about says to me "We won't do all our training with the French army but we will do some of it with the English army so while you are at it you better learn to talk English to." So I said "You better learn to talk English yourself" and he shut his mouth.

Well Al Florrie and little Al will be here to see me Sunday and I can't hardly wait for them to get here and I suppose Florrie will bring along some daintys of some kind that she cooked up herself or maybe got the swede girl to do it but of course I am not worring about whether she brings anything or don't bring anything as long as she brings herself and the kid only most of the wifes that comes out here Sundays brings something along to show they been thinking of you though if I was most of these birds wifes the only time I would think about them would be when I said my prayers at night and then I would thank God they had joined the army.

Your pal, JACK.




CAMP GRANT, Oct. 14.

FRIEND AL: Well Al its Sunday night and I been entertaining company. Florrie and little Al got out here just after noon and I was in the barracks reading about the world serious game in Chi yesterday and Florrie says she asked 1 of the boys where I was at and he told her I was polishing the general's shoes and wouldn't he do just as well. How is that for a fresh bum Al and of course I don't have to polish the general's shoes or any shoes and if I could find out who it was that Florrie was talking to I would polish their jaw for them.

Well of course Florrie didn't beleive him and the next man she asked was Nick Sebastian and he come and got me and you ought to seen Florrie stair when she got a look at me in my uniform and little Al didn't know me at first and when Florrie says to him who is it he says it was the capt. Well Al it is to soon to be calling me a capt. but if they are running this game on the square it won't be long and they will be calling me more then that.

Well Florrie handed me a box and she says I was to not open it till she was gone and then I showed them over the camp and the way the boys staired at Florrie I couldn't help from being proud of her but of course if some of them had of got to fresh I would of fixed them so they wouldn't do no stairing for a couple of wks. Sebastian's wife and 2 kids was here to visit him and we run into them and we all went a round together and I made the remark that it would be nice for Mrs. Sebastian and her kids and Florrie and little Al to all go back to Chi on the same train together and it was O.K. with Mrs. Sebastian but when I and Florrie was alone together for a few minutes she started to ball me out for makeing the suggestion and I asked her what was the matter with it and she says she wasn't going to set in the same seat on the train with a woman that looked like she had left home before she got up and little Al would probably catch something from the 2 Sebastian kids so I said that Mrs. Sebastian done real work for a liveing and you couldn't expect her to look like Sarah Bernhart but Florrie is the kind that if she takes a dislike towards somebody its good night to them and it don't do no good to tell her that a person can't help their looks and that is all the more reason you should try and not hurt their feelings. So Mrs. Sebastian had a round trip ticket on the C.B. and Q. and so did Florrie but she pretended like hers was on the I.C. and thats the way her and little Al went back so they wouldn't have to set with the Sebastians and take a chance of little Al catching something though from what I seen of the Sebastian kids they looked as strong as a horse and they wasn't no danger of catching nothing from them unless maybe it was the banana habit.

I suppose I would of been a grass widower long ago if I was ugly and how will it be if I get shot up in the war and Florrie would sew me for a bill of divorce on the grounds that I didn't have no nose to smell the cooking.

Well Al after they had gone Sebastian made the remark that I had a beautiful wife and I couldn't help from feeling kind of sorry for him so I says "Never mind old boy" I said to him "as long as your Mrs. is a good mother and willing to work you should not worry if she is no Eva Tanguay." But I didn't feel so sorry for him when we opened up the boxs they had broughten us and Sebastian's wife had give him doughnuts and a pie and part of a cake and goodys of all kinds and when I opened up my box it was a lb. of candy like you get in a union station for 60 cts and if it wasn't for the picture of a girl on the cover it would be all profit and a man can't eat the picture which was the only part of it that hadn't ran together like chop sooy and Florrie would of made just as big a hit with me if she had of put in the time bakeing me a mess of cookys that she spent toneing up her ear lobs or something.

Well Al I suppose you read about yesterday's game in Chi. I been saying right along that the White Sox was to lucky to loose and the only way I can figure out yesterday's game is that they must be a rule in the National League where you can't change from 1 pitcher to another pitcher till the other team gives their consent. From what I read in the papers Sallee could of been turned loose with his fast ball in a looking glass factory without damageing the goods and when Jackson and Collins begins to take a toe hold against a left hander its time to summons the Red X. You will notice Rowland didn't waist no time getting Russell out of there and the next time he starts a left hander will be on the training trip next spring in Wichita where if you beat them to bad they won't give you a card to the Elks.

Your pal, JACK.




CAMP GRANT, Oct. 16.

MY CHER AMI: I suppose you will think I have gone crazy when you read the way I started this letter out and you will wonder if I have gone crazy. Well Al that is the French word for my dear friend in English so you see I have not gone crazy after all. I took my first lesson last night and it is going to be nuts to learn it because most of the words is just like English only spelled different and you don't say them the same but the man learns us a dozen words and tells us how to say them and we keep saying them over till we get them down and it wont' be long when we got enough of them learned so as we can jabber back and forth in front of the boys that didn't have sense enough to learn it and they won't know if we are calling them names or getting ready to murder them.

Well Al we had Gen. Barry out overlooking us yesterday and he said we was a fine looking bunch of soldiers as he even seen and we put in most of the day digging trenchs just like the ones they got over in Germany and when we get them fixed up we will practice fighting for them till we can go through them Dutchmen like they was fly paper and I wouldn't be surprised Al if we got word soon to pack up and start because Red Sampson one of the boys in our Co. has got a brother thats over there all ready and he is Gen. Pershing's right hand bower and so he gets the dope pretty straight and in a letter Red got from him he says Gen. Pershing had asked Secty. Daniels to send over the best looking lot of soldiers from each camp and from what Gen. Barry said about us I suppose we will be the first to go but it may not be for a wk. or so because Red said he heard we wasn't going till each Co. had a rifle.

If we do have to go in a hurry I won't be able to write you about where we are leaveing from and etc. on acct. of the censure because the German spy might get next to it and he could wire across to Germany and the submarine U boats would be on the outlook for us. But between you and I Red says we are libel not to go where the submarines can get a crack at us but we may slip around the other way and light in Japan and make the rest of the trip by R.R. and he says we may even not go to France but stay and help the Russians out. So Shorty Lahey was there and he has always got to say something so people will think he knows it all so he said the Russians didn't need nobody to help them out because they were pretty near out now. So Red said "You will notice they didn't loose much ground yesterday" and Shorty says "No they only loose 2 miles and they must of been a strong east wind blowing but I will bet you that if we do make the trip that way we will bump into them along about Ogden Utah." So Red says "No because if they ever get to Utah they will hide in Salt Lake City where the Germans couldn't tell them by their beards." So then Shorty seen he was getting kidded and shut up.

This A.M. we spent a half hour listening to a speech about the German gas and of course you have read about the gas Al and it isn't like regular gas but its some kind of poison that the Germans lets it loose in the air and it floats across Nobodys land and comes to the other trenchs and if you haven't got no mask its good night but we are all going to have masks to wear so the gas can't hurt us. Red says thats one thing where the Russians have got it on us and they don't have to be scared of dying from gastritis because the Germans haven't no gas fast enough to catch up with them.

Well Al the world serious is over just like I said it would be with the White Sox winner and each one of the boys gets $3600.00 and that would of been my share only I loved my country more than a few dollars and I bet the boys feel kind of ashamed of themself to think I was the only one that passed up all that jack to work for Uncle Sam at $30.00 per mo. but between you and I Al I have got a scheme where I will make twice that amt. and if some of the rest of the boys here thought about it they could do the same thing but why should I tip them off because you can bet they wouldn't tip me off to a good thing if they thought of it first.

Here is the scheme when a man has got a family the govt. keeps out 1/2 of your pay every month or more if you want them to and then the govt. sticks the same amt. in with it and sends it to your wife or who ever gets it. Say you are a private and getting about $30.00 per mo. and you tell the govt. to keep out $15.00 of it. So the govt. keeps $15.00 and sticks another $15.00 with it and sends it to your family.

Well Al I am going to tell them to keep out my whole $30.00 per mo. and they will have to put another $30.00 with it and send the $60.00 to Florrie and she won't need it so she can either send it to me or salt it away somewheres in my name and it means I will be getting $60.00 while the rest of them are dragging down $30.00 and if it was just luck on my part I wouldn't think it was hardly fair but when a man figures something out in your head you got a right to take advantage of it and a man that give up a big league salary and the world serious dough to do their bit deserves something extra while the only way some of the rest of these birds could earn $30.00 per mo. outside of the army would be to ask for it with a peace of lead pipe.

Well old pal bon sore for this time and that means good night in French and pretty soon I will be writeing you a whole letter in French only of course I wouldn't do that because it would be like waisting that much paper because they couldn't nobody in Bedford make heads or tales out of it and I might just as well save my labor for my pains as they say.

Your pal, JACK.




CAMP GRANT, Oct. 18.

FRIEND AL: Well old pal I got a peace of news for you that I bet you will be tickled to death for my sake when I tell it to you. I guess I told you in my last letter about Gen. Barry inspecting us. Well Al I kind of thought I seen him looking at me like he liked the way I carry myself and etc. but I didn't want to say nothing about it till I was sure but after breakfast this A.M. Capt. Nash sent for me and when I went in his office and saluted he says "Good morning Corporal Keefe." Well Al of course that means I have been appointed a corporal and of course I expected it only I wasn't looking for it so soon and while Capt. Nash didn't say nothing it don't take no Bobby Burns to figure out that the orders come from higher up.

The corporals and sargents we had at first was men from the regular army and they been sending them away lately and now some of the boys from the ranks gets their chance. In order to get a corporal or a sergent a man has got to have the drills down perfect besides being a perfect physical specimen and good appearance and a man that the rest of the boys will look up to him and respect him and a man that don't know the meaning of the word fear. Well Al I must of filled the bill and I will show Gen. Barry he didn't make no mistake.

My command is made up of 7 men that I am the boss of them and they contain Sebastian and Red Sampson and Shorty Lahey and a wop named Janinny or something and a big stropper named Hess and 2 boys named Gardner and Bowen and some of them is pretty rough birds but I won't have no trouble handleing them because they know about my record in baseball and they can't help from respecting a man that give up a big salary to help Uncle Sam out and the only I that might try and give me trouble is Lahey and I guess he has got better sense then trying some of his funny jokes with a corporal because when a private monkeys with a officer he is libel to wake up the next A.M. with no place to wear his hat.

Well Al a corporal isn't the highest officer in the army but its a step up and everybody has got to start at the bottom and Napoleon started as a corporal and the soldiers was all nuts about him and called him the little Corporal and maybe they will give me a nick name like that only of course it won't be the little corporal because that would be like calling Jess Willard Tiny Jess or something and the salary is $36.00 per mo. instead of $30.00 and with that scheme I got fixed up with the govt. that will give me twice $36.00 per mo. or $66.00 and I'll say thats a whole lot better then a private at $1.00 per day.

I have all ready wrote and told Florrie about it and I bet she will go crazy when she reads my letter and after this when they call her Mrs. Keefe she can shrink up her shoulders and say "Mrs. Corp. Keefe please" and you will have to salute when you see me Al. Of course I mean that for a joke because what ever honors I get I wouldn't leave them make no difference in our friendship and betwen you and I it will always be just plain Jack Keefe.

Well Al we started today learning to throw bombs and of course that won't be no trick for me and you might say it was waisting time for me to practice at it because when my arm feels O.K. I can throw in your vest pocket but today it was raining and I wouldn't cut loose and take chances with my arm because I figure this war won't last long and I guess I won't have no trouble signing up in the big league at my own turns after what I done. But you ought to seen the officer that was trying to learn us how and if they all throw like he its a wonder they hit Europe to say nothing about the Germans. He kept his arm stiff like he didn't have no elbow joint and he was straight over hand all the while like Reulbach and you know what kind of control he had.

We didn't have no regular bombs but only stones and tomato cans but the way he throwed he couldn't of took a baseball and hit the infield from second base and finely I told him and he said yes but if you crooked your arm you would wear it out because the regular bombs weighs almost 2 lbs. and you had to use a easy motion. How is that Al for a fresh bum trying to talk to me about easy motions and I had a notion to tell him to go back to France with his motions but I kept my temper and throwed a few the right way till my arm got to feeling sore.

Well its 10 o'clock and after and I am going to turn in and it isn't that I feel sleepy but when a man is a officer you feel like you ought to set an example to the men.

Your pal, CORP. JACK KEEFE.




CAMP GRANT, Oct. 22.

FRIEND AL: Well Al we had some lessons in trench takeing today and I feel like I had been in a football game or something. We would climb up out of the trenchs that was supposed to be the U.S. trenchs and run across Nobody's Land and take the trenchs that was supposed to be the German trenchs and clean them out with rifles and bayonets and bombs and of course we didn't have no real rifles and bombs but if we had of and they had been any Germans in the trenchs it would of been good night to them.

We done it over and over till I was pretty near wore out but of course I pretended like I was fresh as a daisy because a good corporal wouldn't never lay down till he was dead and its their business to set up an example for the boys and inspire them so I kept hollering like Hughey Jennings or somebody and every time we started out of our trenchs I would holler "Come on boys give them hell this time" and I guess it made a hit with the instructers because they kept smileing at me and talking about me between themselfs and I could pretty near guess what they said. But of course it made Shorty Lahey sore to see me getting all the attentions and he says to me "Who do you think you are Jonah Vark?" So I said "You tend to your business and show some life or I will Jonah Vark you in the jaw."

So afterwards when we was in the barracks he come up and says "If you are playing Jonah Vark you should ought to quit telling us to come on boys and give them hell because Jonah Vark wouldn't never use a word like that." So I said "I guess he would say a whole lot worse then that if he had a dirty rat like you in his command." So that shut him up.

Tonight they showed us some pictures that was supposed to be the West Pt. cadets drilling and Capt. Nash says if we ever got so as we could drill like that he would quit working us so hard. Well Al its all O.K. to hand that stuff to the boys that don't know no more then to fall for it but I hope they didn't suppose I was a sucker enough to think those was real pictures but of course I wouldn't say nothing because if looking at a lot of fake pictures makes the boys work harder the sooner we will get sent to France.

I was just talking to Red Sampson and he was telling me about a bird named Chambers in Co. A and it shows some people don't know when they have got a good thing and don't appreciate what people trys to do for them. I remember this bird comeing out with us on the train and they wouldn't nobody go near him on acct. of him being such a bum and Red says he heard that for a while after we got here they had to chase this bird under the shower bath with a bayonet and he done most of his drilling in the guard house. So finely his captain told him he wouldn't stand for no more of his monkey business and he would call him up in front of the court marshall if he didn't behave himself.

So then Chambers says all right he would make a new start and sure enough he cut it all out and begin to take a pride in himself and got the drills down pat and kept clean and his captain wanted to show him it payed to be a man and he made a corporal out of him.

Well Al you can't break the rules when you are a corporal no more than a private but this bird went to Chi the day before yesterday on a leave and he was supposed to be back at 11 P.M. last night but he don't show till 2 A.M. and he was all lit up like the City of Benton Harbor and of course the guard nailed him and he got called up before his captain and he busted him and I don't mean he cracked him in the jaw but when a man gets busted in the army it means you get reduced to a private. So I said to Red what a sucker this bird was and Red says maybe he wanted to get busted because a corporal has got such a load on their shoulders that lots of men would rather be a private. So I said it must be a fine kind of a man that would turn down a job in the army because it was a tough job and Red says "Yes but everybody ain't like you and some men don't want no responsibility but you are one of the kind that the more they have the better they like it and everybody could see you was a born leader the way you acted in that trench drill today."

So I suppose after all a man like Chambers has no business in a job like corporal because it is a cinch nobody would ever call him a born leader unless it was in the gin league but still a person would think he would try and behave himself after the captain give him that chance but still I should not worry and it is none of my business and all I got to do is set up the right kind of an example for my own command and leave the rest of them take care of themselfs.

Your pal, JACK.




CAMP GRANT, Oct. 23.

FRIEND AL: Well I have quit takeing French class lessons and I quit because I felt it wasn't fair to either myself or Capt. Nash because when a man is a corporal its all head work you might say and a man ought to keep their mind on their job evenings as well as day times and I felt like I couldn't do that and be monking with French at the same time and it would be like as if I was back pitching baseball and trying to learn to play a saxophone or something at the same time and in the evenings when I ought to be figureing out how to pitch to Pipp instead of that I would have my mind on what keys to blow next though of course I just say that for a comparison because I could learn how to play the whole band and still make a sucker out of that bird because all you got to do is to pitch outside. But besides that I figured that the man who was trying to learn us French didn't know what he was talking about and what is the use of learning it wrong and then you got to start all over again when we got over there. For inst. he asked me what was the English word for very in French so I knew it was tres so I said tres and he says no it was tray because you say the letter e like it was the letter a and you don't pay no attention to the letter s. So I asked him what it was there for then and he said that was just the French of it so I had a notion to tell him to go and take a jump in the lake but I decided to just say nothing and quit. I guess the French people are not crazy and they wouldn't nobody but a crazy man stick a letter in a word and then make up their mind to ignore it you might say and it would be just like as if I wanted a beer and I would go up to the bar and say "Give me a bee" and I guess the man would think I thought I was in a bee hive or something or else he would think I had a bee in my bonnet eh Al?

But laying all jokes to one side I have got to much on my mind to be fooling with it and besides I put in a week on it and I figure I have got it down good enough so as I can get by and besides I am one of those kind that don't have much to say but when theys something to be done you don't have to send no blood hounds to find where I am at.

Red Sampson got another letter today from his brother in France and Red says his brother and Pershing was right up close to the front where they could see the fighting and they was a big battle in Sept. that the papers didn't get a hold of it and about 2500 Frenchmen was killed. So Shorty Lahey asked if they was all privates and Red says No that in the French army they have things different and you don't often see a private killed but when theys 25000 men killed you can figure that at least 20000 of them was corporals and sargents because the corporals and sargents has to go out in front of all the charges. Well Al I am glad its different in the U.S. army but at that I am not the kind of a man that would hang back for the fear of getting a bullet in me and if I was I would resign from my command and tell them to get somebody else.

Your pal, JACK.




CAMP GRANT, Oct. 24.

FRIEND AL: Well Al this was Liberty Day and we had a parade in Rockford and they was also some ball games out here and that is the boys thought they was playing ball and everybody was crazy I should pitch for one of the teams but in the first place I didn't feel like it would be fair and besides I figure its bad dope for the officers to mix up with the men and play games with them and etc. and thats not because I think I am any better then anybody else but if you hold yourself off they respect you that much more and I have noticed that Capt. Nash and the lieuts, don't hang a round with nobody only themselfs and when it comes to the majors and colonels I guess they don't even speak to their own wife only when they are danceing maybe and step on each others ft.

Well Al I decided today to not try and work that little scheme I had about alloting my whole salary to Florrie and then the govt. would put the same amt. with it and I would be salting away $66.00 per mo. instead of $36.00 and I was talking to Corp. Haney about it and he says it couldn't be done and I don't know about that but any way I figured it wouldn't be fair to the rest of the boys so I am going to allot $18.00 per mo. to Florrie to keep for me and that leaves me $18 per mo. to spend that is it leaves me that amt. on paper but when you come to figure it out Al I am paying $5.60 for soldiers insurance and $10.00 per mo. for another liberty bond I bought and that leaves me $2.40 per mo. to spend and how is that for a man that was drawing a salary in the big league but at that I have got it on some of the privates that gives up the same amt. for insurance and a liberty bond and they only gets $30.00 per mo. and 1/2 of that amt. gos to their wife so when it comes to the end of the month they owe $.60 for being a soldier.

Speaking about the soldiers insurance with the kind I got if I was disabled they would have to give me $50.00 to $60.00 per mo. on acct. of me haveing Florrie and little Al and that would come in handy Al if I got my right arm shot off and couldn't pitch but at that I know birds in the big league now thats drawing $400.00 to $500.00 per mo. and as far as their pitchings conserned they might just as well have both their arms shot off and include their head.

Well anyway we won't have to practice fighting no more with broom sticks and cans and etc. because Sargent James told us tonight that the rifles was comeing so I said to my boys that I hoped they was good shots so we could make a sucker out of the other squads and I told them if they was all as good a shot as me I wouldn't have no kick because I figure that anybody thats got as good control when they throw or pitch should certainly ought to shoot straight. So Red Sampson says that if I was in the French army it wouldn't do me no good to be a crack shot and I asked him why not and he says the corporals in the French army are not allowed to carry no guns but all they was supposed to do was run ahead of the privates and draw the fire and maybe if the Germans happened to not hit them they could pull out their scissors and cut the bob wire untanglements so as the privates wouldn't have no trouble getting in to the German trenchs where they could use their bayonets.

Red says "Instead of the pollutes trying to get to be a corporal they try not to because when they appoint you a corporal in the French army its a good night kiss and of course its a honor at that because it shows they think you are a game bird and don't care for your own life as long as you help the cause and that is why they picked you out. Because a corporal don't carry no arms of any kind and all he is is a kind of a decoy to kep the Germans shooting at him so as to protect the regular soldiers and that is why over 80% of the casualtys in the French army is corporals."

Well Al as I said before I am not in the French army and I should worry about what they do to corporals in the French army.

I pretty near forgot to tell you that I am going home on leave Saturday and you can bet I am going this time sick or no sick because from all the rumors a round the camp we might be leaveing for across the pond any day now specially with the rifles comeing and that makes it look like we would soon be on our way and if I didn't see Florrie and little Al before I left it would probably be the last time I would see them because something tells me Al that if I go over there I won't never come back.

Your pal, JACK.




CAMP GRANT, Oct. 26.

FRIEND AL: Well don't be surprised if you read in the paper any A.M. where our regt. has been ordered to France but of course I don't suppose they would come out in the paper with it because General Pershing don't want it to get out what regts. is over there and probably you won't hear nothing about it when we do go because they won't be no chance for me to write to you and if you don't hear from me for a long while you will know we have gone and the next time you hear from me will be from over there. I got the dope tonight from Red Sampson and he heard it from one of the men that was on guard yesterday and this man heard the Col. telling Capt. Gould of Co. B that General Pershing had sent for the best looking regt. out here and Gen. Barry had recommended our regt. and from what Red says we will probably go in a week or so and he don't know if we are going by the way of the Atlantic or the Pacific but all as I hope is that we get there before the war is over.

I am certainly glad now that I arranged for leave this wk. end because it will give me a chance to fix my affairs up before I go and if anything should happen to me they wouldn't be no trouble for Florrie about property and etc. I certainly wish I had enough so as I could leave you and Bertha something to help you along old pal and maybe if they had give me more time I could of fixed things up but all as I can leave you now is my friendship and remember that if anything happens I was your old pal and you boys that stays home is the ones we are laying down our life for and if it wasn't for men like we where would you be at Al and your familys?

Well Al I am proud of my squad the way they took the news and we was the only ones that knew about it and yet they wasn't a man in my command that didn't act like he was tickled to death and thats the right kind of a spirit and I spoke about it to Red Sampson. I said "I am proud of all of you because instead of you whineing and putting on a long face you all act like you was going to a picnic or something." So Red says he guessed the rest of the boys and him didn't have no license to cry as long as I kept up my spirits. He says "Maybe it would be different if we was all corporals because then it would seem like we was leaveing home forever. But you are the bird thats takeing the chance and if you can keep smileing we would be a fine bunch if we broke down and begun to whine and I don't suppose theys a man amongst us that has thought about danger to themselfs but its all whats going to happen to you."

Well Al thats the kind of a bunch to have under you and it makes a man think of Napoleon and how his men looked up at him.

Well maybe you won't get no more letters from me that is if the call comes before I leave tomorrow for Chi but if I get there O.K. I will write to you from there because probably by the time I get back here the orders will be to pack up and move and then I won't have no time to write.

Your pal, JACK.




CHICAGO, Oct. 28.

FRIEND AL: Well Florrie is still in the hay yet and little Al is playing with himself on the floor and reading the pictures in the Sunday A.M. paper and I thought I would sleep late this A.M. but when a man gets in the habit of wakeing up early you get so as you can't sleep after you wake up once and thats the way it was with me.

Well Al I suppose you will be surprised at me saying it but I pretty near wish I wasn't no officer but just a private like at first and I got a good notion to go back to the camp like Chambers did behind time and 1/2 stewed and the reason I feel like that is because I have got attached to my boys and I would pretty near rather give up going to France all together then quit them because it seems like it wouldn't be hardly fair to leave them now that they have got so as they look up at me and I figure that even if I wasn't a corporal no more but just I of them I could do more good then if I quit them entirely.

I suppose you will wonder what I am getting at Al. Well on the train comeing from Rockford yesterday I was setting with Shorty Lahey and he was on leave to and I know its a mistake sometimes for a officer to pal a round with their men but I set with him on the train because I can't stand it to hurt a man's feelings and Shorty's hearts in the right place with all his jokeing and etc. So we set down together on the train and got to talking things over and he says "Well Keefe you have got to be a corporal and that means you have made good and I wish I was in your shoes."

So I said that if he took care of himself and minded his business they wasn't no reason why he wouldn't be advanced higher up the ladder some time in the future and he says "Yes but now is the time I would like to be in your shoes because I would like to get over to France and get in it." So I asked him what he meant and he says the dope Red Sampson was giving me was part of it right and part of it wrong and the right dope was that General Pershing hadn't sent for our whole regt. but what he had sent for was all the non commission officers out of the regt. and that means all the corporals and sergents and they was the only ones going this time because the French army had ran out of non commission, officers and General Pershing was going to lend them the best ones we had over here in training.

So I said "Well it looks like I was elected and its 100 to 1 that I won't never come back." So Shorty says "Oh I don't know about that and I think Red Sampson is wrong about them killing all them corporals because from what I heard they's a few of them they don't try and kill so they can take them prisoner and get information off them."

So I said "They would have a hell of a chance getting information off me because they could kill me before I would spill anything." So Shorty says "You might not spill nothing at first but you would be a game bird if you stuck through all the tortures because when they ask you something and you don't tell them they cut off a couple of toes and see if that won't make you talk and so on till you don't hardly know if you are alive but if you are game enough to stand all they give you why finely they will see what a game bird you are and then they finish you off so you won't suffer no more. But if you tell them all you know right at first they won't do nothing to you only of course you will be a prisoner there in Germany till the war is over and they make you work your head off without no food and they don't even feed the guards because they want to keep them mad at the prisoners so as they will make them work harder and every time you act like you was loafing or something the guards scratchs their initials in you with their bayonet."

So I asked him where he got his dope and he says he didn't know if it was all true or not but his wife's 2 brothers was in the German army and they had wrote home about it and maybe it was all bunk.

Well Al I figured I would take Florrie to a show somewheres last night because maybe it would be the last time but after supper I felt kind of sick on acct. of the change in food and I asked Florrie if she would just as leave stay home so I went to bed early and I thought I would get a good rest but I didn't get no sleep and as I said I couldn't sleep this A.M. and now I am waiting for her to get up for breakfast.

I only wish they was some way for me to get out of this corporal and it isn't that I can't handle it but it seems like a shame to leave the other boys that almost worships me you might say and here is little Al playing on the floor and if his daddy was just a private I might maybe stay at Camp Grant all winter and come in and see Florrie and he every month.

Your pal, JACK.




CAMP GRANT, Oct. 30.

FRIEND AL: Well Al I am not going to France at all that is right away and this time I got the dope straight from Capt. Nash and not from no Lahey or Sampson.

Here is the way I come to find out Al. I was supposed to get back in camp Sunday night but I missed the train out of Chi and I took the first train yesterday A.M. and I got reported for being A.W.O.L., and that means I was absent without no leave so I got called up in the orderly room in front of Capt. Nash.

So he says "Well Keefe don't tell me your aunt died." So I asked him what he meant because I haven't no aunt only by marriage that lives down in Texas. So he says "Do you know what we could do to you for being A.W.O.L." So I said "I suppose you could bust me." So he says "Yes and that isn't all. If you was drunk or some excuse like that we could have you out in front of a fireing party or if we wanted to go easy with you we could send you down to Ft. Leavenworth for 10 yrs." So I said "I wasn't drunk sir and all the trouble was that I missed a train out of Chi and I didn't miss it more than 2 minutes." So he says "Well 2 minutes and 2 wks. don't make no difference in this game. But you have been behaving yourself O.K. and we got a fine record in this Co. and I don't want to loose no non commission officers because I haven't got none now thats worth a dam. So you see that you don't miss no more trains because the next time it will go a whole lot different. You are excused only that you won't get no more leave for a month."

So I said thank you sir and told him I was sorry because I was in a hurry to get to France and didn't want nothing to come up to interfere with me going and he says "You don't want to go no more then I do but it looks like we would all be here till we die of old age." So I asked him if the corporals wasn't going ahead of the rest of the bunch and he says the corporals would go with the privates unless they was all shot by that time for being A.W.O.L.

So here I am Al and I have told the boys I was not going to quit them and I never seen nobody so tickled. Well Al I am glad to in a way and on the other hand its a big dissapointment but a man has got to learn to swallow their dissapointments in the army and take what comes.

Your pal, JACK.




CAMP GRANT, Nov. 4.

FRIEND AL: Well Al they have begin to bust up our regt. and take men away from it and the men they take will get to France before the rest of us the lucky stiffs but they don't send them right to France from here but they send them down south to the national guards camps and fill up the national guards with them and the national guards are going to get across the pond first because Secty. Daniels wants to save the good regts. for the finish.

Well Al they can't send me to France to soon but it looks like they wasn't a chance for a man like I to get sent with the national guards because the men we are sending down south is the riff and raff you might say who we want to get rid of them so when Secty. Daniels sends word that the national guards at such and such a place wants 7 or 800 men the officers here picks them out from amidst the kitchen policemen and the guard house.

It looks now like the real soldiers that they got here would be here maybe all winter but between you and I Al I got a scheme to beat that game. I found out today that they are going to start a officers training camp here in Jan. and if a man makes good in it they will give him a lieut. or a capt. and they won't be no riff and raff allowed in the camp only men that would make a good officer so I guess I won't have no trouble getting in the camp and once I win my lieut. or capt. bars they will probably send me straight to France to take command.

Things are going along O.K. without much news to write about. Sarah Bernhart the French comedian was in Rockford Friday and come out to give the boys a treat and for some reason another the most of the boys fell all over their self trying to get up close to her and get her to smile at them. Well Al everybody to their own taste but from what I seen of her she would be perfectly safe around me and if she is a day old she is 50 yrs. old and I will bet money on it. Any way I wouldn't trade Florrie for a dozen like she.

Your pal, JACK.




CAMP GRANT, Nov. 7.

FRIEND AL: Here is one for you Al and its just between you and I because I wouldn't have no one else hear about it for the world. Yesterday we was all presented with some sox made out of knitting and they come in a bunch from the Red X and when I was going to bed I thought I would try mine on and see if they fit and if they didn't maybe I could trade with somebody that they did. Well Al I stuck my foot down in 1 of them and my toe run into something funny and I pulled my foot out and stuck my hand down in it and pulled out a note that was folded in side of the sock. Well of course I opened the note up and read it and I will copy down what it said. It says "Dear Soldier Boy, you may never see me but if you can spare time to write me just a few lines it will make me happier than any one in the world for I am oh so lonesome. You won't disappoint me will you Soldier Boy?" And it was signed Lone Star but down below she had wrote her name and address. Her name is Miss Lucy Chase and she lives in Texas.

Well Al I can't help from feeling sorry for her and if it wasn't for Florrie and little Al I would write her a note back and thank her for the sox though between you and I they are to small and try and say something that would cheer her up. But of course Florrie wouldn't like for me to do it and a married man shouldn't ought to be monking around like that and lead a girl on though of course if I did write to her the first thing I would tell her would be that I am married.

But what has been puzzling me is where she seen me. Maybe it was 1 of the times we played in Texas in the spring trip either that or she seen my picture somewheres. Well Al it must of been a picture without my feet in it or she would of made the sox bigger and I wish she had of because I don't feel like tradeing them off to nobody now that I know they was made for me by a admirer. Laying all jokes to 1 side I do feel sorry for the girl and if she had of made herself known to me a few years sooner things might of been different. Don't say nothing about this even to Bertha because I don't want it to get all over Bedford. I am not the kind that brags around about their admirers especially when its a girl.

I thought once or twice today that I would just drop her a card pretending like the sox fit me to a tea and thanking her for them and giving a hint that I was a married man but on second thoughts I guess its better to just let the whole affair drop right here.

They sprung a new one on us last night. Word come from the head quarters that everybody had to learn to sing and last night was the first lesson and they was about 3000 of us and the teacher was a bird named Nevin and he got up in front and started out on Keep the home fires burning and said we was to all join in. Well Al for some reason another everybody but he had the lockjaw and as far as we was concerned the fires would of all died out. Most of our gang is from Chi where they leave takeing care of the furnace to the janitor. He tried 2 or 3 other songs but we was all deaf and dumb mutes and he finely give up and says he would try some other time when the cat didn't have a hold of our tongue so on the way back to quarters everybody cut loose and sung and you could of heard us in Beloit. We got a lot of good singers right in our Co. that can hit the minors to but we are not going to bust out on no teacher's say so like we was in kinder-garden or something.

Well Al I am going to break into a new game football. They are getting up a club here in camp to play against the Great Lakes navy and the Camp Custer club up in Mich. and they want all the men thats played football to come out and try for the club here. Well I never played but I told them I did and they won't know the difference when they see me because when a man is a born athelete they can play any game and especially a college Willy boy game like football. I seen one of their college games out to the university in Chi once and a man built like I could of made a sucker out of both clubs.

The capt. of the camp club here is Capt. Whiting and he played with the university of Chi and they got some other would be stars like Shiverick that played with the Ithaca club down east and Schobinger or something from Champlain college here in Ill. and a man from Princeton name Eddy something. Well I will show them something before I get through with them because an athelete has got to be born and you can't make them out of college Willy boys that stays up all night doing the foxy trot and gets stewed on chocolate and whip cream.

Your pal, JACK.




CAMP GRANT, Nov. 10.

FRIEND AL: Well Al I suppose you read in the papers about that troop train that a gang of spys tried to wreck it and it was a train full of burglars from here that we sent down to Camp Logan to fill up the national guards and the papers made out like the people that tried to wreck it was pro German spys but if you had of seen the birds that was on the train you wouldn't believe it because they wouldn't no Germans waist their time on them because they will all kill each other anyway before they get to France. One of the birds on it was Shorty Lahey that I all ready told you about him and when the national guards sees him they will just about declare war against Camp Grant.

Well Al you remember me writeing to you about that little girl down in Texas that sent me the note in the sox. Well I got to thinking it over and the more I thought about it I got to thinking that it wasn't the square thing to not pay no attention to her when she maybe wore her hands to the bone and strained her eyes so as my feet would keep warm so finely I set down and answered her back and I didn't say nothing mushy of course but just a friendly note to let her know I received the sox and I told her they was a perfect fit and I asked her where it was she ever seen me or my picture or how she come to pick me out and I didn't tell her nothing about being married because what would be the use of hurting her and they can't be no harm done because we will never meet and as soon as she writes and tells me where she seen me that will end it. But I just couldn't stand it to think of the poor kid running to the door every time the mail man come and maybe crying when they wasn't nothing for her. I guess Florrie wouldn't have no objections under the circumstances but if she did find out and start to ball me out I would tell her to take a jump in the lake because she never even mended me a pair of sox to say nothing about knit them. I also asked the girl to send me a picture of herself because it tickles them to be asked for their picture and of course as soon as I get it I will tear it up but she won't know that.


Well Al I decided to not play on the football club here after all. In the 1st. place theys 3 or 4 privates trying for the club and I don't believe in mixing up with them to much and if Whiting and them other officers wants to all right, but that don't make it all right in my mind. And besides I figured it wasn't fair to either myself or Capt. Nash to run the risk of getting hurt in some fool game to say nothing about learning a lot of fool signals that don't mean nothing but just learning them takes up your time that you ought to spend thinking how to improve your command. And another thing the minute they started to practice I seen they didn't know the fame and they will get licked every time they play and I can't stand to be with a looser. They talked about what a great kicker this Shiverick is but I watched him trying to kick gools and he missed 3 out of 10 and one of them rolled right along the ground like a baby had kicked it.

Capt. Whiting come up to me when I come out on the field and asked me my name and etc. and what position did I play and I told him center rush or tackle back it didn't make no difference. So he asked me what college I played at and I told him Harvard which was the 1st. thing that come into my head. So he says "All right we need a good tackle back so you can play there now in signal practice" so they lined up and I stood back of the center rush and they called out some numbers and throwed the ball to one of them and 3 or 4 of us bumped into each other and fell down and I got a bad kick in the head but it wasn't bad enough to make me quit but what is the use of takeing chances. They can have their football Al if they want to waist the govt. time but I got enough to think about thinking about winning this war.

Your pal, JACK.




CAMP GRANT, Nov. 14.

FRIEND AL: Well this was our day out to the rifle range and I'll say Secty. Daniels better hurry up and send some teachers here that knows their business. But wait till you hear about it.

In the 1st. place it was a rotten day and a bad wind and so dark you couldn't hardly see and they ought not to of made anybody try to shoot. Well they had some targets that they said was 100 yds. from where we was to shoot from but it was more like 1/4 of a mile and they said 100 yds. so we would think it was closer. Well the idear was that each guy was to shoot 10 times and if you hit the target it counted 1 pt. and if you hit the bulls eye it counted 5 pts. so if you hit the bulls eye every time you got 50 pts. but nobody in the world could do that the way they made us shoot. What do you think of them makeing a man lay on their stomach to shoot instead of standing up and I suppose if the Germans got 100 yds. from us we would all lay there like we had a stomache and let them come. Somebody said we layed that way so as to give them less mark to shoot at. How is that for fine dope? Because if you was laying on your stomach faceing them and they hit you at all they couldn't hit you nowheres only in the head and kill you where if you was standing up straight they would be more libel to hit you anywheres except in the head and maybe you would get off with a flesh wound or something.

Well 1 of the smart aleck lieuts. started out and hit the bulls eye 8 times and the target the other 2 times and that give him 42 and he swelled up like a poison pup but the way the wind was blowing you could tell it was just a accident because if he had of really shot at the target the wind would of carried his shots to hell and gone away from it but what he done was shoot with his eyes shut and the wind done the rest of it for him. So some of the other boys shot and some of them had a lot of luck and Red Sampson got 38 and finely it come my turn and I was dizzy from something I eat and besides by that time it was so dark you couldn't hardly make out where the target was and I was all cramped up laying there but at that I just missed the bulls eye the 1st. time and finely quit with 8. So afterwards Red Sampson asked me how it come I didn't have a expert rifle shooter's meddle on me trying to kid me. So I said "I never had to shoot for a liveing because I could go out and pitch baseball and make real money where a man like you every time the family wanted meat for dinner they would send you out to shoot a snake or a tom cat or something." So it was him that got kidded.

Well Al I will be shooting with the best of them as soon as I get the nack and when they get a man here to learn us that knows his business and pick out a day when the wind ain't blowing a mile a minute and pitch dark.

I haven't had no answer from that little girl down in Texas and I hope she has got over her infatuation and decided to forget me.


Your pal, JACK.




CAMP GRANT, Nov. 17.

FRIEND AL: Well Al what do you think I got a letter from the girlie down in Texas and the poor kid has gone crazy over me and I only wish they was some way to stop her because of course it has got to end right here and I will just have to drop her a line and tell her the truth that I am a married man and the best thing she can do is try and forget. But I am afraid it will be pretty hard for her and I only wish she hadn't never seen or heard about me.

For some reason another she won't tell me where it was she seen me or she won't send me no picture because she says I might show it to the boys and laugh over that little girl down in Texas and of course I wouldn't do nothing like that and she wouldn't think so if she knew me better. Here is what her letter says.

My Soldier Boy, so you are an officer now. Well that is just grand and I feel all the happier and prouder to hear from you. No Soldier Boy I won't tell you where I saw you. You will just have to guess. Don't you remember that day at --  --  -- ? If you don't I won't tell you. And I won't send you my photo because I know what soldier boys are. You would show it to everybody in camp and you would all have a good laugh over the little f -- l woman down in Texas who is fond of you. Well Boy we will probably never see each other unless you should happen to be sent to one of the camps down here. Is there any chance of that Soldier Boy? So you quit a job in the big league to fight for Uncle Sam? That was fine of you and makes me all the prouder to have your friendship. I am glad you like the hose I knitted for you. Do you want some more or can I make you a helmet or a sweater or something? Just say what you need and I will make my needles fly to furnish you with it. And write to me soon. We are so far apart that it takes your letters days and days to reach me. Au revoir for this time Big Boy.

Well Al I can't remember to save my soul where it was I and she could of met. Maybe I could if she had of put the name of the town in her letter but she just left a dash like I copied it. I been trying to think up all the girls I met in different towns while I was with the ball club and I can remember a lot of them but nobody named Chase but of course she might of give me a fake name the time we met.

Well as I say theys only the 1 thing to do and that is drop her a line and say how things stand with me and for her to forget about me. Its mighty nice of her to offer to knit me them other articles but of course I can't ask her to under the circumstances and all I can do is just to call it off or maybe it would be better to not write to her back but just leave her guess the truth only I am afraid she would think I was a bum to not acknollege her letter. I wish they was somebody to advice me what to do but I guess I can't look for no help from you along those lines eh Al? You never had them looseing their heads and makeing garments for you and etc.

I pretty near forgot to tell you that these college Willy boys got cleaned up 9 to 6 in their game with the sailors from the Great Lakes and the sailors made a monkey out of them and they wasn't a kid on the sailors club that is 20 yrs. old. I bet Capt. Whiting would of gave his right eye for a good husky tackle back when them sailors was pushing his Willys around the field.

Your pal, JACK.




CAMP GRANT, Nov. 22.

FRIEND AL: Well they have just sent away another train load of the boys to 1 of the national guards and if they keep it up we won't have more then 30 or 40 left to a Co. I wish I was with the boys that went but theys no chance of that because they are keeping the best men here so as we will be all together when they get ready to send us across. And it looks like I won't be able to get into the officers training camp because I heard today that they won't leave nobody in that can't talk all the languages of the ally countrys. Red Sampson heard 2 of the lieuts. talking about it and 1 of them was saying how even the college boys would have to hustle between now and Jan. because while most of them could talk French and Italian they was very few colleges where you can learn Roman and Australian and etc. so it looks like I would be bared out because while I might pick up the French and maybe 1 or 2 others I couldn't possibly master 8 or 9 languages in hardly a month you might say. I don't know what the idear is but it probably come from the same guy that makes you shoot laying on your stomach.

Speaking about a month my month without leave is pretty near up and I am figureing on going to Chi the 1st. of Dec. and see Florrie and little Al though for all as I know they both may be dead because Florrie won't never suffer from writers cramp on my acct. I have asked her 2 or 3 times to come out for Sunday and bring the kid but no its always to cold or she has got company comeing for dinner or 1 thing another.

Sometimes I pretty near wish I had a wife like Sebastian's thats so homely you can't hardly look at her but still and all you get a chance to once in a while.

Well I wrote to that poor kid down in Texas and told her I didn't want to bother her to make me a helmet or a sweater but I all ready got a helmet. I didn't have the heart to tell her about Florrie or tell her to quit writeing to me but I give her a kind of a hint that I was to busy to spend much time writeing letters and I hope she don't try and keep up a correspondence because it can't do neither of us no good and the best way would be for us to both forget it and of course that wouldn't be no trouble for me but I am afraid a girl don't forget so easy.

Well Al this ain't what you might call a happy letter but I don't know no good news to write only they have gave up our choir practice as a bad job and we don't have to worry no more about letting the fires go out.

Your pal, JACK.




CAMP GRANT, Dec. 2.

FRIEND AL: Well Al I just got back from Chi and of all the tough luck a man ever had I had it.

You remember me telling you about the last time I come back from my leave and I got in late and Capt. Nash says I couldn't have no more leave for a month. Well the month was up Friday and I had it fixed so as I could go to Chi Saturday A.M. with the gang that was going to the football game between our club and Camp Custer and the only ones that was allowed to go was the ones that had boughten tickets to the game so I bought a ticket though I didn't have no intentions of waisting my time out to no Willy boy football game.

Well we got to Chi about noon and we had to march all over town and everybody stood on the sidewalks and cheered us to the ecco and I couldn't get away from the bunch till the parade was over though I don't enjoy marching and have everybody stare at you but when it was over I beat it for home. Well I hadn't said nothing to Florrie about comeing because I wanted to surprise her and I thought of course little Al and the Swede would be home and I and little Al could walk in on Florrie over to the beauty parlor and surprise her, but when I got to the flat and rung the bell they wasn't no answer and I rung and rung and finely I seen they wasn't nobody home so I went to the beauty parlor and 1 of the girls there told be that Florrie was takeing the P.M. off and wouldn't be back till Monday A.M.

So I went back to the flat and looked for the janitor to let me in and when you don't want janitors they are always snooping around at your coat tails but when you do want them they are hideing in the ash bbl. or something. So it took me about a hour to find this bird and another hour to get him to open the door up for me and of course they wasn't nobody home so the janitor says maybe I could find out where they went from the neighbors so I rung the woman across the hall's bell and she come to the door. So I said "I'm Corp. Keefe and I wanted to know if you knew where is my wife and kid." So she says "They went out." Well Al I suppose I didn't know they had went out and I felt like saying to her "Oh I thought they might maybe of crawled in between the wall paper to take a nap or I thought maybe they might of left the stopper out of the bath tub and got drained off or something." But I just asked her did she know where they went and she said she didn't.

Well I seen she didn't know nothing about them or probably nothing else so I went back in the flat and waited and waited and it come along 5 o'clock and I called up a saloon over on Indiana and asked them to fetch me over a doz. bottles of beer and I had 2 of them and then went out to a restaurant and had supper and come back and nobody home yet. Well to make a short story out of it I finished the beer up and finely went to bed and I didn't know nothing more till 9 A.M. this morning when the Swede come snooping into the room and seen me and let out a screem and beat it and I got up and dressed and went in the kitchen and she said Florrie had took little Al somewheres to stay all night with some friends and give the Swede permission to go to a ski jumpers dance out to Berwyn and Florrie would be home about 11.

Well Florrie come strutting in with the kid about 12 looking like she hadn't done nothing out of the way and when she seen me she squeeled and come romping over for a kiss. Well Al she didn't get it. I kissed little Al all right but I didn't see where she had a right to expect favors. Well she seen how things stood and begin trying to explain something about spending the P.M. down town shopping and then going to a show with some friends of hers on the north side and they left little Al in charge of the nurse at the friends and they both stayed there all night and why didn't I tell her I would be home so as she could have changed her plans and etc. So I said "Yes you are a fine wife and mother running around town with a bunch of bums and leave your kid all alone in charge of a nurse that you don't know nothing about her and for all as you know she might of cut his ears off like a Belgium." Well I was sore and I give her a good balling out and of course it wound up like usual with her busting out crying and then they wasn't nothing for me to do only say I didn't mean what I had been saying and we had dinner and maybe everything would of been O.K. only we hadn't no sooner gotten up from the table when in come 1/2 of the south side and their wifes to call. Well they wasn't none of them I ever seen before or ever want to see them again and they was all friends of Florrie's and 2 of the ladys was customers of hers so she didn't dare tell them to get the h-ll out of there and a Mrs. Crane and a Mrs. Somebody else picked on me and got me in a pocket on the Davenport and they didn't even have sence enough to call me Corporal but it was Mr. Keefe this and Mr. Keefe that and when did I think the war would end and wasn't the Germans awful and how many men did we have in France and when was I going and so on. And Mrs. Crane said her and all her friends was so jealous of Mrs. Keefe because her husband was a soldier so I said I had heard they was room in some of the camps for a few more husbands and Mrs. Crane said her husband had tried his hardest to get into something but he had bad teeth so I said why didn't he try and get into some good dentist office. But they wasn't no way I could get them mad enough to go home till 5 o'clock then I and Florrie and the kid had just a hour together before I had to beat it for the train.

Well Al I won't get no more leave off till Xmas and maybe not then but what is the use any way when your wife gives you a welcome like that and all together it was a fine trip and I won't never try and take nobody by surprise after this but at that why couldn't she of stayed home where a woman belongs.

My train was jamed comeing back tonight and I don't know where they got it but everybody was oiled up and celebrating about beating Camp Custer in the football game and I'll say Camp Custer must be a home for cripples or something if that's the kind of a football club they turn out any way I bet they ain't no room to dance in the guard house tonight.

Your pal, JACK.




CAMP GRANT, Dec. 4.

FRIEND AL: I guess I was so full of my swell visit home when I wrote you the last time that I forgot about telling you about that little girlie down in Texas. Well Al they isn't much to tell only that I got another letter from her though I as good as told her I wished she wouldn't write me no more but she wrote any way and she says she can't forget me and theys no use asking her to and she wouldn't tell me where it was we seen each other and they was no use me asking her. It looks from her letter like she was getting in deeper every day and I don't know what will be the end of it all and if she done anything to herself on my acct. I would feel like a murder though of course a man can't help how they look or what a girl thinks about them but still and all you can't help from feeling like you was to blame.

I guess the best way to do is just not answer her letter and hope for the best and hope she won't do nothing rash.

Well Al I started out to write you a long letter but I am to wore out and I guess anybody would be after what we went through today. It was the coldest day I ever seen so they picked it out for us to go on a 19 mile hike and if you could see the roads around here you would know what that means and they can talk all they want to about how the men suffers in France but I would rather go out in the middle of Nobody's Land and start a mumblety peg game then take another of these dam hikes with the weather a million below zero and the road full of rutts as big as the grand canion.

If it hadn't been for setting a example to my command I believe I would of pretended like I was sick and when you are sick they make somebody else carry your junk and leave you ride in a wagon thats O.K. for a private that don't care what the rest of them think of him but a corporal has got to keep going and try to keep his men going and when you got a bunch of sap heads like mine it keeps a man on the jump to tend to them. Red Sampson was so bad that I had to keep after him all the while and finely I pulled a good one on him I said "Sampson everybody in the whole regt. is out of step but you." So the rest of them give him the laugh but he can't take a joke no matter how good it is so he says "I haven't heard that one since they fought with spears." So I said "You get in step and show a little life or I'll spear you."

Well its all over now any way and I don't suppose they will send us out again till theys a big blizzard or something and then they will march us to Canada or somewheres for a little work out.

Your pal, JACK.




CAMP GRANT, Dec. 7.

FRIEND AL: Well Al I got some big news for you. The govt. have changed their plans all around and decided after this to send the best men from the national army to fill up the national guards and that means theys a big bunch of us leaveing soon for Camp Logan down in Texas and the officers say we musent spill nothing about it that is when we are going because if the pro German spys ever found out that our bunch was going down there they would spread the rails and turn switches on us and probably put torpedos on the track or something. So all as I can say is that you won't hear from me here no more and I can't tell you what units we will be in because we haven't got no official notice yet and all as I know is what some of the boys heard that we would be in Col. House's regt. I thought when I 1st. heard the news that it meant we would be starting for France pretty quick and of course I didn't stop to think that they have closed up navigations for the winter.

Well Al I am glad we are going somewheres for the winter where it isn't so dam cold and of course I don't like to be so far away from home but maybe Florrie can get away and come down there and join me for a while and I am going to have a few hours off any way to say good bye to little Al and she and I wish I could see you and Bertha before I go especially you but theys no chance so good bye and good luck to you and I will write when I can.

I just happened to think Al that Camp Logan is in Texas and thats where that little girl lives but you can bet I won't leave her know where I am because in the 1st. place she would probably be just crazy enough to want to see me or something and besides I wrote her a farewell note yesterday and asked her wouldn't she send me her picture because I thought that would make her feel a little happier to think I wanted her picture even if we don't keep on writeing letters and I don't care if she sends it or not any way if she sent it up here I will probably be gone before that time.

Well Al I will be kind of sorry to leave Camp Grant where all and all we have had a pretty good time and I guess Gen. Martin and them will be sorry to see our bunch duck out and they will have a fine bunch left when we go but I am glad we won't freeze to death this winter and besides that they tell me the national guards is shy of officers and maybe I may not stay a corporal long after I get there but will get something bigger though a corporal can't be sneezed at.

Your pal, JACK.




CAMP LOGAN, Dec. 14.

FRIEND AL: Well old pal here we are in sunny Texas and its been pretty cold so far but nothing like it was up at Camp Grant and of course it don't never get as cold here as up there on acct. of this being further south.

Well nothing happened to us on the way down though of course it would of been good night nurse if it had got out what road we come on and when we left and even at that we seen some bad eggs at several different stations that looked like Germans that might of tried to pull something if they had a chance but we watched them like a hawk and they was scared to make a false move.

Well Al what do you think they have made Shorty Lahey a sargent down here only thank god he isn't in my Co. or I would be up in front of the court's marshall for murder. But him being a sargent shows they must of been pretty hard up and you can bet they was tickled to death to see our bunch roll in. Well Al if he can get a sargent I will be a gen. in a month. He says to me yesterday he says "Well old sport I wish they had of put you in my Co. and you would do the rest of your drilling with a dish towel." So I said "Yes I would."

Well after thinking it over a while I decided I better write to the little girl and tell her where I was at because I asked her in my farewell note for her to send me her picture of herself and if she sent it up to Camp Grant maybe 1 of them rummys might get a hold of it and open it up and then write back to the girl and kid her about it and I figured maybe if I let her know I was down here that maybe she hadn't sent the picture up there yet. But I didn't give her no encouragement to write to me here and all I said was that if she ever happened to be in Houston and I happened to be in town on leave maybe we might run into each other but I just said that jokeingly because her town is about a 100 miles from here and what would she be doing a 100 miles from home and besides even if I seen her on the st. I doubt if I would know her though I generally almost always remember faces though I can't always remember their names. But if she seen me and spoke to me I would pretend like I didn't hear her and duck because it would only make it tougher for her to talk to me because I would have to tell her the truth. But I guess its all over between us now and any way I hope so.

Your pal, JACK.





CAMP LOGAN, Dec. 16.

FRIEND AL: Well old pal I am up against a funny proposition now and it isn't so dam funny at that. Here is a letter I received this A.M. from that girlie. I will copy it down.

"Soldier Boy, so we are going to meet at last. Yes we are, that is if you want it to happen. My aunt in Houston has been wanting me to come there for months, but not till now have I really wanted to. You know why I do now, don't you Soldier Boy? You say it is easier for you to get off Sundays. All right. Will you meet me in the lobby of the Rice Hotel a week from today at one in the afternoon. I will let you take me to dinner and we can talk things over. We have a lot to say to each other, haven't we Soldier. Boy? Write me at once and say you will meet me. I can hardly wait to get your reply and if you disappoint me I will do something to make you sorry. But you won't will you? I am just finishing your sweater and will bring it to you."

Well Al when the letter come I had a notion to write to her back and tell her to not come but in her letter she said she would do something to make me sorry and I am afraid of what she would do and if she done something rash I would feel like it was my fault and besides if she has got a sweater pretty near made for me it would be kind of mean to of made her do all that work for nothing and besides a man needs a sweater a lot of times even down here and I was going to buy one because I didn't have no idear she was makeing one for me. So I figure the best way to do is to tell her I will meet her and I will take her somewheres to dinner and while we are at dinner I can tell her the truth about me being married and it will be much better to tell her to her face then write it in a letter because it would sound pretty hard in black and white but the only thing is we have got to find some quite spot so as if she makes a seen or something they won't be no crowd around to pop their eyes out at us. But I hope she is a game bird and will take it O.K. and I'm sorry now I didn't tell her in the 1st. place and I wish she wasn't comeing and I sometimes wish I was a little scrimp or ugly so as a girl wouldn't look at me twice and between you and I Al it isn't all a bed of roses to be like I am.

I will write and tell you how I come out but I am to exited to write any more now and I wish they was some way I could get out of it all without leaveing no scars.

Your pal, JACK.




HOUSTON, TEX., Dec. 24.

FRIEND AL: I bet you will pop your eyes out when you read this letter and read what I got to tell you. I will begin at the beginning and tell you what come off so as you will know what come off.

Saturday I pretty near made up my mind that it would be better for me to not see Miss Chase so when I asked for leave for yesterday I hoped they wouldn't give it to me but they give it to me O.K. so I had to come or it would look funny. Well I come into the Rice at about 5 min, to 1 and looked around the lobby and they was only one woman that was alone and she was old about 35 and I looked around and couldn't see no girl that looked like they was waiting for somebody, and while I was looking this woman I seen seen me and come over to where I was standing. Well Al I thought sure it was the girl's aunt and she had heard about our date and was going to raise h-ll or something. Well this woman come up and says wasn't I Corporal Keefe. Well I didn't know what to say and I kind of stalled and she says "Was you expecting to meet some one here?" So I said "Yes I was looking for a man." So then she kind of smirked and says "Well I was expecting to meet a man to and I thought you was him." So I said "No I guess you have got the wrong bird."

Well Al everything would of been O.K. and I could of got away O.K. only just when I had her beleiving it wasn't me who should come up but Lefty Kramer that pitchs in the Texas League and lives here and instead of him just saying "Hello Jack" of course he had to say "Well if here ain't old Jack Keefe" and then it was good night. Well I suppose I turned into all the colors of the rainbow and I didn't know what to say and then Lefty asked right out loud if I wasn't going to introduce him to the lady and she spoke up and said her name Miss Chase and then I had to say something so I said "Oh I didn't know you was really Miss Chase or I would of acted different but I thought you was somebody else." So she kind of give a funny smile and says "Yes you did" and then all of a sudden I heard little Al's voice right behind hollering "There's daddy" and I looked around and it was Florrie and little Al.

Well Al Florrie come up and kissed me right in front of the whole hotel and the next thing I know the 3 of us was away from Kramer and the dame and Florrie was telling me how she had came down to give me a Xmas supprise and she is going to stay about 3 wks. and spend some of the time with her sister over in Beaumont.

Well I took a look just as we was going up in the elevator and Miss Chase was still standing there yet with Kramer and she was looking right at me and I couldn't help from feeling sorry for her the way she looked but a woman her age should ought to know more then start writeing letters to a guy she never seen and maybe this will learn her a lesson and I suppose she can give her sweater to somebody else and maybe Kramer has got it by this time but what he ought to have is a wallop in the jaw for butting in but what can you expect from a left hander.

Well Al I have got a leave off for over Xmas and I am writeing this letter while Florrie is out shopping and she asked me what I wanted for Xmas and I told her a sweater so I won't loose out after all.

Your pal, JACK.




CAMP LOGAN, Jan. 5.

FRIEND AL: Well Al this may be the last time you will ever hear from me or at least for a long time and maybe never. I'm going over there old pal and something tells me I won't never come back.

I can't tell you what I am going with or when we go or where we sail from because they won't leave us give out none of that dope and all as I can say is that about 30 of us has been picked to fill up a unit and we leave here tomorrow and meet them at the place where we sail from. Well Al its a big honor to be 1 of the men picked and it means they have got a lot of confidence in me and you can bet they are not sending no riff and raff over there but just picked men and I will show them they didn't make no mistake in choosing me.

But its mighty tough to leave Florrie and little Al and I thought Florrie would break her heart when I told her and no wonder. But when its a question of duty I am not the kind that would back out and Florrie wouldn't want me to but its hard all the same.

Well Al I can't waist no more time writeing to you and I am going to meet Florrie in Houston in a little while and it may be for the last time so I will say good bye to you now and say good bye to Bertha for me and she ought to be thankful she has got a husband that stayed at home and didn't enlist. And if we have good luck and nothing happens to us I will write you once in a while from the other side.

Your pal, JACK.

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Peggy In Her Blue Frock

By

Eliza Orne White



Chapter I

The Moving


Peggy, with flying yellow hair, was climbing the high stepladder in the library, getting down books for her mother to pack. She skipped up the stepladder as joyously as a kitten climbs a tree. Everything about Peggy seemed alive, from her gray eyes that met one's glance so fearlessly, to her small feet that danced about the room between her trips up and down the stepladder. Her skirts were very short, and her legs were very long and thin, so that she reminded one of a young colt kinking up its heels for a scamper about the pasture.

"Peggy, you will break your neck if you are not careful," said her grandmother. "And don't throw the books down in that way; see how carefully Alice puts them down."

Alice smiled at the compliment and showed her dimples. She was a pretty little thing with brown hair and big brown eyes. She was two years younger than her sister Peggy, and was as small for her age as Peggy was large for hers. She was taking the books from the lowest shelf, as she was afraid to climb the stepladder.

"I'll risk Peggy's neck," said her mother, as Peggy once more skipped up the stepladder.

This time she put the books down more carefully.

The family were moving from the large, old-fashioned house where the children had been born to a very small one, more than a mile farther from the village. Peggy and Alice were greatly interested in the moving. Their father's mother had come all the way from New York to help about it.

Their father had been a country doctor with a large practice and he had gone into the war to save the lives of others; but the hospital where he was at work had been shelled, and he had lost his own life. This had happened almost at the end of the war. It seemed to the children a long time since the war was over, and a very long time since their father had gone overseas.

Peggy and Alice had been very much overcome when they heard of their father's death, but now the world was very pleasant again. Another doctor was coming to town, to move into their roomy old house and take the practice which had been their father's.

Peggy looked out of the window at the garden. It looked its worst on this March day, for it was all patches of white and brown. There was not enough of the white snow for winter sports, nor was the brown earth ready for planting seeds. Peggy was glad there were children in the doctor's family because they would be sure to enjoy the croquet ground and the apple trees. How she should miss the apple trees! There was only one apple tree where they were going, but there was a cherry tree. Peggy's face brightened when she thought of the cherry tree. And they were to have a garden full of vegetables.

"Mary," said the children's grandmother to their mother, "I'll give you a year to try your experiment; and remember, if you don't succeed, my offer holds good. I'll always have a room in my small apartment for one of the children; and Peggy is old enough to get a great deal of good from a New York school."

Peggy looked as if nothing would induce her to leave her mother. Not that she disliked her grandmother. Peggy liked people of all ages. She did not like old ladies so well as people of her mother's age, because the younger ones were so much more active; and she liked children better still, for the same reason; and boys even better than girls, because they never expected you to play dolls with them. Peggy did not care for dolls as Alice did. When the world was so full of live things that scampered and frisked, or flew or crawled, why tie one's self down to make-believe people that could neither speak nor move? Pussy was much more interesting than any doll.

Peggy looked at the furniture, standing forlornly about in strange places. Her own mahogany bureau was downstairs. "It looks for all the world," said Peggy, "like a cat in a strange garret." She had read this phrase in a book the day before, and it took her fancy. And then she wondered how their own cat would feel in her new home. And there was not any garret in the tiny house where they were going.

The cat walked in just then, but seeing the confusion she fled upstairs. She was a gray pussy, with darker gray stripes, and a pronounced purr that was almost as cozy as the sound of a tea-kettle. She had a pleasant habit of having young families of kittens, two or three times a year. The only drawback was, the kittens had to be given away just as they got to the most interesting age. There were no kittens now, only pussy, whose whole name was Lady Jane Grey.

Their grandmother was making a list of the books, for some of the boxes were to go to her in New York, others to the Town Library, while many of them they were to keep themselves. All the medical books were to be left in their father's office for the new doctor to dispose of as he thought best.

"Do you know, mother, how many children the doctor has, and whether they are boys or girls?" Peggy asked.

"No, he just said 'children' in his letter."

"I hope there will be a girl, and that she will like to play with dolls," said Alice.

"But you've Clara, I don't see what more you want," said Peggy.

"But Clara is never here in the winter," said Alice.

That night, after the children had gone to bed, they began to talk about the doctor's family. It was the last night they were to spend in the old house, and they felt a little sad as they climbed into the mahogany four-poster bedstead, for the room looked desolate. The curtains had been packed, and all the furniture was gone except the bed.

"Anyway, we'll be sleeping on it to-morrow night," said Peggy. "We'll have Roxanna Bedpost with us just the same."

She looked at the lower bedpost at her right that she had christened by this name when she was a tiny child, because her mother had hung Peggy's blue sunbonnet on it.

"Shut up your eyes, Peggy, and see things," said Alice. "Perhaps you can see the children who are going to live here."

Peggy had a delightful way of seeing things that Alice could not see. She shut her eyes up and thought hard and then she opened them and looked at the opposite wall.

It seemed quite simple, but whenever Alice tried it she could see nothing. "Do you really see things, Peggy?" she once asked.

"I see them in my mind's eye," said Peggy.

"What do you see to-night, Peggy?" said Alice.

"I see two children, a boy and a girl; and they are picking red apples in our orchard."

"In March?"

"It's not March in my mind's eye. They are beautiful, big, red apples. The girl is a little bigger than you and a little smaller than me, so she's just right for both of us to play with, and her name is Matilda Ann."

"I don't think that is at all a pretty name."

"I did not say it was a pretty name; I just said her name was Matilda Ann."

"I hope it isn't."

"Well, what do you guess it is?"

"Oh, I don't know."

"You must guess something."

"Oh, well, Fanny."

"Fanny! That's a very stupid sort of name," said Peggy.

They were still talking about the possible names of the possible girl and boy when their mother came in to see if they were tucked up for the night.

"Are you still awake?" she asked. "I wonder what you do find to talk about when you see each other all day long."




Chapter II

A Cat In A Strange Garret


There were others who felt as if they were in a strange garret, after the moving, besides the cat. The children's mother was very homesick, for she was tired out; and she felt sad and lonely in the small house where her husband had never lived. The children did not mind so much, but it was strange, when they waked in the morning, to see the unfamiliar stretch of pasture from their window instead of the garden and the next house.

But Pussy minded it so much that she slipped out while the others were having their breakfast. They were all so busy that no one missed her until dinnertime, and then Peggy and Alice looked everywhere in the small house and they called "Lady Jane" many times, but no little furry, gray pussy answered.

Their grandmother had gone back to New York and their mother was too busy getting settled to hunt for the cat.

"She'll come back when she gets hungry," she said. "I want you children to help me unpack. See these nice drawers for the linen."

"I don't think they are half so nice as the linen closet in the other house," said Alice.

"Now, children," said their mother, "no one ever said this house was so nice as the large one where you were born, and we can't pretend life is so pleasant as if we had your father here with us; but we have a great deal to be thankful for. If we haven't much money, we have health and strength and each other. Your father said to me when he went away: 'Mary, if I don't come back, I don't want you and the children ever to forget me, but I want you to remember all the happy times we have had together, and to think how glad I'd be of all the happy times you'd have by yourselves.'"

The children got very much interested in arranging the linen in the drawers.

"Oh, Peggy, you are no housekeeper; the pillowcases don't go in that drawer," said her mother. "See how carefully Alice puts the towels in."

Alice smiled and showed her dimples, and Peggy stopped and gave Alice a hug.

"Things seem just to slide out of my hands," said Peggy; "and I can't remember which drawer the things go in."

There was a cupboard where Alice's dolls were to live, and it interested her greatly to get this apartment ready for them. So they all again forgot about Lady Jane Grey until supper-time. Their mother put bowls of milk on the table for the children, with plenty of bread and jam; and there was a big saucer of milk for Lady Jane, warmed just the way she liked it. Again they called her, but she did not come. Peggy made a trip down cellar, thinking she might have hidden there, and she hunted the house from top to bottom, but there was no dainty Lady Jane to be seen.

"She'll come back sometime," said their mother; but the children were not so sure of this.

It seemed sad to go to bed without knowing what fate had befallen Lady Jane; but their mother was sure she would come back that night.

In the morning Peggy ran downstairs eagerly before she was dressed.

"Has she come, mother?" she asked.

"Has who come?" said her mother, whose mind was on starting the kitchen fire.

"Lady Jane."

"No, she hasn't come."

"And it is so wet," said Peggy, as she looked at the falling rain; "she'll get drenched without any rubbers or raincoat."

"You can be sure she is under shelter somewhere. A cat can always look out for herself."

"But, mother, I'm worried about her."

"I think," said Mrs. Owen, as she put the oatmeal into the double-boiler, "that she has gone back to her old home."

"But, mother dear, she couldn't like strange people better than she likes us!"

"Cats are strange creatures," said Mrs. Owen. "Run along and get dressed. After breakfast if the rain holds up you and Alice can run over to the Hortons' house and telephone to the Carters', to see if she is there. I shall be glad when we get our telephone in."

The rain did not stop, but the children were so persistent that after breakfast Mrs. Owen let them put on their rubbers and raincoats and run over to the Hortons' house. The house was up a long avenue of trees. On this March day there were no leaves on the trees, and the bare branches looked black against the gray sky as they were tossed about by the wind. There were patches of snow by the side of the road. It all looked very dismal, for the house was closed, as the family did not come back until June, and only the care-takers were living in the back part of the house. It was where Clara lived in the summer. She was the children's most intimate friend. She was a little more than a year younger than Peggy and about a year older than Alice. The children went around to the back door and asked if they could come in and telephone.

"It is something very important or we would not have come," said Peggy.

"I hope your mother isn't sick," said Mrs. Jones.

"No, it is about the cat."

"And you came out in all this rain about a cat?"

"She's as dear to us as if she was our child," said Alice.

"Well, I never!" said Mrs. Jones, as she led the way to the telephone room.

Peggy called up their old number. It made her a little homesick as she did so.

"Is Mrs. Carter there?" she asked as a shrill voice said "Hullo."

"It's a boy's voice," said Peggy. "There's one boy in the family. I'm glad of that."

She heard the boy call "Mother," and presently Mrs. Carter came to the telephone.

"Hullo," said Mrs. Carter, in a warm voice that Peggy liked.

"I'm Peggy Owen. Mother said I might come over and telephone you about the cat. She's lost -- I mean the cat. We thought she might be at your house. She doesn't seem to like ours. Have you seen anything of a gray pussy with dark gray stripes?"

"I really don't know whether that one has been around or not. I'll ask them in the kitchen. We've been feeding a lot of stray cats."

"You didn't say enough about the way she looks. She may get her mixed with the gray tramp cat," said Alice, taking the telephone from Peggy.

"She's two shades of gray," she said to Mrs. Carter. "Such lovely dark stripes and then light ones; and there are thirteen stripes on her tail -- first a dark and then a light, and so on; and her eyes are the shiniest things -- most as bright as lights, only they are a kind of green; and she has a purr you can hear all across the room. Her name is Lady Jane, and she'll come for it."

Mrs. Carter came back to the telephone presently. "There has been a gray cat around," she said, "but she isn't here now. If she comes back I'll send one of the boys up with her."

"One of the boys," said Peggy to Alice, "so there must be two anyhow."

The day passed and nothing was heard of the cat, and once more the little girls had to go to bed with anxious hearts. It was still raining when the children waked up the next morning, and no pussy had yet appeared. They wanted to go back and hunt for her themselves, but it was too wet for so long a tramp, and, besides, Mrs. Owen was sure Mrs. Carter was too busy getting settled in her new house to want visitors.

"You don't seem a bit worried about Lady Jane, mother," said Peggy.

"I have a few other things to think about, and I am sure she is all right."

It was a three days' storm, and it was so wet on Sunday that they did not go to church or Sunday School. The day seemed very long. They helped their mother get dinner and they washed and wiped the inside dishes for her. They both liked to wash better than to wipe -- it was such fun to splash the mop about in the soapy water.

"It is my turn to wash to-day," Alice reminded Peggy.

"But you are so slow," said Peggy. "I can do it a lot faster. However, it is your turn," she said, handing the mop to Alice with a little sigh.

It was toward the end of the afternoon and they were beginning to get tired of reading when the door bell rang.

"It is our first caller; go to the door, Peggy," said Mrs. Owen.

Alice followed Peggy as she ran to the door. As Peggy opened it, a sweep of wind and a swirl of rain came in. The wind was so strong it almost blew the door to. A freckled-faced boy with a pleasant smile and honest blue eyes was standing on the doorstep. Oh, joy! He had a basket in his hand.

"It's some rain," said the boy.

"Oh, have you got our cat in that basket?" Peggy asked.

"Now, what do you know about that!" said the boy. "Why should I know anything about your cat? Maybe I have cabbages in this basket."

"Cabbages wouldn't mew," said Peggy, as the occupant of the basket gave a long wail.

"It's our cat, I know her voice!" cried Alice in delight.

"Won't you come in and see mother?" Peggy asked, as the boy stepped inside the small entry and put his basket down.

"Can't stop." He had pulled his cap off politely when he came into the house, and Peggy saw that his hair was as yellow as her own. She wished hers might have been cropped as short.

"Oh, dear! what fun boys had! They could go out on the rainiest days."

The boy touched his cap and went quickly down the walk. Peggy's glance followed him regretfully. He was a big boy; he must be two years older than she was, just a nice size to play with.

"And we never asked him his name or if he had brothers and sisters," Alice said.

It was a lost opportunity and the children both regretted it, but they had been too much taken up with the return of Lady Jane to think of anything else at the moment. They had opened the basket and Lady Jane was purring about the place.

"You darling!" Alice cried as she stroked her gray striped coat. "You do like us best, don't you, after all?"

There was an odd expression in Lady Jane's green eyes. If she could have spoken, she would have said, "I like old friends, but I do like old places better still." And the very next morning she disappeared again.




Chapter III

Why Peggy Wore Blue Frocks


Early in April there came a very hot day, and this reminded Mrs. Owen that she must be looking over the children's summer dresses to see what new ones they would need, for it would take some time to make them, with all the other work she had to do. She went up into the large store-closet, which was all they had in the way of an attic, and she unpacked the trunk that held the dresses. There were only four of Peggy's, for she was very hard on her clothes, and she had stained or torn several of them. There were six of Alice's in excellent condition. They were a little short for her, but there were tucks that could be let down. Peggy had two white dresses, a pink one, and a plaid dress. She tried on one of the white dresses first and pranced about the room with it. Her legs looked longer than ever, for the skirt was several inches above her knees.

"You look just like a mushroom, Peggy," said Alice.

"Oh, dear! I didn't know I'd grown such a lot," said Peggy ruefully, "but you can let down the tucks, mother," she added hopefully.

"But there aren't any tucks. I let those down last summer."

"I guess I'll have to have that dress," said Alice joyously.

She was so fond of her sister that she liked Peggy's clothes better than her own.

"Oh, dear!" said Peggy. "I like it so much because it's smocked. But I hope I can wear the dotted muslin. That's my favorite dress."

But, alas, the dotted muslin was only half an inch longer than the cotton rep, and there were no tucks in that either.

Peggy skipped about the room again, and she tried to persuade her mother that it would be possible for her to wear the dress.

"I don't mind if it is rather short, mother," she said.

"I can't have you going around with skirts like a ballet dancer."

"But you could let the hem down, or put in insertion, or something," said Peggy.

"But the waist is too small for you, and the dress will be just right for Alice."

The pink dress and the plaid one were too small for Peggy, too, so Alice became the proud possessor of Peggy's frocks, which would fit her very well after tucks had been taken in them.

"I've three pink dresses now and four white ones and two plaids and a yellow," said Alice.

"And I've nothing at all," said Peggy.

"It's too bad," said Alice, "but yours will all be new."

The first chance Mrs. Owen had to go to the village she said she would buy the materials for Peggy's summer frocks.

"I've got to get something for working dresses for myself, too," she said.

She took the children with her, and they had a joyous time, for it was one of those sunshiny afternoons when everything was so gay and cheerful that it seemed to Peggy as if the whole world were smiling. The sun seemed positively to laugh, and the blue sky and the white clouds seemed almost as glad as he. Alice walked quietly along, taking hold of her mother's hand; but Peggy had to run along ahead of them every now and then. She wanted to dance and shout with the joy of it all.

"Oh, Mother, there's Mrs. Butler and her canary-bird," said Peggy, as they passed a small gray house. "Let's stop and make her a call."

"Not to-day," said Mrs. Owen. "We'll never get our shopping done if we stop to call on all the neighbors."

When they came to the smoothly finished stone wall in front of the Thorntons' large place, Peggy climbed up so she could have the pleasure of walking across it.

"Come, Alice," she said, helping her small sister up.

"Oh, children," said their mother in despair, "we shall never get downtown."

But they did get there at last, although they met several of their neighbors on the road, and Peggy stopped to caress a black pussy-cat and make friends with a yellow collie dog. The shop seemed very dark after the brightness of the spring sunshine outdoors. The saleswomen seemed sleepy and not at all interested in what they were selling. Peggy thought they probably did not live so far from the village; they could not have had such a joyous walk as they had had, or met so many friends.

"Oh, that beautiful collie dog! How lucky the Thorntons were to have him! And the black pussy was a darling, not half so beautiful, of course, as Lady Jane, but still, a darling." She sighed when she thought of Lady Jane.

She had slipped away again to her old home, and a few days later the same boy had brought her back in the same basket. The children had not seen him, for they were at school when he came, and their mother did not ask him how many children there were in the family. She had discovered, however, that his name was Christopher. They had kept Pussy in the house since then, hoping in this way to get her used to the place. But she seemed very anxious to get out, and in this April weather Peggy did not feel it quite kind to keep her indoors. She would not like it herself, and one should do as one would be done by.

Peggy's mother went to the back of the store, where there was a man behind the counter who seemed more alive than the girls. Peggy followed her mother, but Alice's attention had been caught by some doll carriages.

"I want you to show me something strong and serviceable for frocks for my little girl, who is very hard on her clothes," said Mrs. Owen.

Peggy hung her head. She wished her mother had not said that. The man did not look as if he ever could have been hard on his clothes, even when he was a small boy.

"This plaid is a great favorite," he said.

Mrs. Owen asked the price, and it was too high. "Why, it is double what it was before the war," she said.

Everything was either too expensive or too frail. Mrs. Owen bought some white materials for best dresses for Peggy, but there seemed to be nothing in the shop that would do for common.

"I am afraid I shall have to wait until later in the season," said Mrs. Owen. "I suppose you'll have new things in?"

"The new goods will be more expensive still."

Mrs. Owen sighed. There were drawbacks about having so little money. She had turned to leave the store when the man called after her:

"Mrs. Owen, I have something on the top shelf I think may suit you. It's strong as nails, and it's cheap. It's almost as strong as the stuff butcher's frocks are made of."

Peggy gave a little cry of pleasure when she saw it, for it was such a delicious color. It made her think of the sky when it was a deep blue. Mrs. Owen was attracted to it because it was dark enough not to soil easily. But Peggy did not think of this; she just thought what a pleasure it would be to be dressed in something so pretty. It was so cheap that Mrs. Owen could hardly believe her ears when the man told her the price.

"We got in a lot of the material before the prices went up," said he. "It is entirely out of fashion now. Nobody wants it."

Peggy and her mother cared nothing about the fashion; and indeed they seemed to set the fashion, whatever they wore.

"How many yards are there in the piece?" Mrs. Owen asked. He told her and she made a rapid calculation. "I'll take it all," she said.

The man could not conceal his surprise. "We only sell seven yards for a grown person and four would do for her."

"I know, but I am going to make two dresses for myself and she will need four. It is so much cheaper and stronger than any of the other wash materials that I shall make all her dresses out of the same piece. She won't mind having them all alike, will you, Peggy?"

"I'll like it; it's so pretty."

"Oh, please, mother, do make me one," Alice begged.

"I'm afraid you will have to be contented with the ten dresses you already have," said her mother. "For, as I will have six dresses to make for Peggy and two for myself, I think that will be all I can manage."

"Perhaps one of my dolls can have a dress out of it," Alice said hopefully.

"Yes, I'll cut out a dress for Belle, and I can teach you to make that so you can be sewing on it while I am making Peggy's frocks."

But it was some time before Peggy began to wear them, for it took her mother a long time to make them. The very next afternoon, after the dinner dishes were washed, Mrs. Owen got out the blue material and she cut out a dress for Peggy, and then a small one for Belle. Alice was learning to hem and she took as careful stitches as a grown-up person. Peggy was divided between wanting to do what the others were doing and hating to be tied down. She made frequent trips to the kitchen for a drink of water and to see how Lady Jane was getting on.

"You can overcast these sleeves, Peggy," her mother said later in the afternoon. "That is much easier than hemming."

"It's better than hemming," Peggy said, "because you can take such long spidery stitches. But I just hate sewing. I'm never going to sew when I grow up."

"But that is just the time you'll have to sew," said Alice.

"No, I'm going to be a writing lady."

"But they have to wear just as many frocks as other people," said Alice.

"I'll have them made for me. I'll get such a lot of money by my writings."

"You may be married and have to make clothes for your children," said her mother.

"I'll just have boys," said Peggy. "That would be much the best. Then I could climb trees with them and climb over the roofs of houses, and nobody could say, 'Peggy, you'll break your neck,' because I'd be their mother, so everything I did would be all right."

"Oh, Peggy, you haven't been putting your mind on your work," said her mother. "Pull out those last few stitches and do them over again, and think what you are doing and not how you will climb trees with your sons."

"I'll have all girls," said Alice. "Some will be dressed in pink and some in blue."

"And some in red and some in yellow, and some in purple and some in green," added Peggy, "and you'll be called the rainbow family. There, mother, is that any better?"

"A little better, but you don't seem to make any two stitches quite the same length."

Peggy suddenly flung down her work. "There's somebody at the back door," she said.

"It's the grocer's boy. You can go and get the things, only be sure not to let the cat out."

Peggy never quite knew how it happened. She did not mean to disobey her mother, but the afternoon was very pleasant and the kitchen was hot. It seemed cruel to keep a cat in the house. She held the door open and, while she was debating whether it would not be possible for her and the cat to take a walk together, Lady Jane slipped out. Something gray and fluffy seemed to fly along the grass and disappear under the fence. She had gone without waiting for their pleasant walk together. Instead they would have a mad race. Peggy liked the idea of a chase. It was much more exciting than overcasting seams.

Peggy and the pussy-cat had a wild race, and more than one person looked back to see why Peggy Owen, with flying yellow hair, was running at such speed cross-lots, through back yards, and climbing over fences. Suddenly Peggy was caught, as she was scrambling over a fence, by a piece of barbed wire. Her one remaining winter school frock was torn past mending. "Oh, dear, what will mother say?" said Peggy.

The skirt was almost torn from the waist, and Peggy felt like a beggar-maid as she crept home. "Only, everybody will know I am not a beggar-maid," thought Peggy. "They'll all say, 'What mischief has Peggy Owen been up to now?'"

And her mother did say something very much like it when she came in. "Peggy, what have you been doing now?" she asked.

"I was hunting for Lady Jane," she said breathlessly. "She slipped out of the kitchen door."

"Peggy, how could you be so careless?" said her mother. Then, as she noticed the confusion on Peggy's face, she said, "Did you let her out?"

"Not exactly," said Peggy. "I was thinking perhaps it would be nice for us to have a walk together, when she ran away."

"You don't deserve to have any new clothes," said her mother, as she looked at Peggy's torn frock.

"The blue ones will be stronger than this old thing," said Peggy.




Chapter IV

Peggy Goes For A Yeast-Cake


"Dear me," said Mrs. Owen, one hot morning, a few days later, as she started to make bread, "this yeast-cake isn't fresh. What a shame! Peggy, you'll have to go down to the village and get me another."

Peggy was delighted at the chance for an errand. She never minded the heat, and she always liked to be out of doors better than in. It was Saturday morning so there was no school. This heat in April was very trying to Mrs. Owen and Alice.

"You'll have to change your dress if you go to the village," said Peggy's mother. "You can put on one of your blue frocks if you like."

So a few minutes later Peggy in her blue frock went out into the spring sunshine, a very happy little girl, with a small covered basket in her hand, for her mother had told her she might get half a dozen lemons and some sugar and a box of fancy crackers, so they could have some lemonade and crackers in the afternoon.

"Be sure you don't forget the yeast-cake," her mother said, "and don't stop to talk to any strange children, and don't call on any of the neighbors. Don't run, it is too hot, but don't waste any time on the road, for I want to get my bread started as soon as I can."

Peggy danced along the road in spite of the heat, for it was a happy thing to be alive. She had not gone far when she saw a boy coming out of a crossroad. It was Christopher Carter, and he too had a covered basket in his hand.

"Hullo!" said Peggy.

"Hullo!" said Christopher. He joined her as he spoke.

"What have you got in your basket?" Peggy asked with interest.

"Butter and eggs from the Miller farm. What have you got in yours?"

"Nothing. Mother's sent me to the grocery store to get some things."

"How's the cat?" he asked.

"She's all right, only we have to keep her shut up, for if we let her out she'd go straight to your house. I can't think why she likes you better than us."

"She gets lots of scraps of fish and meat, because we are such a big family; and then I suppose she likes her own old home, just as a person would."

"I know, but Alice is so crazy about her: Alice is my sister," she explained.

"My sister is just as crazy about her."

"So you've got a sister? I thought you had, and I guessed her name was Matilda Ann."

"Matilda Ann! What an awful name! What made you think her name was Matilda Ann?"

"I don't know. It just came into my head that her name was Matilda Ann."

"Well, it isn't."

"Alice guessed it was Fanny," Peggy hastened to add, hoping that the credit of the family might be restored.

"It isn't Fanny either. You could guess and guess and you'd never guess it. It's such an unusual name."

Peggy was full of interest. She guessed several uncommon names, but they were all of them wrong.

"What letter does it begin with?" she asked finally.

"It begins with a D."

"Dorothy?"

"No, that's a very common name. I know lots of Dorothys."

"Doris?"

"That isn't uncommon, either. I know two Dorises."

"Dora?"

"That isn't uncommon, either. I know some Doras."

Peggy was amazed at the size of the acquaintance of this boy who had come from the city, and she was very envious. She wished she knew all those Dorothys and Dorises and Doras. She wanted to hear all about each one of them. But he did not want to take the trouble to tell her about them.

"Guess again," he said.

"I can't think of any more girls' names beginning with a D, except Dorcas, in the Bible."

"It isn't Dorcas."

"Delia?"

"No."

"You'll have to tell me; I can't think of another thing."

"Her name is Diana."

"Diana! What a pretty name! Is she pretty?"

"She's all right," the boy said heartily; "only she isn't very strong; and she has to stay in bed a lot when she is sick, and the cat amused her. She came and would get on the bed and would curl down by her."

"She would? Mother would never let her go into our bedrooms."

Peggy was beginning to see why Lady Jane liked to live with the Carters. But she had a pang of jealousy when she thought of that adorable gray striped pussy, with her soft fur and her greenish eyes, curling down contentedly and giving her cheerful purr while she was stroked by another little girl.

"Is she the only sister you've got?" Peggy asked.

"Yes."

"Have you only one brother?"

"That's all. He's older than me. He's some brother," he added proudly. "He writes poetry."

"Poetry? I write it too," said Peggy; "only mine is just nursery rhymes to amuse Alice, about bees and hens and things."

"Tom is writing a poem about you."

"About me?" Peggy was deeply interested. "Can you say any of it?"

Christopher became very red and looked confused. "I can't remember it," he said.

"You must remember some of it."

She persisted until she wrung from him the confession that he could remember one line, and she teased and teased him to repeat it until he said, "All right, if you must hear it, I suppose you must: 'Peggy, Peggy, long and leggy.' It gets nicer as it goes on, but that's all I can remember."

Peggy looked down at her long legs thoughtfully. The poem was a distinct shock. She had never had one written to her before.

"If he's like most boys I guess he's longer and leggier than I am," she said.

"You are right there, he is."

"I'm glad I have long legs," said Peggy. "They are so useful when you are climbing trees."

Christopher looked at her with new interest. "Do you like to climb trees?" he asked.

"I just love to," said Peggy.

They were coming to the stone wall that enclosed the Thornton place. Peggy climbed up and began to walk across it. At one end was a pine tree, with convenient branches that she had often longed to climb. It looked very tall and symmetrical with its spreading green branches against the heavenly blue of the sky.

She could never quite remember whether it was she or Christopher who first suggested climbing the tree. But they hid their baskets on the other side of the wall, and presently she and Christopher were climbing quickly from branch to branch. Peggy had never had a more blissful time. She had often envied Lady Jane her power to scramble up trees with no mother at hand to tell her to come down, or to warn her against spoiling her frock. But now she envied nobody. It was too wonderful to be sitting in the topmost branches of that pine tree. But the thought of Lady Jane's furry garment made her look down at her less substantial frock, and, to her dismay, she saw a long streak on it. She put her hand down and it felt sticky.

"Oh, dear," she said, "I've got some of the pitch from the pine all over my dress! Oh, dear, what will mother say? She told me to be sure not to stop on the way, and not to talk to any strange children."

"I'm not a strange child," said Christopher. "She wouldn't mind your talking to me."

"Yes, but I have stopped on the way. I'll have to hurry," she said. "But, oh, dear, I'm afraid my dress is spoiled! Oh, what will mother say? I've only worn it one other time, and she's only got one more of these blue frocks finished."

"Only one more! How many are you going to have?"

"Four," said Peggy. She glanced up at him, and he looked as if he, too, would be hard on his clothes and would have some sympathy for her, so she added: "You see, it doesn't tear easily. The man in the shop said it was as strong as nails. I am always spoiling my things."

He looked down at the long smear with genuine concern. "If I hadn't come along it wouldn't have happened," he said. "I'll take you round to Aunt Betsy's. She's got stuff that takes out all kinds of spots. She's got them out for me."

"Is your Aunt Betsy the same as Clara's Aunt Betsy?" Peggy asked.

"My Aunt Betsy is father's aunt," he said. "That's the reason we came here to live. She told us your house was going to be sold and there wasn't any good doctor here any more."

They turned down a side street. "That's the house she lives in," he said, pointing to a small white cottage with green blinds.

"Oh, yes, I know her," said Peggy. "She's Miss Betsy Porter."

Aunt Betsy was in her pleasant kitchen taking something with a delicious, spicy smell out of the oven. She came to the door and asked the children to come in. She was tall and thin, with gray hair and dark eyes. Peggy thought of her as an old lady, but much more interesting than old ladies usually were. There always seemed to be something very nice in the way of food at her house, no matter at what time one arrived.

"Now you children must each have a piece of my gingerbread," she said. "I've just taken it out of the oven."

Miss Betsy Porter was deeply interested in the stain on Peggy's frock.

"That's a very enticing tree to climb," she said, when the children had told her the whole story. "I climbed it once when I was a little girl."

Peggy looked with wonder into the kindly face of Aunt Betsy, with its many lines. It seemed so impossible to think that she had ever been a little girl climbing trees.

"I've got some stuff here that will take that out," said Aunt Betsy, going to a cupboard in the other room. "It would be a great pity for you to spoil that pretty dress."

There was a jet-black cat curled up on the red bricks of the kitchen hearth. After the spots had been taken out, Peggy went over to make friends with the cat. It did not seem polite to eat and run when Miss Betsy had been so kind about taking the stain out of her dress, so Peggy stayed to make a call, after the gingerbread had been eaten. And she and Christopher told her all about Lady Jane Grey, and how she lived first at one house and then at the other. Finally, the striking of a clock made Peggy realize that the morning was slipping away.

"I guess I'll have to be going now," said Peggy, "for mother told me to hurry and not to stop on the way. Oh, dear, what did I do with my basket?"

"You didn't have any basket when you came in here," said Miss Betsy.

"We left our baskets behind the stone wall," said Christopher. "I forgot all about them. I'll run back and get them."

"I'll run, too," said Peggy. "I guess I can run as fast as you can."

"It's too hot a morning to run, children," Miss Betsy called after them.

But they were already some distance away. Christopher in his brown suit was a little ahead, but he was closely followed by Peggy in her blue frock, with her flying yellow hair, and her long, slim legs.

The children gathered up their baskets and Peggy started to go to the grocery store when her attention was caught by the melodious singing of Mrs. Butler's canary-bird. "He's crazy about being alive, just as I am," thought Peggy. "I wish I could sing like that."

"I must just go and say good-morning to Mrs. Butler. See, she's got the window open and the cage hanging there. Don't you wish you could sing like a canary-bird?"

"No, I don't. What strange things you do think up!"

"Well, I'd like to sing like one," said Peggy, "because it sounds so joyous, and there's never anything I can do to show how joyous I feel."

Mrs. Butler came to the open window, to speak to the children. She didn't look at all joyous, for she had been having rheumatism, but this warm day made her feel better.

"Won't you come in?" she asked. "I've just baked some gingerbread. You must be hungry. Come in and let me give you some."

Peggy was about to say that they had already had some gingerbread, but she had only had one piece, and it seemed to make her hungry for more. She knew she ought not to stop again, but the temptation was too great. So they went into Mrs. Butler's cool parlor. This time it was crisp, thin gingerbread. One could eat several pieces and it seemed nothing at all. And all the time, the canary-bird in the sunshine was singing his glad song, "Spring is coming, spring is really coming," he seemed to say, "and there will be daffodils out, and tulips and Mayflowers. And the days will grow longer and longer, and more and more sunshiny." A clock on the mantelpiece struck the half-hour. That was not a joyous sound.

"I guess I ought to be going," said Peggy. "Mother told me to hurry and not to stop on the way."

"Mother told me she was in a hurry for the butter and eggs," said Christopher. "I'll have to go right home."

Christopher left Peggy when they came to her old house, which was now his, and she felt a little pang of regret when she saw how pleasant it looked with its new coat of paint, behind the two horse-chestnut trees, which would soon be coming into blossom. At one of the upper windows she saw a boy who she was sure must be the poet, and she hurried by, very conscious of her long legs.

The grocery store was a place full of interest -- there were such delightful things to be seen. There was a box full of oranges and another full of grapefruit, and a lady was buying some raisins. Peggy was sure her mother would like some raisins if she had only happened to remember about them, and it would be such a good chance to get some oranges and grapefruit. But she remembered that her mother had not liked it at all when she had brought back some oranges once that she had not been told to order, so she turned regretfully from the oranges and grapefruit to the lemons that were in another box.

"I'd like six lemons, please," she said to the clerk, "and two pounds of sugar and a box of Butter Thins."

"Is that all?" he asked.

"Yes," said Peggy. She never once thought of the yeast-cake, for so many exciting things had happened since she left home.

When she reached the house her mother said, "What have you been doing, Peggy? You are an hour and a half late. There is no use now in starting my bread before night."

It was then that Peggy remembered the yeast-cake. She turned red and looked very unhappy.

"Mother, I forgot all about the yeast-cake," she confessed miserably. "I remembered everything else."

"You remembered all the things you wanted yourself, but the one thing you were sent for, the only important thing, you forgot. I wonder what I can do to make you less careless. What is this smell? Why, it comes from your frock! Peggy, what mischief have you been in now?"

Peggy and her mother were intimate friends, and they shared each other's confidence, but Peggy had not intended to tell her about the frock until the next day. However, there was no escape now.

"Christopher and I climbed the pine tree, the one by the Thornton place, and I got pitch all over me, and I thought you'd be so discouraged that he took me to his Aunt Betsy's house and she got the spots out."

"I told you not to stop to talk to any children."

"You said 'strange children.' He wasn't 'strange.'"

When Mrs. Owen had heard the whole history of the morning, she said: "Now Peggy, I think you ought to be punished in some way. While you were out Mrs. Horton telephoned to say that she and Miss Rand and Clara had come up to spend part of the Easter vacation. She wants you and Alice to come over and play with Clara this afternoon. I think Alice had better go without you."

"Oh, mother," Alice protested, "that would be punishing Clara and me too."

"I think it would be too awful a punishment," said Peggy.

"Yes, I suppose it would," said Mrs. Owen thoughtfully. She was a very just mother, and Peggy always felt her punishments were deserved.

"I can't let it go and do nothing about it," said Mrs. Owen. "I tell you what I'll do. I'll go over to Mrs. Horton's with Alice and leave you to keep house, Peggy, until I come back. Old Michael may come with some seed catalogues. If he does you can keep him until I get back. As soon as I do, you can run right down for the yeast-cake, and this time I am sure you will not stop on the way. Then you can go to Clara's for what is left of the afternoon."




Chapter V

At Clara's House


Peggy was walking up the long avenue that led to Clara's house. She had had a wonderful afternoon. "Only I haven't been punished at all," thought Peggy. This was because old Michael had arrived with his seed catalogues soon after her mother left, and, as he was one of her best friends, Peggy was very happy.

"Mother will be back soon," said Peggy. "Let's play that I am mother, and we'll look at all the pictures of flowers and vegetables and mark the ones I want, just as she does."

Old Michael was quite ready to play the game, only he said it might be confusing to her mother if they marked the catalogues; so Peggy got a sheet of her own best note-paper, with some children in colored frocks at the top of it.

"It's a pity to waste that good paper," said he.

"It's my own paper, Mr. Farrell," said Peggy, in a grown-up voice. "You forget that I am Mrs. Owen and can do as I please."

"Sure enough, ma'am, I did forget," he said as he looked at the small lady in her blue frock.

"Peonies, poppies, portulaca," said Peggy; "we'll have a lot of all of those, Mr. Farrell. And we'll have the poppies planted in a lovely ring."

"It was vegetables we were to talk about to-day, ma'am," said Mr. Farrell respectfully. "How many rows of string-beans do you want to start with, and how many butter-beans? And are you planning to have peas and corn and tomatoes?"

"Mother is planning to can things to sell," Peggy began. "Oh, dear, I forgot I was mother! I think a hundred rows of string-beans will be enough to start with, Mr. Farrell. I am afraid that is all my children can take care of. They are to help me with the garden. We haven't much money; and we have to earn some or Peggy may have to go to live with her grandmother, and I just couldn't stand that. I could not be separated from my child; and Peggy and Alice must always be together. Perhaps you can't understand this, Mr. Farrell, never having been a mother yourself. It is no laughing matter," she said, looking at old Michael reprovingly.

Her mother came a great deal too soon; and she did not approve of all of Peggy's suggestions about the garden. "Run along now, Peggy, and get the yeast-cake, and don't bother us any more," she said unfeelingly.

Surely no little girl had ever gone to the village and back so quickly as Peggy went. She resisted the temptation to get two yeast-cakes, for fear one might not be fresh, thinking it wiser to do exactly as her mother said.

And now, as she was walking between the rows of trees, she could hardly wait to see Clara. She had not seen her since Thanksgiving Day.

There were three men at work at the Hortons' place, raking leaves and uncovering the bushes in the rose garden. Peggy was glad they did not have so many people at work. It was much more fun doing a lot of the work one's self and talking things over with old Michael. Mrs. Horton was talking with the man in the rose garden. He looked cross as if he did not like to be interrupted. Mrs. Horton was short and plump, with beautifully fitting clothes, but she never looked half so nice, in spite of them, as Peggy's mother did in her oldest dresses, for Mrs. Owen carried her head as if she were the equal of any one in the land.

Mrs. Horton looked pleased when she saw Peggy. She shook hands with her and said how tall she had grown. Peggy was tired of hearing this. And then she told her that the children were up in the apple tree. "You can go right through the house and out at the other door," she said. "The path is too muddy. Miss Rand will let you in. We are camping out; we haven't brought any of the servants with us."

They only had the care-taker and her husband and these men on the place. If this was camping out, Peggy wondered what she and her mother and Alice were doing, with nobody but themselves to do anything, except old Michael or Mrs. Crozier for an occasional day.

Miss Rand opened the door for Peggy. She was a small, slim little thing, with big frightened eyes with red rims. She looked as if she had been crying. Peggy wondered what the trouble was. She felt sorry for her, so she gave her a kiss and a big hug and said how glad she was to see her. And Miss Rand smiled and her face looked as if the sun had come out. She was very nice-looking when she smiled.

"You are the same old Peggy," said Miss Rand, and Peggy was so grateful to her for not saying how tall she had grown that she stopped and told her all about Lady Jane and how she lived first at one house and then at the other; for Miss Rand had a heart for cats, and it was a trial to her that Mrs. Horton would never have one.

Speaking of Lady Jane, Peggy had an awful feeling that she had slipped out of the kitchen door when old Michael came in. "I didn't see her after he left when I went into the kitchen for a drink of water," said Peggy. "Wouldn't that be too bad?"

"It would be nice for Diana to have a little visit from her," said Miss Rand.

"Do you know Diana?"

"Yes, I used to teach in a school near where they lived. She came to school when she was well enough, and when she wasn't I gave her lessons at home. She is a dear child."

But Peggy was getting too impatient to see Clara to stop to hear more about Diana. So she went through the wide hall and out of the other door to the brick terrace and down the steps that led to the formal garden and the orchard beyond. A peacock was strutting about as if he owned the place. His tail looked so very beautiful that Peggy felt a little envious. "I wish people could wear ready-made clothes as lovely as his," she thought. "They are much nicer than my blue frocks, and they can never get spoiled."

She ran quickly along past the pool, where the water-lilies would blossom later on, to the orchard. In one of the nearest apple trees there was a platform built around it with a flight of steps leading up to it. It was what the children called the apple tree house. Here Clara and Alice were playing dolls. Peggy could seldom be induced to play dolls. She ran up the steps and made a dash for Clara. Clara, in a lilac frock, was sitting primly on one of the wooden chairs with which the platform was furnished. Her hair was a darker brown than Alice's, and her face had the pallor of the city child who has lived indoors all winter. She was rather a stiff little girl in her manners, and however glad she might feel inside at seeing Peggy again, she did not show it. She submitted to being kissed and hugged gravely as if she were taking a doctor's prescription, and she kissed Peggy's cheek with a gentle peck.

"Dear me, but you have grown a lot," said Clara.

"Well, I can't help it if I have," said Peggy.

She felt cross and a little hurt because Clara had not seemed any more glad to see her when she had been just crazy to see Clara. Miss Rand had been delighted to see her, and even Mrs. Horton had seemed more glad than Clara. Only the peacock and Clara had seemed proud. Perhaps Clara had been afraid Peggy would rumple her dress. It was a very lovely shimmery dress with smocking. Peggy liked dresses that were smocked. She seated herself on a branch of the apple tree and began to swing back and forth. She was never shy herself, so it did not occur to her that Clara was shy. There did not seem to be anything to say, and it seemed a long, long time, since Thanksgiving Day, when she had last seen Clara, and as if they would have to get acquainted all over again.

"Did you have a nice journey?" said Peggy.

"No, horrid! I'm always car-sick. Father's coming for us and we are going back in the automobile."

"That will be great fun," said Peggy.

"It will be better than the train," said Clara, "but it's a long ride, and I always get awfully tired."

"Do you?" said Peggy, swinging back and forth again.

"How long your legs are," said Clara.

Peggy stopped short in her swinging. "If you say anything about my legs I shall go crazy," she announced. Then she climbed as high in the apple tree as she could get and dared them to come and join her. "Come up into my house, you short-legged people," she called down. "I have a room in a tower and there are windows in it, and I can see all over the place. Come up here -- why don't you come?"

"Don't be cross, Peggy," said Alice. "You know I am scared to, and Clara would spoil her dress if she climbed up there."

"What are dresses for if you can't climb trees in them?" Peggy called down.

"I wish I had a frock like yours, it is such a pretty color," said Clara, who always liked other people's things better than her own.

The compliment to her dress restored Peggy's good humor. She was very seldom cross, and she felt thoroughly ashamed of herself. So she condescended to play dolls with Clara and Alice, and there was no fun so great as to have Peggy play dolls. She put them through such adventures and made them have such narrow escapes that the little mothers were positively thrilled. So it was a very happy afternoon for every one, even for Miss Rand, who came out just before it was time for the children to go home, with a tray on which there was a pitcher of something nice and cold that tasted of orange, and some small doughnuts. Miss Rand sat down on an apple branch, which seat she preferred to a chair, and she sang for them, at Peggy's request, some Scotch songs, in a sweet contralto voice.

"It has been a nice afternoon," said Peggy, as she kissed Clara good-bye, and this time Clara gave her a most responsive kiss.




Chapter VI

Diana


Peggy did not think of Lady Jane again until supper-time, when Mrs. Owen said to Alice, "I've warmed some milk for the cat. It is in the blue pitcher; you can turn it into her saucer."

Peggy kept very still. She hoped against hope that her furry little gray friend would come at the sound of her name. "I can't find her anywhere, mother," said Alice.

"I haven't seen her all the afternoon, now I think of it," said Mrs. Owen. "Did you see her, Peggy? Do you suppose she could have slipped out when Michael Farrell came in?"

"I am afraid she did, mother," said Peggy.

"Well, Peggy Owen," said Alice, "I never knew any one as careless as you are. You ought to be punished."

"You are not my mother," said Peggy.

"It is a very serious matter," and Alice gave a wise shake to her small head. "It is the second time you've let her get out."

"Well," said Mrs. Owen, "if she is so anxious to live at the other house and they want to keep her, suppose we let them have her? The other day when I called, Mrs. Carter told me how fond her little girl was of her, and the child hasn't been well."

"Give up Lady Jane!" cried Peggy in dismay.

"Mother, what are you thinking of!" said Alice. "She's one of the family. Would you give me up if I kept going back to the Carters'?"

"Certainly not; but that is entirely different."

"I love Lady Jane just as much as you love me, mother," said Alice.

"That is impossible. Don't talk such nonsense," said her mother.

It seemed an extreme statement, even to Peggy. "Do you love her as much as you love mother?" she asked.

Alice paused to consider.

"Don't ask her such a trying question, Peggy. She would probably find it a little less convenient to live without me than without the cat; but if you children care so much about her you can go and get her. It is too much to expect them to send her back again."

Mrs. Owen telephoned to Mrs. Carter and found that the cat had been spending the afternoon with them.

"I won't trouble you to send her back," said Mrs. Owen. "The children will go for her to-morrow afternoon."

The next day Peggy and Alice could hardly wait to finish their dinner, they were so eager to go for Lady Jane and get back in time to spend a long afternoon with Clara. As they came near the Carters' house, they saw Christopher just coming out of the gate.

"So you are going to take the cat back again?" he said disapprovingly, as he looked at the basket.

"She's our cat," Alice said sweetly, but very firmly.

Christopher looked down at Alice, who smiled up at him and showed her dimples.

"Yes, of course, she is your cat," he said; for nobody could resist Alice. "But it seems too bad to yank her out every time she comes back to her old place."

"We've had her a very long time," said Alice. "I can hardly remember anything before we had her."

"She must be a very old cat," said Christopher, laughing.

It seemed strange to ring the doorbell of their own old house. The front door was painted green now and it had a shiny brass knocker. The office door was green, too. It was sad not to see their dear father's name there any more. "Dr. T. H. Carter" seemed very unnatural. The grass was beginning to grow green, and the snowdrops and crocuses were in blossom by the front door. Mrs. Carter opened the door for them herself. She looked so pleasant that Peggy wanted to kiss her.

"I know you've come for Lady Jane," she said, glancing at the basket. "She's out calling this afternoon, but I'm sure she'll be in before long. While you are waiting for her you can go up and see Diana. She is expecting you. You can go upstairs; she is out on the piazza."

Everything seemed strange and yet familiar about the house. There was a new paper in the hall, and the floor and the stairs had been done over. They went out on the upper side piazza, which was glassed in, and here Diana was lying in a hammock that looked almost like a bed. Peggy loved Diana the moment she saw her. She had the same friendly face that Mrs. Carter had. Her hair was a sunshiny brown and so were her eyes, and her face, too, was a warm color, as if she had been out of doors a great deal. She had on a pale green wrapper with pink roses and green leaves embroidered on it. Peggy thought she had never seen anything so sweet in her life as Diana was, lying there in her green wrapper. She seemed a part of the pleasant springtime. Peggy noticed a copy of "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland" lying on the hammock. This was one of her favorite books, and she began to talk about it at once.

Alice's attention was caught by the sight of a flaxen-haired doll lying beside Diana in the hammock. "So you like dolls?" Alice said.

"I just love them," said Diana.

"So do I," said Alice.

And Peggy felt quite left out.

"What's her name?" Alice asked.

"Alice."

"That's my name."

"I named her for the 'Wonderland Alice.'"

"Oh, but now she must be my namesake. I'll be her aunt. She can call me 'Aunt Alice.'"

Peggy picked up "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland" while Diana and Alice made friends over the doll.

"Doesn't your sister like to play dolls?" asked Diana.

"No," said Alice, "and I don't see why, for she makes up such exciting things when she does play. Yesterday when we played with Clara she had the dolls fly in an aeroplane, and she took them up into the highest branch of the apple tree."

"Oh, do play with us now," Diana begged.

So Peggy good-naturedly put down her book, and Alice, the doll, had never had so many exciting adventures in all her young life. They were so busy playing they did not any of them hear Lady Jane's quiet footsteps as she climbed the rose trellis. Peggy saw her first, a furry, gray ball, poised lightly on the piazza rail. Alice saw her give a spring through the open pane of glass and land on the hammock. She was giving her joyous tea-kettle purr, and, oh, it was too much to bear, she was actually licking Diana's hand.

"Darling pussy," said Diana. She held her lovingly against her shoulder, and stroked her gray back.

Alice could hardly bear it. "Lady Jane, I am here," she said.

But Lady Jane did not stir. Diana moved her into a more comfortable position, and she curled herself down for a nap.

Alice could bear it no longer. She went over, and, picking her up, she said, "You are going to stay with me."

But Lady Jane scratched Alice's hands in her desire to escape, and gave a flying leap back to the hammock.

Peggy almost decided to take her mother's advice and let Diana keep the cat. She seemed to love her so very much, and to have so much less to make her happy than they had. It must be hard to lie still instead of being able to frisk about wherever one pleased. And yet, Diana looked happy. She didn't see why; she knew she could not be happy if she had to keep still like that.

"I think we ought to be going now," said Peggy, "because we told Clara we'd come early. We might leave Lady Jane to make Diana a little visit." This seemed a good compromise.

"No," said Alice, with decision, "I want to take her back right off now."

So Peggy helped Alice put the struggling cat into the basket. They shut the cover down tight, paying no attention to Lady Jane's dismal mews.

"I wish you didn't have to go," said Diana, a little sadly. "Do come again soon, and perhaps you'll bring Lady Jane with you."

"We'll come again soon," said Peggy.

"Yes," said Alice; and in her own mind she thought, "We'll never, never bring Lady Jane."




Chapter VII

The Canary-Bird


Peggy and Alice had a very happy time the next few days playing with Clara. Their school had a vacation, too, so the children were able to spend long hours together, sometimes at one house and sometimes at the other. They liked better going to see Clara on account of the tree-house; and Clara liked better going to see them. She liked to come early and help to make the beds and do the dishes, for she was never allowed to help about the work at her own house, even now, when they were supposed to be camping out. The field behind the Owens' house, where the garden was to be, was a delightful place to play, and so was the little hill beyond.

The time passed only too quickly, and, at the end of the vacation, Clara was whisked back to New York with her father and mother and Miss Rand, this time in an automobile. The children missed her very much at first; and June, when she would be coming back again, seemed a long way off.

But they soon got interested in the children at school. Peggy liked school, and she was very fond of her teacher. On the way to school they passed Mrs. Butler's house. Peggy was always eager to stop and listen to the canary and have a little talk with Mrs. Butler, but Alice was always eager to go on for fear they would be late.

Sometimes they saw Mrs. Butler's daughter Flora, starting off for her work. She was in a milliner's store and wore the prettiest hats. Every time Peggy went by the milliner's window, she stopped to look at the hats. She had longed to have a new one for Easter, for her old brown straw looked so shabby. One day, when she was with her mother and Alice, she made them cross the street to look at a hat in the window that she wanted very much. It was a peanut straw with a ribbon of the same color around it, with long ends. The ribbon had a blue edge, just the color of Peggy's blue frocks.

"It does seem as if I'd got to have it," said Peggy. "Why should there be a hat with blue on it, just the color of my dresses, if it wasn't for me?"

"I wish I could get it for you, Peggy," said her mother. "When my ship comes in perhaps I will."

"When will it come in, mother?" Alice asked.

"I have not even got a ship -- that's the worst of it. However, as we don't live at the seashore a garden is more useful. If we make the garden pay perhaps we can all have new hats."

"But they'll be winter hats if we wait for the garden, and I want the peanut straw," said Peggy.

Flora Butler, who was behind the counter, came to the door and spoke to them.

"How much is the peanut straw hat?" Peggy asked.

"Peggy, I have told you I can't get the hat for you," said her mother.

"It really is a bargain," said Miss Butler.

"It is a very pretty hat," said Mrs. Owen, "but I am spending more than I can afford on my garden."

"How's the canary?" Peggy asked.

"He is all right. He will give you a free concert any time you can stop to hear him."

"It seemed too bad he could not be free like the other birds," Peggy thought.

And then one day, as they were coming back from school, she saw the empty cage in the window, and Mrs. Butler, half distracted, was asking the school-children if any of them had seen her canary-bird. "I don't know what my husband will say when he comes back from the store for his dinner, and he finds it gone," she said. "He sets as much store by that canary as if it was a puppy."

The school-children stood about in an interested group.

"How did it get out?" Peggy asked.

"I was cleaning Sol's cage, as usual, and he was out in the room. The window was open a little at the top, same as I've had it before once or twice these spring days, and Sol never took notice. The worst of it is, my husband told me I hadn't orter keep it open, even a speck, while the bird was out of his cage. 'Sol can wriggle through the smallest kind of a crack,' says he; and it appears he was right. My, but he'll be angry! 'Marthy, it'll serve you right,' he'll say."

The children saw Mr. Butler coming down the street, just then, and they waited in fascinated silence to see what would happen next. One of the schoolboys, who always loved to make a sensation, called out as he passed, "Did you know your canary-bird is lost?"

"You don't expect I am going to swallow that yarn, Gilbert Lawson?" the old man said. "You'd better shut up. 'Taint the first of April."

"But it really and truly has flown away, Mr. Butler," said Peggy.

"Flown away! Did my old woman leave the window open? Marthy, didn't I tell you what would happen?" he said angrily as he vanished into the house. They could hear his voice raised louder and louder.

Peggy could see Mrs. Butler putting her handkerchief up to her eyes. "She's crying," said Peggy in an awed voice. "Oh, let's see if we can't find the canary-bird."

"Find it!" said Gilbert scornfully. "You might as well look for a needle in a haymow."

"Perhaps if we put the cage out he'd come back into it," said Peggy.

"Do you suppose anything clever enough to get out of prison would be fool enough to go back again?" said he. "Well, there seems to be nothing doing now and I guess I'll go home."

Gilbert and his brother Ralph and the other boys went toward the village, and so did the girls who lived in that direction. But Peggy and Alice and Anita Spaulding still lingered.

"I'm going to tell them that I'll come back as soon as dinner is over and find the bird for them," said Peggy. "I know I can find it."

"Oh, Peggy, maybe mother won't let you come," said Alice.

"She's a sensible mother; I know she'll let me come," said Peggy, as she ran up the steps.

Mrs. Butler came to the door. Her eyes looked very red and she still seemed quite upset.

"Oh, Mrs. Butler," said Peggy breathlessly, "I know I can find the canary-bird -- I know I can. I'll come right straight back as soon as I've had my dinner."

Alice and Peggy ran home and Peggy explained breathlessly about the canary. "Mother dear, Mrs. Butler has lost Sol; and I know I can find him. So please give us our dinner quick."

"Who is Sol?" Mrs. Owen asked.

"The canary -- I know I can find him. I can tell him by his song, and then I can climb up and put his cage in a tree and get him back into it."

"He won't come back once he's free: Gilbert says he won't," said Alice.

"Don't you pay any attention to what Gilbert says," said Peggy.

Mrs. Owen was very much interested. "Peggy is right," she said. "I once knew of a canary-bird that escaped and went back into his old cage. If you can only find him it is not impossible."

"There, I told you she was a sensible mother," said Peggy.

She could hardly wait to finish her dinner, and thought of going off without any dessert. But when she found it was rice pudding with raisins, she changed her mind. The two little girls went so fast to Mrs. Butler's it was almost like flying.

"We've come to find Sol," said Peggy.

Mr. Butler was just finishing his dinner. "I tell you what," he said, "I'll give five dollars to any one who'll bring back that canary-bird safe and sound."

Peggy and Alice went across the street and they ran along until they thought they had reached a spot that might appeal to Sol. This was the Thornton place, which was a bower of green with its partly open foliage.

"I'm sure he'll be here," said Peggy. "I'd come here if I were a canary. Oh, Alice, listen!" From somewhere, far, far above them, there came delicious trills and the joyous sound that Peggy longed to make herself. Nothing but a canary could sing like that. "Spring has come and I am free; and the world is too beautiful for anything," he seemed to say.

"It is Sol; I know his voice," Peggy cried. "It seems 'most too bad to put him in prison again -- only I'm sure he'll be homesick when the dark night comes."

"And it might rain and get his feathers all draggled," said Alice.

"And perhaps the other birds would be horrid to him because he's so different," said Peggy. "Anyway, we've got to get him if we can. Look, Alice!" Far up at the top of the maple tree, the leaves of which were partly open, was a tiny golden ball, and from its throat came forth the glad spring song. "Stay and watch him, Alice, while I go over to Mrs. Butler's and get the cage."

Alice stood rooted to the spot, watching the little creature, like a yellow sunbeam among the green opening leaves. It seemed a long time before Peggy came back. Mrs. Butler was with her, creaking along heavily. She was carrying the cage.

"Of course, he won't come back now he's free," said Mrs. Butler. "Dear help us, but it's him that's singin'!" she said. "I thought you'd just mistaken a song sparrow for him." She looked up and saw her favorite in the tree-top.

Peggy took the cage out of Mrs. Butler's hand.

"I'll climb up," she said, "and I'll leave his house-door open, for he hasn't any latch-key."

"Well, if that isn't the limit," said Mrs. Butler with a laugh. "To think of Sol with a latch-key!"

"But I said he didn't have one," said Peggy.

Peggy, in her blue frock, climbed up into the maple tree, and her yellow hair looked almost as sunshiny as the canary. Mrs. Butler handed the cage up to her. There was some of the bird's favorite seed in the cage and water for him to drink.

"I guess he'll go home when he gets hungry," said Peggy.

Mrs. Butler kept laughing to herself and saying over and over, "He hasn't any latch-key; if that don't beat all."

Peggy scrambled down again, and they all stood waiting to see what would happen next; and nothing happened. It was very discouraging. Finally they sat down on the Thorntons' wall to rest.

"Oh, look!" Peggy cried in excitement.

The bird gave a few little hops along the branch and then fluttered down to a lower perch nearer the cage. The children's eyes grew big with excitement. Alice jumped down from the wall and ran nearer to the tree to get a better view. The noise she made startled the bird, and he flew on to a higher branch.

"There, Alice, see what you've done!" Peggy said.

"Oh, dear, oh, dear!"

They sat still for a long time, and after this Alice did not dare either to speak or move.

"Well, I guess I'll go home," said Mrs. Butler. "'A watched pot never boils.' Mebbe you'd like some refreshments as well as Sol. Don't you want to go home with me and get some lemonade and cake?"

But even this offer could not lure the children from the spot. Peggy was afraid to go off, even for a moment, for fear the canary would slip in for a meal and out again before she could close him in. The time passed slowly. After what seemed hours Mrs. Butler came back and brought them some cake and lemonade. It tasted very good, but they soon finished it, and Mrs. Butler went away with the empty dishes, shaking her fist at Sol.

"You are the most provoking bird," she said, "keeping everybody waiting, and you so small you could go in one's pocket, if only you hadn't wings."

Alice lost her patience before Peggy did. "We ought to be going home," she said. "Mother'll wonder what has become of us."

"All right, go home if you want to. I'm going to stick right here until he gets hungry and goes into his house."

"Perhaps I'll come back again," said Alice.

It seemed lonely after Alice had left her. Peggy was tired of keeping still. She took one run across the Thornton place, but this seemed to disturb the canary, so she flung herself down on the grass.

"I'll look away while I count a hundred," she said.

She counted a hundred and when she looked back, there was the canary in his cage, and she had not seen him go in. It was too provoking. She climbed up, breathless with excitement, and shut the door.




Chapter VIII

The Reward


Mr. Butler was just coming back from his work as Peggy reached the gate of his house.

"I've got him," she called triumphantly.

"Bless my soul!" said the old man. "Have you been waiting for him all this time?"

"Yes," said Peggy

"What a patient little girl you are."

He put his hand in his trousers' pocket and pulled out a roll of bills. He looked them over until he came to a crisp, new, five-dollar bill which he handed to Peggy.

Peggy ran all the way home, with the five-dollar bill clasped in her hand. She had never once thought of the money while she was watching the canary. He was so beautiful, with his yellow feathers against the branches of the tree, with the blue sky above him, and his song was so wonderful, that she had not thought about any reward. But now that she had the money, she felt as if some one had given her a fortune, for she had never had so much money at once, in all her short life. Now she could get the hat, for it did not cost nearly five dollars; and there would be some money left to buy -- what should she buy? Something for Alice and her mother.

"Oh, mother," she said, as she burst into the room, "I got him, and see what Mr. Butler gave me! Now I can get my new hat!"

"You don't mean to say you took money for doing a kindness?" said Mrs. Owen.

"He gave it to me," said Peggy.

"Yes, so I understood, but, my dear little girl, the Butlers haven't any more money than we have. They are poor people. Five dollars means a great deal to them."

"He seemed to want to give it to me," said Peggy.

"That was very kind, but you ought to have said, 'I didn't think of the reward. I shouldn't feel it right to be paid for doing a kindness. I am sure my mother wouldn't want me to keep the money.'"

"But I never thought about you. Truly, mother, you never once came into my head. And I did not think it was being paid. I thought it was kind of a thank-offering."

"Well, we'll take the money back as soon as supper is over," said Mrs. Owen.

Peggy ate her supper in silence. She was sure her mother could not know how much she wanted the new hat. And to think she felt so sure of having it, and then to have it snatched away was hard! And she was afraid Mr. Butler's feelings would be hurt; for she was sure he did not think of a reward, but a thank-offering.

After supper Mrs. Owen and the two children went down the street to Mrs. Butler's house. It was pleasant to see the canary-bird in his cage in the window. He was silent, as if he were tired out with the excitement of the day. Peggy felt tired, too, and she thought, "If I were only the kind of little girl who cried, I should cry now, because I am so disappointed about the hat."

Mrs. Butler's daughter Flora had just come in from the milliner's shop. She was wearing a pretty hat, with a wreath of wild roses around it.

"Well, Peggy, I hear you have found the most important member of the family," said Flora. "I'm sure they wouldn't take on half so bad if I was lost."

"I guess you could find your way home if you were lost," said Peggy.

They begged Mrs. Owen and the children to sit down and have supper with them.

"Thank you, but we have had our supper," said Mrs. Owen. "I only came down for a minute, just to say how good you were to give my little girl the five dollars, but I could not let her keep it. I don't want her to feel she is to be benefited in any other way when she does a kindness, except having the pleasure that comes from helping somebody."

"I thought I'd like to have the pleasure of helping somebody," said Mr. Butler. "I offered the reward, and she seemed real pleased to get it."

"Of course, she was pleased," said Peggy's mother. "But I am sure it was not the idea of the reward that started her out to find the canary. So, if you please, Mr. Butler," -- and Mrs. Owen handed him the five-dollar bill as she spoke, -- "I'd rather you kept this. We've always been good friends and neighbors, and I am glad if my little girl has been able to help you, and sometime, I am sure, you and Mrs. Butler will be ready to help me."

Mrs. Butler had been watching Peggy's face. She saw she was sorry not to have the money, and she shrewdly guessed there was something she wanted very much that the five dollars would buy.

"I see just the way your ma feels," said Mrs. Butler, "but it does seem as if Sol might make you a little present. Can you think of anything you would like?"

"Yes," said Peggy promptly, "the hat in the milliner's window with the ribbon with the blue edge."

"My dear little girl -- ?" began Mrs. Owen.

"That is just the thing," said Mrs. Butler. "I'm sure Sol will be real pleased to give it to you."

Mrs. Owen was about to say it was too much of a present, but she looked at Peggy's shining eyes and then at Mrs. Butler's beaming face. Who was she to stand out against these two? If it were indeed more blessed to give than to receive, Mr. and Mrs. Butler were getting their reward.

So the next day a paper box arrived at the Owens' door for "Miss Peggy Owen, with the compliments and gratitude of her friend Sol."

Oh, joy of joys! It was the hat. Peggy tried it on, and it was even nicer than she had thought, for it was so light, and it had such a good brim. She went down that very afternoon to make a special call on Mrs. Butler and Sol; and the canary sang again his melodious song.




Chapter IX

Choosing A Kitten


Now the warm weather had come to stay, Mrs. Owen decided that it was cruel to keep Lady Jane in the house, besides being almost impossible. The children must take the risk. If she chose to live with the Carters, it could not be helped. Perhaps Diana needed her more than they did.

"But she is my cat," said Alice. "Can't I go and get her back whenever she goes there?"

"Yes, if you have the patience."

"I shall have the patience to go a hundred and seventy-five times," said Alice.

She and Peggy liked Diana, but whenever Mrs. Owen had suggested to her little girls that they should go to see her, they had always some good reason for not going. Mrs. Owen suspected it was on account of Lady Jane. It was awkward to meet Diana when they had locked Lady Jane up, knowing perfectly well that she preferred to live with Diana. Peggy thought it was not fair to take advantage of anything so small. But the cat was Alice's, not hers, as Alice reminded her. And then, one pleasant day, Lady Jane decided to set up housekeeping for good and all in her old home. Alice wanted to go down at once and bring her back. But Mrs. Owen insisted that she should be allowed to stay in the home of her choice for at least a week.

And before the week was up, Diana telephoned to Alice. "What do you think, Alice," she said, "Lady Jane has four teenty-tinety kittens -- the darlingest, most cuddly things!"

"Oh, she does have such lovely children!" said Alice, with a pang of envy.

"They are in a wood-box out in the shed," said Diana. "At least it looks like a wood-box, but there isn't any wood in it."

"Yes, that is her old house," said Alice.

"Mother has put in an old piece of blanket so as to make them comfortable," said Diana.

"Has she really?" said Alice.

"Mother won't let us touch the kittens until they get their eyes open. She says in two weeks she hopes you and Peggy will come down and see them."

"Not for two weeks?" said Alice. "We always look at them a lot. I'd like her back before two weeks. That is too long a visit."

"Mother says it is bad for kittens to be handled. She says to forget all about them for two weeks."

"Ask her if she knows what color they are," said Peggy.

"Have you seen them?" Alice asked.

"Yes, mother let us look at them just once, and we each chose a kitten for ourselves."

"Do you mean to say she is going to let you keep them all?" Alice asked. "Mother never let us keep but two."

"We can keep them if you will let us have them," said Diana. "Of course we know she is your cat, but mother thought maybe your mother wouldn't want the bother of four kittens."

"You didn't ask her what color they are. Let me talk to her," said Peggy, and she seized the receiver. "It is Peggy talking now. What color are the kittens?"

"Tipsy is black with just a white tip to his tail, and Topsy is black with a white vest and four white paws, and Lady Janet is silvery gray, almost exactly like her mother, and Gretchen is gray and white with a gray chin."

"And your mother doesn't mind the bother of four kittens?" said Peggy.

"Mother," she said, as Mrs. Owen came into the room, "Lady Jane has four children, and Mrs. Carter is going to keep all of them if we'll let her."

"We shall want one ourselves so as to keep her contented," said Alice.

"My dear little girl," said her mother, "it would be cruel to move Lady Jane until the kittens are big enough to look out for themselves. I have a few things to do besides taking care of her and her family. If the Carters want her and she wants to stay, there is no use in fighting any longer."

"But she is my darling cat," said Alice, with tears in her eyes. "How would you feel, mother, if I decided I would rather live in my old house with the Carters than with you. Would you let me stay?"

"Certainly not, because you are not capable of judging what is best for yourself, and because I could not spare you, and neither would Mrs. Carter want to bring up another child. But if you were my pussy-cat, instead of my child, and you preferred to live with a little girl who was sick half the time, and had so few pleasures, and if you had four furry children, and the Carters wanted to keep them, I should be glad to have everybody happy."

"All but me, mother," said Alice, "and Peggy -- she will miss Lady Jane."

"I am sure they will let you have one of the kittens," said Mrs. Owen. "In about two months you can have one of them."

"Not for two months?" said Peggy. "Oh, mother, think of a catless house for two months. It will be so desolate."

"But you can go and choose your kitten in two weeks," said Mrs. Owen, "and you can often go to see it."

It was a bright spring afternoon when Peggy and Alice went down to Diana's house to choose the kitten. They took along with them a great bunch of Mayflowers for Diana. They had picked them the afternoon before, when they had gone with their mother up to their camp on the hill. It was a rude little hut that their father had built. Later in the season, wild strawberries would grow on the place, and then would come raspberries, and afterwards blueberries and blackberries. Mrs. Owen was planning to make preserves for themselves, and for some of the neighbors. She looked over the ground with interest while the children frisked about and stopped from time to time to pick Mayflowers.

Diana was sitting up in bed when the children arrived. The bed was of mahogany and had four twisted posts. The white quilt had been turned back and a book and Diana's doll Alice were lying on the blanket. The sun came shining in through the two west windows. The room looked very fresh, with the new white paint and pale green walls.

"This used to be mother's room when we had the house," said Peggy. "It is much prettier now."

Diana was wearing her green kimono with the pink roses on it. "They gave me the best room because I'm sick so much," said Diana. "Wasn't it nice of them, when I am the youngest in the family?"

"I'd rather have the smallest room in the house, and be well," said Peggy.

She was sorry she had said it, for a shadow seemed to cross Diana's bright face. "Father expects I'll be well much sooner, now we live in the country," she said.

"Oh, what lovely Mayflowers!" she added, as Peggy dropped the big bunch down beside her. Diana picked it up and plunged her nose into it.

"Peggy and I picked them for you yesterday," said Alice. "We were up at our camp."

Diana listened with interest to the children's description of the place.

"There are pine woods around the camp," said Peggy, "and on the hillside and in the pasture such delicious berries; and later on we shall go up and pick them; we always do. We have to walk now, for we haven't a horse or automobile any more. But it is a nice walk and not so very long. Maybe your father will drive you up when you get better."

"I'd like to see it," said Diana.

Just then Mrs. Carter came into the room with a basket.

"Oh, have you brought the kittens?" Peggy asked.

"Yes, they are all here." She took out one kitten after another and put them all on the bed in front of Diana.

"Oh, what sweet things!" Alice cried. She put her hand on the black kitten with the white tip to his tail. "This is Tipsy, isn't it?" she asked.

"Yes."

"And I know this is Topsy," said Peggy, picking up the other black-and-white kitten.

"Oh, what a darling!" said Alice as she spied the gray-and-white kitten. "That must be Gretchen."

"Oh, see that one, Alice," and Peggy pointed to the silvery gray kitten that looked like a miniature Lady Jane. The children went into an ecstasy of delight over the four soft, furry little things that were so complete and yet small.

As Mrs. Carter was leaving the room, she said, "I'll come back in a few minutes, for I want to take them home before Lady Jane comes back from her afternoon walk. She'd be terribly worried if she found they were gone. So you'll have to choose your kitten quickly."

"Can we choose whatever one we want?" Peggy asked.

"Almost any one," said Diana. "We've each chosen for ourselves, but I'll let you choose mine if you want her; and I don't believe Tom would mind if you chose his. I'm not sure about Christopher -- he's so decided."

"Well, anyway, I don't know which I like best," said Peggy.

"Well, I know which one I want," said Alice, and she picked up the silvery gray kitten. "I want Lady Janet, she's so like her mother, except she's a lighter color."

"That's Christopher's kitten," said Diana.

"Well, I don't care if it is," said Alice in her gentlest voice; "I want it. I think if I am so unfortunate as to lose my precious Lady Jane, I ought to have the child that's most like her."

"They are all sweet," said Peggy. "Which is the kitten that doesn't belong to anybody?"

"Topsy."

"Let's take Topsy," said Peggy. "It would be a change to have a black-and-white kitten."

"It would not be a nice change," said Alice. "I'd like to go and find Christopher."

He came in while the kittens were still there. "Oh, Christopher," said Alice, "please I want Lady Janet. I want her very much because she's so like her mother. I know she's your kitten, but I want her very much, please, Christopher."

"I want her very much, too," said Christopher.

In spite of his pleasant smile, he had a determined face. He looked as if when his mind was made up he did not easily change it.

"You see, if I can't have Lady Jane I want Lady Janet," said Alice.

"Who says you can't have Lady Jane?" said Christopher. "You can have her back as soon as the kittens are old enough to look out for themselves."

"You know she won't stay with us," said Alice reproachfully.

"Well, I can't help that," said Christopher.

"Come, Alice," said Peggy, "we must be going now."

She turned and looked at Christopher. "If you are so mean as not to let my sister have the kitten she wants when Lady Jane is her cat, I shall never speak to you as long as I live. I think you are a selfish pig. You can keep all four kittens. There are plenty of kittens in town. Good-bye, Diana."

"Oh, don't go," said Diana, looking very much worried. "Christopher was only teasing her."

This was true, but Peggy was not sure of it. She thought Diana wanted to make peace.

"Peggy doesn't really mean it," Alice said. "Sometimes she gets angry, but she doesn't stay angry. Please, Christopher," -- and she looked at him beseechingly, -- "I would like Lady Janet."

"She is my kitten," said Christopher, and Alice's face clouded, "but I will give her to you," he added.




Chapter X

The Wild Garden


Meanwhile, as the kittens were growing, the garden was growing, too. Peggy thought it was strange that small furry things and plants and vegetables should change so much in a few weeks, while children did not seem to change at all.

The garden had been a delight from the very first, for they had found it so interesting to follow old Michael about with the horses, as he ploughed the field at the back of the house and got it ready for planting. It was still more exciting to watch their mother and the old gardener, as they planned where the different crops were to be. Mrs. Owen had made one of her blue frocks, which she wore, and Peggy had on one of hers, and Alice felt sorry not to be in uniform, but she made a nice bit of color in the landscape in a pink frock.

Next came the planting. They helped about this. It was such fun to pat the earth down after the seed had been put in. There were rows and rows of peas, and rows and rows of string-beans and shell-beans, and some corn and turnips and carrots, and, also, a great many tomato plants. Mrs. Owen was going to put up all the peas and beans and tomatoes that Mrs. Horton needed, as well as her jams and jellies. And she was going to put up vegetables, fruit, and berries for Mrs. Carter, also, as she had been too busy getting settled to have any time to start a garden this year. May was a joyous month. The planting was all done, and some bits of green were poking their heads above the ground.

In June Clara came back, and they had her to play with. They saw a great deal of Diana, too, for they made frequent trips to see how Lady Janet was getting on. One day Clara went with them, and she decided she must have Topsy just as soon as she was big enough to leave home. This would leave only two kittens for three children, but Diana said if Lady Jane was to be hers she would let Christopher have Gretchen.

If Peggy and Alice took pleasure in the garden behind the house, this was nothing compared with their delight in what they called the wild garden, on the hill. The strawberries were the first of the berries to be picked. There were not a great many of them, but as Mrs. Horton and Mrs. Carter both wanted wild strawberry preserves, Mrs. Owen thought it best to get what she could from her own land. So one glorious June day she and the children started for the hill, with their luncheon, and pails to pick the berries in. Alice picked as carefully as her mother did, although not so fast; but Peggy put soft berries in with the good ones, and some bits of leaves somehow got in with her berries.

"Peggy, look what you are doing," said her mother. "Those berries are over-ripe."

"I don't see what difference it makes, mother, so long as you are going to make strawberry jam. Oh, mother, look at that squirrel, he gave a skip from one branch to another. See what a bushy tail he has."

"Peggy, do attend to your work."

"Mother, you can't expect me to work all the time on such a sunshiny day. It is just as important to watch squirrels and birds."

"Well, perhaps it is for you, but not for me. I can't put up squirrels for my neighbors by the cold-pack process."

When it came to the preserving of the strawberries, Peggy and Alice were so interested that they went out into the kitchen so as to watch the whole process.

"Children, you mustn't eat any more of the strawberries," said their mother. "Remember, I am putting them up for other people."

"But, mother, you've got lots and lots of them," said Peggy. "I didn't know we picked so many."

"I had to buy a great many more to fill my orders," said Mrs. Owen, "and even now I shan't have as much wild strawberry preserve as Mrs. Horton and Mrs. Carter wanted; remember the strawberries represent just so much money."

"But, mother," said Peggy, "I think it would be so much nicer to keep the strawberry preserve for ourselves than to have the money. We can't eat that."

"Children, do keep out of this kitchen."

"Mother, I don't see why it is called the 'cold-pack' process, when you heat the jars," said Peggy.

"Oh, do run along, children; you might go down to Diana's and see how Lady Janet is getting along."

"She is getting quite big," said Alice. "Can we bring her home to-day?"

"Not to-day," said her mother firmly. "I must get this preserving done before she comes."

Picking raspberries was even more delightful than picking strawberries, because they were bigger, and there were so many more of them; but going for blueberries was the best of all, for there were such quantities of them in the pasture on the hill that one could get quarts and quarts. Indeed, there were so many that Mrs. Owen was glad of extra pickers. She proposed having a picnic and asking Miss Rand and Clara, and Diana and her brothers. Diana was much stronger now, and her father was going to take her to the picnic in his automobile. Mrs. Carter decided she would like to go, too, and so did her brother, who was staying with them for a few days. Diana thought that, next to her father, there was no other man in the whole world so delightful as her Uncle Joe. He was tall and slim and had friendly brown eyes, and such a kind face and merry smile that Peggy and Alice and Clara liked him the first moment they saw him.

The first moment had been the day Clara went for her kitten. He had put the struggling Topsy into the basket in such a nice way, and he talked to her as if she had been a person. "Topsy, you are going to a very good home," he said. "Miss Rand is one who understands people like you, and so does Clara. You will have the choicest food -- lamb and fish, and all that you most desire, and you will be so well fed you will not have to live, like the Chinese, on mice."

Lady Janet was still living at the Carters' on account of the preserving, but she was getting so big she was to come to them very soon.

"If we wait until she gets much bigger, she will be running home just as her mother did," said Peggy.

The day of the picnic was a glorious one. Peggy called it a "blue day" because the sky was so blue. It was a deep blue, and there were great fleecy clouds floating about. The blueberries were the most wonderful blue, two shades, dark and light, with a shimmer to them, and Peggy's blue frock seemed a part of all the brightness of the day. Alice had on her yellow frock, and Diana was in green, and Clara in pink. It was almost too beautiful a day for them to stop and pick berries, Peggy thought; but that was what they had come for. Mrs. Owen said she would give a pint of preserved blueberries to the boy or girl who picked the first quart, provided they were carefully picked. So every one set to work to pick with a will.

Tom got his pail filled first, but as he was older than the other children, Diana said she thought Peggy ought to have the prize, because she had filled her quart pail almost as soon as Tom had; for Peggy, who was naturally quick, had been so anxious to come out ahead that she had not stopped to look at squirrels and birds. When Mrs. Owen examined the berries, however, she found some that were not ripe in Peggy's pail. Diana and Alice had both of them picked slowly, but carefully. Christopher had almost as many as Peggy, but his had to be gone over, and some unripe ones taken out. Clara had the fewest and poorest of all. She was not used to applying herself, and very soon she said she was tired and that the sun made her head ache; so Miss Rand said she could go into the little hut and rest. But this did not suit her, for she liked to be with the other children.

"I am going to give the prize to Diana," said Mrs. Owen, "as Tom won't take it, for she has picked carefully."

"Let's see who has picked the most," said Peggy, as she examined the pails. "Oh, mother has a lot more than anybody. Mother, you'll have to keep some for yourself, and Alice and I can help you eat them."

Miss Rand had a great many, and so had Mrs. Carter, but her brother Joe had the fewest of all the grown people, for he had been building a fire in the hut, so that Mrs. Owen could fry bacon and heat cocoa for dinner.

When they all took a recess in picking and sat down on the piazza of the camp for their dinner, Peggy thought she had never tasted anything so good in her life as the bread and butter and hard-boiled eggs and crisp bacon. For dessert they had saucers of blueberries and cups of cocoa, and some cake and doughnuts, which Mrs. Carter and Mrs. Horton had contributed to the feast.

As they were resting after dinner, Mrs. Carter read a story aloud to them. Then they all picked blueberries again. Diana and Clara soon got tired, and Miss Rand fixed a comfortable place for them to lie down on the window-seats in the hut. Mrs. Owen took some gray blankets out of one of the lockers and covered them up carefully.

At night, when Dr. Carter came for them with the automobile, they had the large pails Mrs. Owen had brought filled with blueberries as well as the quart pails. Peggy had never seen so many blueberries together in her life. The automobile had seats for seven. There were four grown people at the picnic, and Dr. Carter made five. And there were six children.

"I'll come back for a second load," Dr. Carter said.

"I'd rather walk," said their Uncle Joe, "and I am sure the boys would."

"We'll go down by the short cut," said Tom.

"All right. I can stow the rest of you in."

The three ladies got in on the back seat, Diana was in front with her father, and Alice and Clara were in the side seats.

"Peggy, we can make room for you in front," said Dr. Carter.

But Peggy had no idea of missing that walk down the hill with the boys and their Uncle Joe. "I'd rather walk," she said.

"Jump in, Peggy," said her mother, "you must be very tired."

"I'm not a bit tired, truly I'm not, mother. I've been so tied down all day picking berries, I'm just crazy for a run."

"Let the young colt have a scamper," said Dr. Carter; "it will do her good."

As Peggy danced along down the hillside, she thought how fortunate Diana was to have a father and an uncle and two brothers. She raced down the hill with Christopher while Tom and his uncle followed at their heels.

"There, I have beaten you, Christopher," said Peggy, breathlessly, as she sank down on a rock at the bottom of the hill.

"I could have beaten you if I had tried," said Christopher.

"Then why didn't you?"

"Well, I thought, as you were a girl and younger, I'd let you get a start, and I expected to pass you."

"Oh, dear, I am tired of being a girl. Just let's play I'm a boy. You can call me Peter."

"I don't want to play you are a boy. I like you better the way you are," Christopher said, as he glanced at her blue frock.

"Yes, Peggy," said Uncle Joe, "we all like you better the way you are."

"Well, I suppose I'll have to be a girl and make the best of it. But I do wish I had men and boys in my family."

"You might adopt us," said Uncle Joe. "I would like you and Alice for nieces. A lot of children I'm no relation to call me 'Uncle Joe,' and I'm sure the boys would like you and Alice for cousins."

"You bet we would," said Christopher.

So Peggy came back from the picnic a much richer little girl than she had been when she went to it. "Alice," she said, as she burst into the house, "Mr. Beal says we can call him 'Uncle Joe,' and we can play that Tom and Christopher are our cousins."

"I'd like to call him 'Uncle Joe,'" said Alice, "for he was so nice about Topsy, but I don't want the boys for my cousins."




Chapter XI

The Geography Game


The children's Uncle Joe was an architect. He was making some additions to Mrs. Horton's house, and so he came up every little while to see how the work was getting on; and later, he was given the new Savings Bank to build. He often came on from New York for a few days and stayed with the Carters. All the children were delighted when he came, for he was just as nice as a child to play with. In fact, he was nicer, for he knew so much more. He was a great traveler, for he had been a Lieutenant in the army and had been across seas. He had traveled, also, in the United States, and there was hardly a State he had not stayed in. The children were never tired of hearing his stories about places and people. He had, too, a delightful way of inventing games, making them up out of his own head.

One rainy October afternoon, Alice and Peggy were sitting in the living-room when the telephone rang. Alice had Lady Janet curled up in her arms, and Peggy was reading aloud from "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland." Peggy flung down her book and ran to the telephone.

"Oh, Peggy," said Diana's plaintive voice, "it is so wet I have had to stay in all day; can't you and Alice come and play with me?"

"I guess so," said Peggy, who was always ready to go anywhere; "I'll ask mother."

"Don't let's go out, it is so wet," said Alice, who was interested in the story.

"I'm going if mother'll let me," said Peggy.

Mrs. Owen had no objection, and, as Alice did not like to be left behind, she and Peggy put on their rubbers and raincoats.

Alice gave Lady Janet a parting hug. "You darling, I am going to see your mother," she said; "shall I give her your love? Peggy, she is licking my hand," said Alice.

The two children went out into the chilly October rain. Alice shivered, but Peggy was delighted to be out. She walked into every puddle she came to.

"You'll get your feet wet," said Alice.

"I'm just trying to see if it will go over my rubbers," said Peggy. "Oh, it did that time -- I didn't think it would."

"You've got your feet very wet," said Alice.

"I know I have, but I can dry my shoes and stockings at Diana's."

Diana was sitting before the fire in her room with a book. She jumped up and flung her arms about Alice, who was nearer her, and then about Peggy.

"Peggy has got her feet wet," said Alice anxiously. "She'll have to put on some of your stockings while hers are drying."

"I can't get into Diana's stockings," Peggy said, as she looked down at her feet. "I'll just sit in my bare feet until my shoes and stockings are dry."

"Uncle Joe and the boys may come in. I'll get you some of mother's," said Diana.

So Peggy was dressed in a pair of black silk stockings that were much too large for her, and a pair of bedroom slippers that were so big that she was afraid to walk for fear they would fall off. She liked the slippers very much, however, for they were such a pretty shade of blue, and they had black fur all around the edge.

It was early in the afternoon, so the children settled down for a long play. They were beginning to wish they could think of something else to do when Uncle Joe came in.

"How cozy you look," said he. "Can you give a poor working-man a seat by the fire?"

Peggy who was nearest the fire, sprang up, forgetting all about her slippers.

"I think I see a bird in borrowed plumage," said Uncle Joe. "Did you get your feet wet?"

"I walked into a mud-puddle on purpose, for the fun of it," said Peggy. "I wanted to see if it would go over my rubbers. I didn't think it would, but it did."

"Oh, Uncle Joe, can't we play the geography game?" said Diana. "Peggy has never played it."

"I don't like geography so very much," said Alice.

"It's just a game," said Diana. "We have to see who can say the forty-eight States quickest. We say them like the alphabet, those beginning with A first, and the one who gets the A's done first looks them up on the map, to see where they are. It's lots of fun."

"Diana likes it because she always beats Tom and Christopher," said her uncle.

"Let's begin," said Diana, "one, two, three."

But neither Peggy nor Alice could think of a single State beginning with A.

"There are three," said Diana. "You can look them up on the map and find them." She brought out an atlas and turned to a map of the United States.

Alice and Peggy pored over the map eagerly.

"I've found one," said Peggy, "it's Arizona."

"Here is Alabama," said Alice.

"Here, is another one, Arkansas," said Peggy. "Now for the B's."

"There aren't any B's," said Diana.

Tom and Christopher came in just then, and Peggy and Alice listened as the others played the game. Once in a while Peggy thought of a State beginning with the right letter, but, as a rule, she thought of the wrong States. Massachusetts would pop into her head when Uncle Joe was asking for I's, and South Carolina when he wanted the K's. It was quite discouraging, for the other children had played the game so much.

"This is only the first part of the game," said Diana. "Uncle Joe has had us each trace a map of the United States, and then we play we have to live in one of the States that begins with the same letter our first name begins with; then we put the tracing over white cardboard and cut out our State, and we can paint it any color we like. We are going to put in the rivers and big towns by and by. I can't live in any State but Delaware," she said regretfully.

"There is only Pennsylvania for me to live in," said Peggy.

"Alice can live in Arizona or Alabama or Arkansas," said Christopher.

"I don't want to live in any of them," said Alice gently, with her sweetest smile. "I want to live just where I do live."

"But New Hampshire doesn't begin with an A," said Peggy.

"I know it doesn't, but I don't want to live in any other State."

"But it's only a game," said Peggy. "Don't you want to play you live in nice Alabama where they have such warm winters, and there are such lots of cunning little black children?"

"No, I don't. I want to cut out a map of New Hampshire and paint it pink."

"But, Alice, you've got to play the game," said Peggy.

"I'm going to play my own kind of game and cut out a map of New Hampshire and paint it pink."

"If she doesn't care to live in Alabama or Arizona or Arkansas, we might let her live in a State beginning with the first letter of her last name," said Uncle Joe. "How do you feel about living in Ohio or Oklahoma or Oregon?"

"I don't want to live in any of those States. I want to live in New Hampshire and paint it pink."

"But you can't," Peggy insisted. "You've got to play the game."

Alice looked up beseechingly at Uncle Joe. She smiled and showed her dimples. "Dear Uncle Joe," she said sweetly, "can't you fix the game some way so I can live in New Hampshire and paint it pink?"

Uncle Joe looked thoughtful. A bright idea occurred to him. "Alice, what word do the three last letters of your last name spell if you begin at the end and spell backwards?"

"New," said Peggy, before Alice could speak.

"She can live in New Hampshire on that account," said Uncle Joe.

"That isn't fair," said Peggy. "I ought to be able to live in New Hampshire."

"You can if you like -- or in New York, or New Jersey, or New Mexico."

Peggy was dazzled by these opportunities for travel.

"It isn't a bit fair," said Christopher. "Poor Diana oughtn't to have to live in Delaware when Peggy and Alice have such a lot of States to choose from."

"It doesn't seem quite fair," Uncle Joe admitted. "I'll have to let Diana live in a State beginning with a C if she prefers."

"And I am C. C., so I don't have much choice," said Christopher.

"When I get my map of Delaware painted and fixed and I've lived there awhile, I'll come and live in Colorado with you, Christopher."

"I'm going to begin with Pennsylvania," said Peggy. "I'm going to play the game in the right way. But where can Uncle Joe live? In Jersey with the New left off?"

"As I'm uncle to half the children I know, I feel justified in taking up my residence in the State of Utah," he said.

"Mother," Diana called out, as Mrs. Carter passed the door, "do come in; you can live in any of eight States, beginning with an M -- Maine, Massachusetts -- "

"My mother can, too," Peggy interrupted. "Her name is Mary. What is your mother's name?"

"Her name is Mary, too."

The two little girls wondered at the coincidence.

"Tom can only live in Tennessee or Texas," said Diana.

"I'm going to live in Texas," said Tom. "Uncle Joe has been there. He said he saw a prairie fire once and it looked like the waves of the sea. And at the ranch where he was, the turkeys roosted in trees and the moon looked as big as a cart wheel."

The children were soon busy tracing their States and cutting them out. Alice found New Hampshire so hard to do that she was sorry she had not chosen Alabama, but she would not let anybody know this on any account. She painted New Hampshire a delicate shade of pink. Peggy painted Pennsylvania a blue that shaded in with her blue frock. Diana painted Delaware green, and Tom chose crimson for Texas, the color of the college he hoped to go to some day.

"I was going to paint Colorado crimson," said Christopher.

"You can't," said Tom. "I have chosen crimson."

"Can't I paint Colorado crimson, Uncle Joe?"

"If you like. I think I'll paint Utah orange, so as to have as much variety as possible on the map."

"That is a good idea," said Christopher; "I'll paint Colorado yellow."

Alice and Peggy were so interested in the game that they played it every morning when they first waked up, and they got so they could say the forty-eight States while they were putting on their shoes and stockings. It amused them to see which States their different friends could live in.

They felt there were very few children and still fewer grown people who ought to be told the game. It was like a secret society. Some people were so scornful they would think it silly, and they did not care enough about most people to let them into the secret. Mrs. Owen thought it a good game, but she was too busy to play it. Age did not seem to make any difference. Old Michael, for instance, took to it very kindly.

Peggy sat in the wheelbarrow one day while he was raking leaves and she explained the game to him.

"You are very lucky," she ended, "for you can live in so many States -- Maine, Massachusetts -- " she began; and she said over the whole eight, ending with Minnesota.

"I think I'll try Minnesoty for a change," said the old man. "I've a cousin who went out to St. Paul. Will you be my grandchild and come and keep house for me?"

"I'd love to, Mr. Farrell, but I have to live in Pennsylvania. I'm learning all about William Penn and Independence Hall in Philadelphia, and Betsy Ross, who made the first flag, so I can tell it to Uncle Joe when he comes back. And I have to read about New Hampshire to Alice, so I'm quite busy. Did you know it was called the Granite State, Mr. Farrell?"

"I have heard tell as much."

"Oh, Mr. Farrell," said Peggy hopping up, "do let me try to rake the leaves. They dance about as if they were at a party. What does Mrs. Farrell's name begin with -- can she go to Minnesota with you?"

"Her name is Hattie. I guess my old woman will have to stay right here in New Hampshire. It is hard to break up families that way. My old woman and I haven't been separated for forty-two years, come Christmas."

Miss Betsy Porter was another of Peggy's friends who was greatly interested in the game. Peggy often dropped in to see her and her cat. Miss Betsy Porter always had something very good and spicy to eat. This time it was spice cake. Peggy was on her way back from the village with some buttons and tape for her mother, so she could not stop long. Miss Porter thought it a grand game.

"Only, I am a woman without a country," she said. "There are no States beginning with B, and I can't even come in on Elizabeth."

"You can come in on your last name," said Peggy. "You can live in Pennsylvania with me."

"That is great. I went to Philadelphia once when I was a girl." And she told the eagerly listening Peggy all about the Quaker city with its straight streets and its old buildings.

"I am afraid if your mother is in a hurry for those buttons and that tape," said Miss Betsy, "you'd better be going home now, but some afternoon when you can stay longer I'll read you a book about some of the signers of the Declaration of Independence."

"What a lucky child I am to have my name begin with a P," Peggy said. "There can't be any other State as interesting as Pennsylvania."




Chapter XII

How Peggy Spent Her Money


As Peggy was going out of Miss Betsy's kitchen door, some hens straggled along the grass. Some were brown and some were white and some were yellow. Peggy thought they were all fat, prosperous-looking hens. She admired their red combs and their yellow legs.

"I wish we had some hens," she said to Miss Betsy. "Eggs cost such a lot we can't ever have any cake."

"I'd give you some fresh eggs to take back to your mother, only I am afraid you might slip and break them."

Peggy looked thoughtful. It would be nice to have the eggs, but it would be hard to have to walk home with the eggs on her mind.

"Mother, I wish we kept hens," she said as she ran into the kitchen. "Miss Betsy has such nice ones."

"How do you happen to know anything about Miss Betsy's hens?" her mother asked. "Is calling on Miss Betsy your idea of coming straight home from the village?"

"You didn't say to come straight home, truly, you didn't, mother. I thought you wouldn't mind my making a short call on her and the cat."

Mrs. Owen found it as hard to find fault with Peggy as it had been to find fault with Peggy's father.

"We've got a hen-house out in the yard," Peggy went on. "The people who lived here before us must have kept hens, so it must be a good climate for them."

"I have a few things to do besides taking care of hens," said Mrs. Owen firmly.

"I'd take all the care of them."

"I should as soon trust them to Lady Janet's care."

"But Alice could help me. She'd remind me to feed them."

"And, besides, hens cost a great deal," said Mrs. Owen. She had been thinking of the possibility of keeping hens.

"Do chickens cost a lot? Couldn't we begin with little chickens and let them grow into hens?"

"If we want eggs this winter we'd have to buy hens."

"Maybe people will give us a few hens," said Peggy hopefully. "Miss Betsy has a lot, and the Hortons' farmer has millions; and the Thorntons have some, and so has Michael Farrell."

"My dear little girl, people who are so fortunate as to have hens prize them more than if they had gold. You might as well expect me to give away my preserves and canned vegetables."

Peggy was never tired of looking at the rows of jars of preserves and vegetables, and the tumblers of jelly that her mother had put up. The greater part of them had been sent away, and there was enough money in the bank from their sale to buy winter coats and hats for both of the children, besides something toward then coal.

Peggy went into the pantry for another look at the shelves. There was a pint jar of the precious strawberry preserve and four pints of raspberries and a dozen pints of cherries from their own tree, and there were a great many jars of blueberries and blackberries, and there was currant jelly and grape jelly. Peggy liked the rich color of the strawberries and raspberries and cherries next the more somber blueberries and blackberries.

The shelf where the vegetables were was almost more delightful in color. The green peas and beans were next the red tomatoes, and beyond them were a few jars of pale yellow corn. They had turnips and carrots and beets stored in the cellar, ready for use.

The children felt very important, and as if their mother could not have had the garden without their help. As she believed in profit-sharing, she paid them for part of their work, while some they did just to help the garden along. At the end of the season they had each earned nearly two dollars. Their mother made it quite two dollars and told them they could spend the money exactly as they pleased, provided they did not get anything to eat with it, like candy.

"You can each get a toy if you like -- something that won't break too easily; or you can get something to wear, or something growing -- like a house plant."

As usual, Alice knew exactly what she wanted most. It was a doll carriage, and she and Peggy went down to the store and chose it.

Peggy did not care for any of the toys. "I want something that's alive," she said, "like a canary-bird, or one of Miss Betsy's hens. I think I'll buy a hen -- that will be most useful. If she laid an egg every day we could take turns in having a fresh egg."

"That would be great," said Alice.

Miss Betsy Porter was greatly interested in the children's plan. "Only, are you sure your mother will be willing to let you keep hens?" she asked prudently.

"Yes, we have a house for them, and she said we could get anything we liked. She had thought about keeping hens, only they are so expensive."

"I will sell you a Rhode Island Red," said Miss Betsy. "They lay well, and I will throw in a fine young cock. My neighbors are complaining because the young spring roosters are beginning to crow, and I was expecting to have to send them to the market. I'll let Michael Farrell take them up to your house this afternoon, if your mother will let you have them. You can stop at his house and send me word by him whether or not your mother wants them."

Peggy and Alice went out into the yard with Miss Betsy to choose a hen and a rooster.

"It is like a family," said Peggy, "having two of them. They won't be lonely. I shall call them Henry Cox and Henrietta Cox."

"Well, children, what did you buy with your two dollars?" Mrs. Owen asked when they came home that morning.

"I got a carriage for Belle," said Alice.

"And what did you get, Peggy?"

She hesitated -- "Something very useful," she said. "Guess, mother. It's something that will grow and something that is alive."

"A rose in a pot," said her mother.

Peggy laughed. "Oh, mother, you are 'way off. It has feathers."

"You haven't bought a canary-bird?" Mrs. Owen said in tones of dismay.

"No, mother, she is much more useful. It is a hen, and her name is Henrietta Cox, and Miss Betsy gave me a young cock because he crowed so he woke up the neighbors; and we haven't any near neighbors. And his name is Henry Cox."

"A hen and a cock! Peggy, what will you think of next!"

"You said I could get anything I liked, mother, and I am sure a hen is much more useful than a doll's carriage. I'll let you have one of her eggs every third morning for your breakfast."

"Did you ever stop to think how they were to be fed? Grain is so high now many people have stopped raising hens."

"Miss Betsy says the Rhode Island Reds aren't so particular as some hens. She says you can feed them partly with sour milk and scraps off the table."

"Sour milk!" said Mrs. Owen; "it's all very well for Miss Betsy to talk about sour milk, for her brother keeps a cow, and he sends her all the skim milk she can use. I am surprised she let you have a hen and cock without consulting me."

"She did say she would send them up this afternoon by old Michael if you would let me have them," faltered Peggy. "But, oh, mother dear, I do want them so much. It isn't as if I had spent my money on something foolish, like candy."

"No, that is true," said Mrs. Owen. After all, she had thought of keeping hens herself.

"I'll tell you what we'll do, Peggy," she said. "You can sell Henrietta's eggs to me, when she begins to lay, at whatever the market price is, and the money can go toward their food, and if there is any left you can have it to spend. That will be a good lesson in arithmetic for us."

So Peggy and Alice ran over to old Michael's house, where he was always to be found at his dinner-hour, to tell him the glad news.

Mrs. Farrell came to the door. She was a prosperous, comfortable looking person, with a plump, trig figure and smoothly arranged white hair. Peggy thought of telling her about the geography game, but there was something about her that made her hesitate. She was afraid Mrs. Farrell would think it a crazy game.

"Won't you come in, you little dears?" said Mrs. Farrell.

Alice looked pleased at being called a "little dear," but Peggy was all the more sure that Mrs. Farrell would not care for the geography game.

"I just wanted to see Mr. Farrell a minute," she said.

"He is at dinner. Can't you give me the message?"

"I don't think I could," said Peggy. "It is very important, and it is not easy to remember all of it. We'll not keep him a minute -- truly, we won't."

"I guess I can remember the message if you can."

"It is about a hen and a rooster that Miss Betsy Porter wants him to call for to send down to our house -- only mother wants our hen-house fixed first."

How bald it seemed put in this way! If only she could have seen old Michael himself, how differently she would have worded the message!

"It isn't very hard to remember that message, dearie," said Mrs. Farrell, in her cooing voice.

Peggy hated to have her call her "dearie." Half the pleasure in her purchase would be gone if she could not see old Michael. Suddenly, she had a bright idea. She ran around the side of the house to the kitchen window and waved her hand to old Michael.

It was one of the warm days in late autumn, and she was still wearing one of her blue frocks. Her hair was flying about and she pushed it back. Old Michael loved children, and he never hesitated to come at their call. He hastily shoved a large piece of apple pie into his mouth, and, seizing a piece of cheese, he came out of the kitchen door. They were out of hearing of Mrs. Farrell -- that unfortunate "Hattie," who was doomed always to live in New Hampshire, while her husband was free to travel into any State, beginning with M, where his imagination led him.

"Well, what is it now?" he asked.

"Oh, Mr. Farrell, the most wonderful thing has happened!" said Peggy; "I have bought such a lovely hen from Miss Betsy Porter, and she has given me a young rooster, and I am going to play they are people from the State of Rhode Island; and their names are Mr. Henry Cox and Mrs. Henrietta Cox -- only, of course, for most people, they are just a cock and hen -- just two Rhode Island Reds."

"I see," said old Michael. "But why are you telling me about it?"

"Miss Betsy said you could bring them to us this afternoon. She said you were working for her, but mother wanted the hen-house fixed up a little first. Can you do it to-morrow?"

"I see," said old Michael; "you want the apartment in the hotel made ready for Mr. and Mrs. Cox?"

"Oh, yes," Peggy said, laughing with delight; "I want everything done for the people who are renting my house."

"All right, Peggy, I'll look out for the comfort of your tenants."

"My tenants are not going to keep any maid, Mr. Farrell; I've got to give them most of their meals, although they will get some out, and I thought you'd advise me what food is cheapest and best."

They talked about the best food for Mr. and Mrs. Cox all the way to Peggy's house, where Mr. Farrell stopped to inspect the hen-house on his way to Miss Porter's.

"I always meant to keep hens sometime," Mrs. Owen confided to Mr. Farrell, "but I did not mean to begin this winter."

"If you have them at all, you might as well have a few more," he said; "it is a little like summer boarders -- the more you have, the more profit you get."

"I know," said Mrs. Owen, "but unfortunately, you have to begin by buying the hens."




Chapter XIII

Mrs. Owen's Surprise Party


Mrs. Owen was to have a birthday, and Peggy and Alice felt something especial ought to be done to celebrate it. It was Miss Pauline Thornton who put the idea of a surprise party into Peggy's head. She came over one rainy evening to tell Mrs. Owen about a surprise party the Sewing Circle was to give to the minister's wife on her fiftieth birthday. Miss Pauline Thornton lived with her father in the large gray stone house behind the stone wall on which Peggy was fond of walking. She was a great friend of Mrs. Owens, who could never understand why the children did not like her, for she was tall and good-looking and always wore beautiful clothes. Older people found her very agreeable and efficient. Mrs. Owen helped her off with her raincoat. Underneath it was a dress the color of violets.

If Miss Pauline had been the kind of person with whom one could play the geography game, Peggy thought what a good time they could have had living together in Pennsylvania. But as it was, she did not like to spend even a half-hour with her. Miss Pauline's big house seemed dreary to Peggy, with its high ceilings and stately furniture and pictures. When she went there to call with her mother, she always hoped that she might see the collie dog and Miss Pauline's father. She liked old Mr. Thornton. He had white hair and a kind face, and he looked as if he might like to play the geography game, if only his daughter was not there, but she always was there.

Mrs. Owen was reading aloud to the children when Miss Thornton came in.

"I didn't mean to interrupt; I thought the children were always in bed by this time," she said, glancing at the clock.

"It is their bedtime, but I was late in beginning to read to them to-night. You can finish the story to yourselves if you like."

"Aren't you going to shake hands with me, Peggy?" Miss Thornton asked.

Peggy slowly unlocked her arms, which she had folded behind her, and held out an unwilling hand.

"What is the story that is so interesting?" Miss Thornton asked, as she took the book out of Peggy's other hand.

"'Snow White and Rose Red,'" she said. "I never cared for fairy-tales when I was a child."

Peggy and Alice seated themselves in the same chair, with the book between them.

"You ought to come over nearer the light; you will strain your eyes," said Miss Thornton.

Mrs. Owen gave up her seat to the children and Miss Thornton began to talk about the surprise party.

Peggy soon found herself listening.

"It is to be in the afternoon -- like an afternoon tea," she said.

"Are all the parish to be there -- men as well as women?" asked Mrs. Owen.

"No, only the women. It is what Prissy Baker calls a 'hen-party.'"

Peggy could keep silent no longer. "Do you mean people are going to give her hens?" she asked.

"Hens? No; that is just an expression, Peggy; that means a party of ladies."

Peggy was silent. She might have known that they would not have thought of anything so interesting. The fact that they were to take the minister's wife ten five-dollar gold pieces, in a silk bag, was a poor substitute, indeed, for living, cackling, laying hens.

After the children went to bed, they could still hear Miss Pauline's voice going on and on.

"It's funny mother likes her so much," Peggy said. "If I ever grow up I shall have friends who like to do interesting things, and read fairy-stories, and talk on nice subjects, the way Miss Betsy Porter does. Oh, Alice," she said, shutting up her eyes and then opening them wide, "I am beginning to see things on the wall. Look and see what is coming."

Alice stared at the wall, in the darkness, but as usual, she could see nothing. "What do you see?" she asked.

"Hens!" Peggy exclaimed dramatically; "white ones, Rhode Island Reds, Plymouth Rocks, yellow ones -- all kinds, a regular procession; and I see ladies, too, in bright dresses. They are all going to a hen party."

"I wish I could see them," said Alice. "Do you really see them, Peggy?"

"Yes, in my mind's eye. It is such a nice picture, Alice," she cried, "let's have a surprise party of just hens for mother!"

"That would be great!" said Alice.

"We'd ask Mrs. Horton and Clara and Miss Rand."

"They wouldn't come all the way from New York."

"They might come. Sometimes they do come for a week-end, and her birthday comes on a Saturday. And we'll ask all the Carters, of course. Each family need only give one hen."

"And Miss Pauline Thornton," said Alice. "They have lots of hens."

"No," said Peggy firmly; "I'm not going to ask her. She'd spoil the party."

"She had on a lovely gown," said Alice, "and she's one of mother's best friends."

Peggy went to consult Miss Betsy Porter about the party, and Miss Betsy thought it a fine idea. She said that Peggy and Alice could bring their note-paper, with colored pictures on it, down to her house, and write the notes, and she would enclose them in a note she would write each person, so they would know there was some responsible person to help about the surprise party, and that it was not merely an idea of the children's. She said she would bring a loaf of her best spice cake and some cookies and sandwiches, and she knew that Mrs. Carter would be delighted to make and pour the tea, and Miss Thornton would pour the chocolate.

"But I don't want Miss Pauline," said Peggy. "She would spoil the party."

"But she is one of your mother's best friends. Whose birthday is it, Peggy? Yours or your mother's?"

"Mother's," said Peggy, hanging her head.

"Pauline is a good sort," said Miss Betsy. "There is no use in disliking good people, Peggy. I think it had better be a small party, for your mother would not want the care of many hens, and, besides, small parties are the most fun. We'll ask all of the Carters -- that will make five."

"Six with Uncle Joe -- I know he'll come on 'specially for it, if I ask him," said Peggy. "He needn't bring a hen, because he belongs to the family. There's to be just one hen for every family."

"Then, if Mrs. Horton and Miss Rand and Clara should come on," said Miss Porter, "that would make nine, I would make ten, and Miss Pauline eleven."

"If I've got to have Miss Pauline," said Peggy, with a sigh, "I'm going to have the dog and her father."

"All right," said Miss Betsy, "that will make one hen for the Carters, one for the Hortons, -- for I'm sure they will give a hen, even if they can't come themselves, -- one for the Thorntons, and one for me."

"Not one for you," said Peggy. "You have given me Mr. Henry Cox already."

"I would not be left out on any account," said Miss Betsy. "Six hens would be as many as your mother would want, as she isn't planning to run a poultry farm. I am sure Mrs. Horton would like to give a pair -- she has so many. I'll suggest they send Rhode Island Reds -- it is better to have all of a kind."

"I think it would be more fun to have them different," said Peggy.

"They get along better if they are all of a kind," said Miss Betsy. "I have too many kinds, but I can give you another Rhode Island Red. It is like the Jews and the Italians -- they are happier in a quarter by themselves."

"It will be a Rhode Island Red Quarter," said Peggy, in delight. "I can name one Mrs. Rhoda Rhodes."

"I know some people who are named Henn," said Miss Betsy.

Peggy looked doubtful. "It may be all right for people," she said, "but I don't like it for hens. I think Henderson sounds nicer."

She and Alice sat down to write the notes. Miss Betsy made no suggestions, but they were glad to ask her about the spelling. Peggy wrote the notes to the Carters and Hortons, and Alice wrote the one to Miss Thornton.

Dear Mrs. Carter, Peggy wrote -- 

Mother is to have a birthday a week from next Saturday, and we are going to celebrate it by giving her a surprise party consisting of hens, -- each family to bring one hen, -- Rhode Island Reds preferred, -- as we have Mr. Henry Cox and Mrs. Henrietta Cox already. Please ask Uncle Joe to come. He need not bring a separate hen, but can join in with you. Old Michael Parrell has them for sale.

Your loving friend PEGGY

This invitation is for you all, -- Dr. Carter, if he is not too busy, -- Tom, Christopher, and Diana.

"You haven't given the hour, or asked her to pour tea," Miss Betsy said, as she read the note through.

"Oh, bother! so I haven't. I'll put in a postscript:"

The party will begin at four o'clock. We'd like it if you would pour tea.

Alice's note was as follows:

Dear Miss Pauline,

We are going to have a surprise party for mother a week from next Saturday, at four o'clock. Will you please wear your pretty violet gown and pour chocolate and bring a hen. Please bring your father and Bruno.

Your loving little friend ALICE OWEN

When Saturday came there was great excitement at the Owens' house. The children dressed Lady Janet up with a blue ribbon, which Peggy with difficulty tied in a bow around her resisting neck. They gave their mother the little presents they had for her at breakfast-time. It seemed strange she was so unsuspicious.

After the dinner dishes were done, she said she thought she would go down to see Miss Thornton for a little while, and she invited the children to go with her.

"We don't want to go," said Peggy.

"I think you ought to change your gown, mother, and put on your pretty black, one, with the thin sleeves," said Alice.

"My dear child, why should I put on my best gown just to call on a friend?"

"Because it is your birthday," said Peggy. "We are going to dress up, too. One never knows what may happen on a birthday. Somebody might call."

If Mrs. Owen began to suspect that something unusual was to happen, she showed no sign of it, but she obediently went up and put on her black gown, with the thin sleeves, while Peggy and Alice dressed up in their best white frocks. Peggy wore a blue sash and Alice a pink one.

"It will be great to get mother out of the house," said Peggy. "I'll telephone to Miss Pauline that she is coming, so she can slip out before she gets there, and Mr. Thornton can keep mother until four o'clock, and then he and Bruno can walk back with her."

"That will be great," said Alice.

Mrs. Owen was disappointed not to find Pauline at home, and she was going to call on Mrs. Carter when Mr. Thornton invited her in with such a courtly bow that she could not refuse. She noticed that he gave an uneasy glance at the clock, from time to time.

"I am afraid I am keeping you from some engagement," she said at last.

"I was going out for a walk with Bruno at four," said he. "We will walk home with you if you will let us."

"I shall be delighted, and so will the children."

There was no one in sight when she opened the front door, but there was a suspicious noise from the dining-room. People seemed to be walking about and setting the table.

"I think I am going to have a surprise party," said Mrs. Owen. "Won't you stay for it?"

"That is just what I mean to do," said Mr. Thornton. "Bruno and I had an especial invitation."

The dining-room door opened, and who should come into the parlor but Mrs. Owen's dear friend Mrs. Horton, who she thought was miles away.

"Hester!" she cried, in delight. And the two ladies kissed each other, just as heartily as if they had been little girls.

"Why, Clara, how do you do? Here are more surprises," she said.

Clara gave a stiff little curtsey and held up her cheek primly to be kissed.

"And Miss Rand, too; this is great! Oh, and Mr. Beal! I did not see you at first. What a delightful party this is!" and she greeted Mrs. Carter and her children, as they came out of the dining-room.

"The doctor had to go out of town to see a patient," said Mrs. Carter, "but he hopes to get here before we go."

Then the door from the kitchen opened, and Miss Betsy Porter came into the dining-room with the chocolate urn, and Miss Pauline followed with plates of cake.

It was a delightful party. Everybody enjoyed it. The only trouble was that Uncle Joe found so much to say to Miss Pauline that Peggy did not see as much of him as she would have liked. If he had to talk to a grown-up young lady, she did not see why he did not talk to Miss Rand -- she was so much nicer.

Mrs. Owen had no idea there was anything more in the way of a surprise. She drank her cup of tea and talked to Mrs. Horton and Mrs. Carter with pleasure that seemed to shine out from her face.

"Would you take me out to the hen-house, to see your cock and hen, Mrs. Owen?" Mr. Thornton asked, a little later. "I have heard so much about Peggy's new family, I'd like to see them."

"Certainly," said Mrs. Owen, a little surprised; "they are not much to look at, just a pair of Rhode Island Reds."

She was surprised to find all of her guests following them, but she had no suspicions. They went out of the front door, and walked around through the side yard to the back of the house. What was Mrs. Owen's surprise to see a sign on the hen-house, painted in red letters, outlined in white:

Hotel Hennery

she read. "Why, how amazing!" she said.

"It's Mr. Farrell's present to you, mother," Peggy said. "He has been working at home, painting that board, and he put it up while you were at Mr. Thornton's. Isn't it a nice sign?"

As Mrs. Owen came near the hen-house, she stood still, in amazement. It seemed as if something was the matter with her eyes, and she was seeing double. For there, walking about the netted-in hen-yard, with an air of being completely at home, were not only Henry and Henrietta Cox, but two others, closely resembling Henrietta.

"They are Henrietta's cousins," Peggy explained, "the Henderson sisters, Charity and Hope, and Faith is inside the house." Sure enough, there was Faith and another lady from Rhode Island whom Peggy introduced to her mother as Biddy Henshaw. But who was the seventh feathered person walking out of the door? Peggy counted again -- yes, there were the three Hendersons and Biddy Henshaw -- that made four; and Rhoda Rhodes, and her own dear Henrietta, and Henry Cox -- six hens and a cock -- there were surely seven hens. Where did the seventh come from? She counted them over and over again. There were seven. Who had brought the seventh? She asked everybody. No one knew. Suddenly, she knew as well as if she had been told. It must have been old Michael. He had brought it as a surprise when he came with the sign. And the hen's name flashed into her mind.

"Mother," she said, "this is Angelica Seraphina Hen-Farrell."

"What a silly name!" said Clara.

"I'm tired of giving them sensible names," said Peggy.

And so the surprise party turned into a surprise for Peggy herself. Peggy had asked old Michael to come to the surprise party, but he had refused.

"I haven't the right clothes to wear," he said.

"It doesn't matter about the clothes," said Peggy. "It is the person inside them."

Old Michael was so curious to see how Peggy took the surprise of the seventh hen that he strolled around to see. He had on his working clothes, but his face and hands had been well scrubbed after the day's work was over. He waited until the grown-up people turned to go back into the house, and then came forward where Peggy could see him. Alice, followed by the other children, was going toward the house.

"Well, Peggy, was it a good surprise party?" he asked.

"It was great, and I got surprised myself! How nice of you to give mother Angelica Seraphina Hen-Farrell! That is her name, isn't it?"

"Certainly," said Mr. Farrell. "How did you happen to know it?"

"It just popped into my head," said Peggy. "I shut up my eyes, and I just seemed to know she was Angelica Seraphina Hen-Farrell."

"She is called 'Angel' for short," he said.

"Angel? What a nice name! I'm so glad we have seven hens. Don't you like odd numbers best, Mr. Farrell? I think they are much more interesting."

"They say there is luck in odd numbers," he said.

"Alice likes even numbers best," said Peggy.

"Yes, she would; she's a kind of even-dispositioned young one."

"Yes, Alice is a darling," said Peggy.

"There are other darlings round here," he said.

"Yes, seven of them: Hope, Faith, and Charity Henderson; Biddy Henshaw, Rhoda Rhodes, Angel Hen-Farrell, and my own dear Henrietta Cox. Oh, there are eight -- I forgot Mr. Henry Cox. He's the greatest darling of them all."




Chapter XIV

A Christmas Egg


Carols are what one thinks of at Christmas, and eggs seem to belong to Easter, but this was an especial egg that was very dear to Peggy because it was one of the first. Peggy and Alice had hunted with such anxious care, every morning in Hotel Hennery, to see if they could find any eggs, and each morning they were disappointed; for all the hens were moulting.

"It does seem as if they needn't all moult at the same time," said Peggy. "I do hope somebody will begin to lay before Thanksgiving, so we can have a Thanksgiving egg. Henrietta, don't you think you could give me just one egg for Thanksgiving?"

Whatever Henrietta's thoughts were, she kept them to herself, and not one hen produced an egg in time for Thanksgiving.

Mrs. Owen, with Peggy and Alice, dined with the Carters. Mrs. Carter wrote saying what pleasure it would give them all if they could come, and she added there would be no other guests except her husband's Aunt Betsy and her brother Joe. She hoped it would not be too hard for Mrs. Owen to have a Thanksgiving dinner in her own old house; if she did not feel like it, she would understand.

Dear Mrs. Carter Mrs. Owen replied -- 

It would be much harder to stay at home than to go to you. The greatest cause I have for Thanksgiving this year is the fact that you are my friend, and that Diana is the friend of my children. Since we had to leave the house, I am glad it is you who are living in it.

Faithfully yours MARY OWEN

So the children had a happy Thanksgiving, even without the Thanksgiving egg. And still Peggy and Alice looked eagerly for eggs and could not find even one. Autumn had changed to winter, and still the hens were moulting, and there were no eggs. The vegetable garden, at the back of the house, was now turned into a fairy country, for the brown earth was covered with a snowy quilt, and every twig on the trees and shrubs was encased in diamonds. The snow came suddenly -- one night, when the children went to bed, the ground had been bare, and in the morning the world seemed all made over new. But still the dwellers in Hotel Hennery showed no signs of laying eggs.

And then one morning, a few days before Christmas, just as the children had given up hope, Peggy found an egg. It was a thrilling moment; and Angel Hen-Farrell was so proud to be the first of the hens to lay an egg that she would not stop talking about it. What she said sounded to Alice like "Cut-cut-cad-ar-cut, cadarcut, cadarcut," but Peggy said she was talking a foreign language.

"I can translate it for you, Alice," she said; "it is the Rhode Island Red language."

"What is she saying?"

"She is saying: 'Come and look at my first egg of the season. It is very beautiful. The shell is of the palest brown, like coffee ice-cream. It is very beautiful. Look at it, all ye hens who have laid nothing. It is very beautiful -- of palest brown, like coffee ice-cream.'"

Diana had one of her ill turns, just before Christmas; and the poor little girl had to spend Christmas in bed. She was much better when the day came, but her father said she must not get up, but that she could see Peggy and Alice for a little while in the afternoon.

The children had hung their stockings up the night before, and they had been surprised and delighted with their presents. Peggy wanted to take them up to show to Diana.

"But there are such a lot of them," Alice protested, "and some of them are so big."

"We can wear up the furs and stocking-caps and mittens," said Peggy, "and we can put the other things in a basket and carry them up on our new sled. She'd love to see her namesake."

"I'm not going to take Diana out in such slippery walking," said Alice, "she might get a fall and break her head."

"As you please," said Peggy; "but I know if I liked a person well enough to name a child after her, I'd take her up the first minute, slippery or not."

"You might," said Alice, "but I'm not going to. She is my child, and she's very breakable."

"Well, anyway, I am going to take Diana a Christmas egg, breakable or not."

"It isn't your egg; it's mother's," Alice reminded her; for Henrietta had not begun to lay.

"I'm sure mother will let me have an egg to give to Diana, won't you, mother?"

"Certainly," said Mrs. Owen; "I should never have had any of my Rhode Island friends if it had not been for Peggy."

"I think I'll write a verse to go with the egg," said Peggy.

Alice admired the way in which Peggy could write verses. Peggy had only to take a pencil in hand, and a verse seemed to come out on the paper. "I think the verses live inside the pencil," Peggy once said. She liked a blue pencil best. It seemed to have more interesting verses living inside it than a black one.

"I'd like to see if I can do it," Alice said.

"All right," and Peggy handed the pencil over. "Don't hold it so tight; hold it loosely, like this."

But the pencil would write nothing for Alice, no matter how she held it. And Peggy had only held it a few minutes before she wrote a verse. She sat with her eyes tight shut, for she said she could think better. And presently Peggy and the pencil wrote a Christmas verse. She liked it so well she copied it on a sheet of her best Christmas note-paper. At the head of the sheet was the picture of a window with a lighted candle and a Christmas wreath; and there were a boy and a girl outside, singing Christmas carols. This was the verse that Peggy and the pencil wrote.

"I'd like to send a Christmas carol, To please and cheer my dear Diana: But here's an egg Angel Hen-Farrell Has laid in her best Christmas manner."

Mrs. Owen packed the egg carefully with cotton wool in a small box. She folded the paper with the verse on it and put that on top. She tied the box up with some Christmas ribbon that had come around one of Peggy's presents. The ribbon had holly leaves with red berries on it. She slipped a tiny Santa Claus card under the ribbon. On the card Peggy wrote, "Diana, from a friend who lives in Hotel Hennery."

Peggy put the box in a bag, and some other presents for Diana, from Mrs. Owen and Alice and herself; and they put in a few of their presents and cards to show her. It was very slippery. Their mother went with them as far as the Thorntons' and she carried the bag. Then Peggy carried it, for a time, and then Alice. Peggy fell down once. She landed on the back of her head, but she held the bag out in front of her so the egg should not get broken.

Diana was delighted to see them. She was in bed, in a pretty brown woolen dressing-gown, that was just the shade of her hair and eyes. The bed was covered with books and games, and there were two dolls leaning against the footboard, and one in Diana's arms. She was a pretty doll, with yellow hair, almost the color of Peggy's hair, and eyes that opened and shut.

"See, she shuts her eyes tight, just as you do, Peggy, when you are thinking hard," said Diana. "She looks quite a lot like you."

"Her eyes are blue and mine are gray," said Peggy. "I wonder why they never make dolls with gray eyes."

"She is named for you," Diana announced. "Tom and Christopher gave her to me, and she came with her name written on a Christmas card that was pinned to her dress, 'Peggy Owen Carter,' and Tom wrote a poem that came with her."

Diana hunted through the box which held her Christmas cards and letters, and finally found the verses, which she read aloud.

"Closed in her room, in her white bed, Poor little suffering martyr, While others skate or coast with sled, There lies Diana Carter.

"But she's so joyous in her mind, She makes our Christmas merry. She's quite adorably kind, With lips like a red berry.

"A holly berry, bright and gay, Some children may be smarter, But there's no child on Christmas Day Sweeter than dear Di Carter.

"So, while in her white bed she lies, Poor little Christmas martyr, We give her as a glad surprise, Miss Peggy Owen Carter.

"Her eyes are blue, her hair is gold, She surely is a charmer. We rescued her, like knights of old, And vowed that naught should harm her.

"For she was living in a shop, In a glass case, this treasure, Where she could neither run nor hop, With weary months of leisure.

"So Peggy Owen Carter comes, With joyous Christmas greeting, A carol gay, she softly hums, Joy's long, if time is fleeting."

"What a nice poem," said Peggy, with a sigh of envy.

"Yes, isn't it?" said Diana.

"I wish I could write poetry like that," said Peggy. "I just wrote one verse. It's in my present to you."

"Oh, have you brought me a present?" Diana said, in delight.

"Yes, mother and Alice and I have each given you one, and there is this one from Angel Hen-Farrell."

"An egg!" Diana cried. "Father said I could have an egg for my supper. I'll have it dropped on toast. I couldn't have any of the Christmas dinner, except the oyster soup."

"Oh, you poor darling!" said Peggy.

"It was very good soup," said Diana, "and I was so happy to have Peggy Owen Carter and the rest of my presents; and the carols, last night, were so lovely!"

"Carols last night?" the children cried. "We didn't hear any."

"The Christmas Waits came and sang under my window. I could see them from my bed. The leader carried a torch so the others could see to read their books. He had on a red cloak. And they sang such beautiful carols!"

"Oh, why didn't they come out and sing to us?" said Alice.

"You are pretty far out of town. I think they only sang to sick people and old people. They went up to the hospital, and they asked father for a list of his patients who were not too sick to be disturbed by the singing."

"Well, anyway, I'd rather have been well than to have heard the carols," said Peggy. "You poor dear, I can't get over your being in bed on Christmas Day."

But Diana's eyes were shining. "I shouldn't have had Tom's poem if I had been well," she said, "or the Christmas egg. Even if one is sick, Christmas is the happiest time in all the year."




Chapter XV

The Great Storm


That was a winter of great storms. They began in November, and the snow piled up higher and higher, so that when one went down to the shops, one walked between walls of snow. The oldest inhabitant remembered nothing like it.

"It seems like going up mountains," Peggy said to Alice, one day when they came to a house where the sidewalk had not been shoveled out.

It was a wonderful winter for children, for such coasting and tobogganing had never been known. It was not such a good winter for creatures who wore fur and feathers. Lady Janet, who had never known any other winter and did not realize that the oldest inhabitant had not known one like it, would return from an encounter with the snowflakes in dazed wonder and take her seat on a chair in front of the kitchen stove, or she would patiently watch by a mouse-hole for hours together.

The inhabitants of Hotel Hennery took life placidly, although they were confined to the hotel. But, having nothing more interesting to do, they turned their attention to laying eggs; after January set in, they all began to lay, so that Mrs. Owen and the children each had a fresh egg for breakfast most of the time.

The snow-storms grew more and more frequent as the winter passed, and the snow was deeper and deeper. It was all great fun for Alice and Peggy. They never tired of the coasting and the walk to and from school. It was hard for Diana, however, for in stormy or very cold weather she had to stay in the house. She was so much better after the summer that, in the autumn, she began to go to school. Diana was in the same room with Peggy, in the class below her. She had to be out of school almost half the time.

"I wouldn't mind being out of school," said Alice. "Think of having no lessons to get and staying in that lovely room with a wood fire on the hearth, and everybody coming to see you."

"You wouldn't like it a bit if you didn't feel well," said Peggy. "Think of not being able to go coasting."

The children went to see Diana almost every day, and there did not seem to be any room quite so pleasant as Diana's room, with the fire on the hearth and the blooming flowers.

Diana was often well enough to be downstairs in the parlor, and this was a pleasant room, too. It seemed strange to the children to think it was their own old parlor, for it was so differently arranged. There was a large piano at which Diana practiced when she was well enough. It took up the side of the room where their mother's writing-desk had been. Their piano was an upright one, and it had been on the opposite side of the room. Small as it was, it almost filled up one side of their tiny parlor now. It had been used very little since it had gone to its new surroundings, for there was no longer any money for music-lessons, and Mrs. Owen had been too busy to touch it; besides, she had never played a great deal, except the accompaniments for her husband's singing. So the piano was resting. But Mrs. Owen had determined that, just as soon as she had got ahead a little, the children should have their music-lessons again.

Alice's birthday came in February, and when her mother asked her what she would like best, in the way of a celebration, she did not hesitate a minute.

"I should like to have Diana come the night before and spend the whole day."

"Don't you want any one else?"

"No one else," said Alice, "except you and Peggy, of course. I never have played dolls all I wanted to, because Peggy doesn't like to play, and so, on my birthday, I'd like to have just a feast of dolls, from morning until night."

"But there will be your school," said her mother. "I couldn't let you skip that."

"Couldn't you? I thought perhaps you could."

"No, I couldn't. I think it would be better if Diana came to dinner and for the afternoon."

"No," said Alice, "the night is the best part. Peggy can sleep in the spare room, and we can have our dolls sleep with us, and the next day, Diana can rest while I go to school."

It seemed a pretty good plan -- Alice's plans were usually reasonable. The only doubt was, whether Diana would be well enough to make the little visit. But she was well enough, and her father drove her down in his sleigh, all bundled up in many wraps. Diana had on a brown cap made of beaver fur that almost matched her golden-brown hair. And over this, to make sure she did not take cold, was a thick, brown veil. Wrapped around her shoulders and pinned with a large gilt pin, in the shape of a feather, was a warm, green-and-blue plaid shawl. Under this was her own brown coat, and under that, a blue sweater. Peggy undid her wraps and pulled off her blue mittens.

They had a fire in the parlor because Diana was coming, and they gave Diana the small company chair that their grandmother used to sit in when she was a little girl.

While Peggy was busy getting Diana out of her wraps, Alice was taking off the wraps of her namesake Alice, and those of Peggy Owen Carter, for Diana had been asked to bring these two with her. The dolls were wrapped up in the same way their little mother was, only they wore hoods instead of fur caps, and they did not have sweaters under their coats. But they were carefully wrapped up in Turkish towels, instead of shawls.

"I hope my children have not taken cold," said Diana. "Peggy is rather delicate."

"I won't have a delicate namesake," said Peggy. "She can't be delicate if she is named for me."

No sooner had Peggy said it than she noticed a shadow on Diana's bright face, and she remembered that Diana was delicate. One never thought of her as an invalid, for she was always so cheerful.

"I think it is nice for people to be delicate," Peggy hastened to add, "but not for dolls. If a doll is delicate, she might get broken."

"Our dolls are people," Alice said, "aren't they, Diana?"

"Certainly," said Diana. "They are just as much people as the Rhode Island Reds are."

"Indeed, they are not," said Peggy. "My darling Rhode Island Reds are alive."

"Your Rhode Island Reds could be killed and eaten," said Alice. "Nobody would eat a doll any more than they would a person. And they look like people, and the Rhode Island Reds don't."

It was hard for Peggy to have Alice and Diana sleep together without wanting her. It was the first time in her life that she had not slept with Alice the night before her birthday. In fact, the only times she could remember their being separated at night was when Alice had the measles, and one other time, when she herself had gone for a short visit to her grandmother with her father. And the worst of it was, there was plenty of room for three in the wide bed, if it were not for the room those ridiculous dolls took up. Diana was her intimate friend just as much as she was Alice's. Indeed, even more, because they liked to read the same books and to write stories. Diana was nearer her age than Alice's; and yet, Alice liked to have these stupid dolls sleep with her better than her own flesh-and-blood sister!

Mrs. Owen noticed that Peggy looked very sober at supper time, and, while she was helping with the dishes, she said, "What is my little girl looking unhappy about?"

"Do I look unhappy, mother?"

"Yes, what is the trouble?"

Then Peggy told her the whole story.

"Now, Peggy, let's sit right down and see what we can do about it," said Mrs. Owen. "You are jealous because Alice wants Diana all to herself. It is very natural, but it is not a nice feeling."

"I am not jealous of Diana," said Peggy; "but I just can't stand having Alice like to play with dolls better than to play with me. I could tell them fairy-stories, and see things on the wall."

"But that is no treat for Alice. You can do that any night. What she wants is somebody who likes to play dolls just as much as she does. It is Alice's birthday we are celebrating, not yours. When your birthday comes, you can have Diana all to yourself, if you like, for the night."

"But I'd always rather have Alice, too -- always, always," said Peggy.

"But if you were fond of dolls, and Alice had been saying impolite things about them, you might find it pleasanter to have Diana all to yourself. I suspect you have been saying some not very kind things about Alice's family."

"I said Belle looked as if she had smallpox," Peggy owned, "and so she does. I said Sally Waters's feet were so small she could put them in her mouth."

"Do you think those remarks were very kind?"

Peggy looked thoughtful. "Perhaps not exactly kind," she said.

"Now, Peggy, I am going to let you sleep with me to-night," said Mrs. Owen.

"Truly mother," said Peggy, with a radiant face.

"And now we will think out just how we can make Alice and Diana have a good time to-morrow," Mrs. Owen went on. "Suppose, while I am making cookies and biscuit for the flesh-and-blood members of the family, you make small ones for the dolls? I am sure that will delight the little mothers. To tell the truth, Peggy, I didn't like dolls a bit better than you do when I was a little girl. I liked playing around with my brother William and your father a great deal better."

Peggy felt a little happier when Diana said, in a disappointed tone, "Isn't Peggy going to sleep with us?"

"No," said Alice; "the dolls are going to sleep with us. Peggy doesn't care about dolls. I am going to have a real feast of dolls, for once in my life."

"And I am going to sleep with mother," said Peggy proudly.

"You are not!" said Alice, thinking Peggy was joking.

Peggy could hear the children's voices going on and on in the other room, as she lay in bed. It made her feel lonely. Her mother always sat up late, so she would not come to bed for a long time. She tried to amuse herself by seeing things on the wall, but this was no fun without Alice. The voices in the other room went on and on until Peggy grew drowsy, and at last, fell asleep.

She was waked up by the slamming of a blind. The wind had risen, and she felt the cold air blowing in at her window. She looked at the face of the illuminated clock, which stood at the side of her mother's bed, on a small table. The hands pointed to ten minutes past ten. Her mother would soon come upstairs. The wind was so cold she got up to shut the window, and her bare feet walked into a snowdrift. Yes, there was really quite a little mound of snow on the floor, for it had begun snowing fast just before supper. She stopped to brush it up, and then took the electric candle and went into the other room to see if there was any snow coming in there. But there was not, for the windows were not on the same side of the house. She could see by the light of her candle that the bed was, indeed, too full to have left any place for her. On the outer side of the white pillow lay Belle, her staring brown eyes wide open; and next her was Sally Waters, peacefully sleeping; and beyond her, the doll that was Diana's namesake. Then came Alice herself, fast asleep, her long, dark lashes against her cheek, and a happy look on her face. Beyond her lay Peggy Owen Carter, also asleep; and next to Alice's namesake, and on the inner side of the bed and beyond her, lay Diana herself, fast asleep, with slightly parted lips.

"Well," said Peggy, "I never saw anything like that before. She has dolls on both sides of her. I guess she has a feast of dolls, for once in her life."

Peggy hurried back to bed, for her feet were icy cold. She was still awake when her mother came upstairs.

"Mother, what do you think? I walked into a snowdrift," said Peggy.

"What do you mean?" said her mother.

So Peggy told her all about it.

"You ought to have called me," said Mrs. Owen.

"But it was such fun sweeping it up and throwing it out of the window. We can't throw dust out of the window."

When Peggy waked in the morning, the air was thick with snowflakes, and everything was heaped and piled high with snow. It seemed as if it would be impossible to get out to feed the hens, for not only was it very deep, but it was drifting with the wind.

"It is a real blizzard," said Mrs. Owen. "It is the worst storm we have had yet."

"Oh, there is no going to school to-day, mother," Alice said, dancing about the room in glee.

It was not often that Alice danced. She was a quiet child. Peggy caught Alice by the waist, and they both danced together, and then they each took one of Diana's hands and they all three danced in a strange dance that they made up as they went along. It was full of bobbing curtsies and racing and scampering about the room. They ended by coming up to Mrs. Owen and making more curtsies, just the number that Alice was years old.

"Madam, it is your daughter's birthday," said Peggy. "Madam, the Frost King has decided to celebrate it by his best blizzard. He has planned it so we can't go to school, and so Diana can make us a longer visit. All hail to the Frost King!"

"I wish the Frost King had planned it so we could get our milk this morning," said Mrs. Owen; "he didn't tell me he was planning the blizzard, and now I haven't a bit of milk in the house."

"The Frost King says the water is all right for drinking," said Peggy. "He says it is so cold it doesn't have to be put on ice."

The children had a merry time eating their breakfast, although even Peggy's fertile imagination could think of no way by which the Frost King could make oatmeal taste well without milk.

Suddenly Mrs. Owen had a bright idea. "We can have maple syrup on our oatmeal," she said.

This was, indeed, a treat, and so were the eggs the Rhode Island family had laid, and there was delicious toast and butter, and oranges, as an especial birthday treat.

"I am afraid old Michael won't be able to come and shovel us out, on account of his rheumatism," said Mrs. Owen.

Peggy and Alice put on their raincoats and rubber boots and stocking caps, and they took their snow-shovels and tried to make a path to the hen-house. Diana watched them, with her face close to the kitchen window. Peggy stopped to wave to Diana, and lost her footing, tumbling down into the snow. She got up, shaking herself and laughing heartily. Diana watched the children as their eyes grew brighter and their cheeks redder and redder with their exercise. The snow powdered them over with flakes from head to foot. It was impossible to make a good path, for the wind kept blowing the snow back, but they made enough headway so they could get out to Hotel Hennery. They came back to the house for food for its hungry inhabitants. There were others to be fed -- blue jays, chickadees, sparrows, and crows; and then a flock of pheasants. And there was Lady Janet. She could not understand why there was no milk in her saucer and looked at them with beseeching eyes.

As the long morning passed, and Peggy and Mrs. Owen were busy in the kitchen, making the large biscuits and cookies, and the small ones, even Alice had begun to get tired of playing with dolls.

"Can't we come out in the kitchen and help you?" she asked.

"No, I don't need your help."

"Can't Peggy come in and play games with us?"

"No, Peggy is helping me."

"I am very busy," said Peggy. "You can play games by yourselves."

Then Alice realized how flat every game seemed without Peggy. It was all right so long as they were playing dolls, but one could not play dolls all day. The geography game would be a pleasant change. Alice proposed having an afternoon tea for the dolls, and Diana agreed, although it did not seem quite a suitable hour for it in the middle of the morning.

"I wish mother would let us go out into the kitchen and help her," Alice said.

They had had too much play, and this was the truth. A little real work would have been interesting.

"I guess they are making some kind of a surprise for your birthday dinner," said Diana.

And when dinner came, and they saw the big biscuits and the little ones, and large cookies with caraway seeds in them, and the small ones, they were perfectly delighted.

The dolls were all allowed to come to the table with them, and, as there were four people and five dolls, each doll was well looked after. Alice had two on one side of her and one on the other. It was a merry meal; Peggy, having made up her mind to play dolls, did it thoroughly. She answered for the dolls in a different voice for each. Her namesake, Peggy Owen Carter, who sat beside her, ate so much her little mother had to reprove her.

"My dear child, you mustn't be so greedy," said Diana. "I should think you had never tasted lamb stew before."

"I haven't," said Peggy Owen Carter, in a shrill, high-pitched voice that made the children laugh. "We only have such things as legs of lamb and roast beef and turkey and broiled chickens at our house."

"Oh, please, can't we help to do the dishes?" Diana asked, when the lively meal was over.

"Yes, you and Alice can do the dishes inside while Peggy helps me in the kitchen with the pots and pans."

"Can't Peggy help us?" Alice asked.

She had learned the value of Peggy. Everything was so much more exciting when she was around.

"You can begin by yourselves, and I'll be through with her pretty soon," said Mrs. Owen.

It kept on snowing fast all day, and, toward the end of the afternoon, Diana began to wonder how she was to get home. Mrs. Owen went to the telephone to call up the Carters, but could not make it work. She tried again and again. The line was out of order. This had happened once before that winter in another snowstorm. Diana began to look a little sober. She was not exactly homesick, but the thought of home with her father and mother and her two brothers seemed very pleasant. It seemed forlorn not to be able to reach them by telephone. They knew where she was, however, and it was pleasant to have Peggy and Alice so overjoyed at the great storm.

"They never can come for Diana to-day," Peggy said. "The roads aren't broken out."

When night came, both Diana and Alice begged Peggy to sleep with them, and this was a triumph. They asked her to sleep in the middle, as each wanted Peggy next to her; and they kept her telling stories of what she saw on the wall until Mrs. Owen came up and said, "Children, you must stop talking, or I shall take Peggy into my room again."

Peggy saw wonderful things. They were all snow scenes, in deep forests where every twig was coated with diamonds or powdered with snow. She saw the Frost King there, having his revels, and finally, just before Mrs. Owen came up to stop their talking, she saw the roads being broken out, and Tom and Christopher coming for Diana with the big sled. Diana went to sleep with this pleasant picture in her mind, and, toward the end of the next day, it really happened. It stopped snowing early the next morning, but the snow-plough did not get around in time for the children to go to school. It was just after dinner when Tom and Christopher appeared.

"We've come to make a path to your front door, Mrs. Owen," Tom said. "And we'll make one to the hen-house, too."

They had brought their snow-shovels along with them, and they began to dig with a will. Peggy got her shovel and went out to help them, and Alice and Diana watched the merry trio from the window.

"I can't bear to have Diana go," said Peggy. "I wish she could live here always."

"I've had a lovely time," said Diana.

But, like Lady Jane Grey, she was glad to get back to the other house.




Chapter XVI

Grandmother Owen's Visit


There were other great storms before the winter was over, and spring was very late that year, but when it did come it seemed to the children as if the world had never been so beautiful. This was the joy of living in New England. There was no monotony about the seasons. After a winter with banks and banks of snow, and coasting enough to satisfy one's wildest dreams, the snow vanished; and the brown earth soon became ready for planting; the same miracle began again, of green points poking their heads up to the light.

And if other springs had been delightful, this was so thrilling Peggy wanted to dance and shout with joy -- for her own dearly beloved Henrietta Cox was sitting on a dozen eggs, and one day some downy, fluffy chickens were hatched out. Yes, actually, these tiny creatures -- living, moving, breathing creatures, all of them Peggy's very own -- were chipping their shells, and making their entrance into this wonderful world. Alice took the chickens more calmly, but she was greatly interested in them in her quiet way.

"Oh, mother, I do hope grandmother likes chickens," Peggy said, when Mrs. Owen told the children that she had a letter from their grandmother, fixing the time of her annual spring visit.

"Peggy, you never seem to be able to think of but one thing at a time," said her mother. "What difference will it make whether your grandmother likes chickens? She won't have to do anything about them."

The children were very much interested in helping arrange the spare room for their grandmother. Alice got out the prettiest bureau cover from the linen closet, and the children helped their mother wash the china for the washstand. It was pretty china, covered with small pink roses, with green leaves. And there was a pincushion, that was white over pink, on the bureau. Peggy went out and picked some of the hemlock and put that in a green vase on the table.

It was a pleasant excitement to have their grandmother come. She always brought them presents. She was a quiet, dignified woman, and she had brown eyes very like Alice's, but her hair, that was once brown, was now snow-white. They all went down to the station to meet her, and they rode back with her in the taxi, and that was great fun.

Their grandmother was not a person who expressed a great deal, so, when she came into the house and said, "Mary, how pleasant you have made this little house look," they were all very much pleased.

The children could hardly wait for her trunk to be unpacked, for they were eager to see what she had brought. They did not venture to go into her room; she liked to have her room to herself. She was tired, and it was almost supper-time before she came down. She had some things in her hands.

"I have some blue gingham here for a dress for Peggy, and some pink for Alice," she said. "I have brought some material for new white dresses, too."

The children were delighted with the thought of their new frocks. Their grandmother brought them each a book besides.

Lady Janet wandered into the parlor.

"You have the same cat, I see," said their grandmother.

"Oh, no, grandmother, she's different," Alice said. "Don't you see how different she is? She's her daughter. She hasn't so many stripes on her tail, and she's a lighter gray. And she's got a different character."

"Has she?" said their grandmother, as pussy began to sharpen her claws on the sofa. "It seems to me her nature is very much the same. Do you let her come into the parlor?"

"Sometimes," said Mrs. Owen. "If the children see that she doesn't go up into the bedrooms and make small footmarks on the bed quilts -- that is all I ask."

"You don't like cats very well, do you, grandmother?" said Peggy.

"Yes, I like them in their proper place."

"What is their proper place?" Peggy asked.

"I like to see a cat sitting patiently in front of a mouse-hole, or lying on the bricks in front of the kitchen stove; but I don't like to see it scratching the parlor furniture."

"Neither do I," said Mrs. Owen. "Put Lady Janet out into the kitchen, Alice."

They all went out to supper, and again the older Mrs. Owen praised the dainty appearance of the table.

"Mary, I don't know how you have done it, but you have made this tiny house just as attractive as your large one."

"All the paper and paint are new and fresh here, and I got rid of all my ugly furniture and have only kept the old pieces."

"I wish you would come and do my house over for me. And, by the way, I am hoping you and the children will come and spend three months with me this summer. I am sure the sea air will do the children good."

She did not notice how their faces clouded over. The mere suggestion filled them with despair. Leave her beloved Rhode Island Reds, Peggy was thinking, just as Henrietta had hatched out twelve downy, fluffy balls? Why, they would be big chickens when they came back. Leave Lady Janet? was Alice's thought. No sea-bathing and boating could make up for the loss of her friendly little face.

"Could I take Lady Janet with me, grandmother?" Alice asked.

"I hardly think so. A cat does not like to be moved."

"It is very kind of you to think of it," said Mrs. Owen, "but I am afraid I shall have to stay right here by my garden and my hens."

"Oh, have you hens?" Mrs. Owen asked.

"Yes, grandmother, seven of them and a cock," Peggy said; "and twelve teenty, tinety chickens, the dearest, cunningest things. Don't you remember," she added, reproachfully, "how I wrote and told you we had a birthday surprise party of hens for mother?"

"I do remember it now."

Peggy said no more about the hens. How terrible it was to be so old that the idea of seven hens and a cock and twelve chickens made no more impression on one than that! And yet, Miss Betsy Porter must be nearly as old as her grandmother, and Miss Betsy was deeply interested in hens. After all, it was the kind of person you were, and not the age.

Two or three days later, as Mrs. Owen was writing letters, she heard Peggy say to Alice, "I like it better when grandmother isn't here."

"So do I," said Alice. "I wonder when she is going home?"

Mrs. Owen looked up from her writing. "She is going to stay ten days longer, and then, if I can persuade her, she will come back to us for the whole summer."

Mrs. Owen turned to look at her little girls. Their faces wore a discontented, rebellious look.

"Did it ever occur to you that it is of no importance whether you like the way things are or not?" she asked. "You are two very small, unimportant people. Did you ever stop to think what your grandmother has had to bear?"

They had never thought anything about it. Their minds had been entirely taken up with their own affairs.

"Your father was your grandmother's only child," Mrs. Owen went on, and her voice was unsteady. "She owned the big house we used to live in, and every summer they came to it, so that your father and your Uncle William and I played together when we were children. When your father became a doctor and married me and settled down here, she gave us the house for a wedding present. Think, Peggy, for a minute, of what it meant to you to lose your father. But you had only known him a few short years, and you and Alice are so young you have a whole rich life before you. But your grandmother is not young; she had had him all his life, and he was her only child."

There were tears in her mother's eyes. Peggy had seldom seen them there. She slipped down from her chair and went over to her mother, putting an arm about her waist. It was not of her grandmother that she was thinking, but of her mother, who had lost so much, and yet was so brave.

Mrs. Owen dried her eyes and was silent for a minute.

Then she said: "Your grandmother is a very lonely person."

"But she lives in the city where there are lots and lots of people," said Alice.

"Yes, and she has many friends and acquaintances, but that does not prevent her being lonely. We are the only near relations she has. You remember how she wanted to take Peggy and bring her up. I could not consent to that. Then she wanted us all to spend the summer with her, and we all of us like better to be at home. But I think she would really like to spend the summer with us. Now, Peggy, the better one knows people, the more one finds to like in them, if they are good people; and it is just a question of what we are looking out for most in this world, whether it is to be happy ourselves, or to try to make other people happy. If we are trying to be happy ourselves, all kinds of things turn up that we did not expect, to spoil our fun. After all, it is not so very important, whether we are happy or not."

"I think it is very important," said Peggy. "And I guess you thought so when you were a little girl, mother."

"You are right, Peggy, I did. But now the question is, will you children try to make your grandmother happy?"

"I'll try," said Peggy; "but I just can't stand it if she doesn't care about my dear Rhode Island Reds."

But her grandmother did grow to appreciate them, to Peggy's great surprise. One morning she went out with Peggy when she fed the chickens. It was a sunny morning, with a soft blue sky and fleecy clouds.

"To think of my being here all these days and not having seen your hens," said Mrs. Owen.

"I thought, if you waited until you wanted to see them, it would be more of a treat," said Peggy.

"Who put that idea into your head, your mother?"

"No, I don't want people to see them unless it is a treat."

Peggy's grandmother looked at the little girl's eager, upturned face.

"Do you like them so much, Peggy?" she asked.

Peggy hesitated. It was one of the great decisions of her life. On her answer depended the success or failure of her intercourse with her grandmother. If she said, "I like them well enough," they would remain just seven Rhode Island hens and a cock, so far as her grandmother was concerned. She looked up at her grandmother, inquiringly. Her grandmother smiled down at her pleasantly.

"I just love them!" said Peggy.

"What a handsome cock!" said her grandmother.

This compliment to her favorite pleased Peggy. "Isn't he a beauty?" she said.

"He certainly is," said her grandmother warmly.

"His name is Mr. Henry Cox," said Peggy, in a burst of confidence.

"What a nice name," said her grandmother.

And so it was that the elder Mrs. Owen became interested in feeding the hens and chickens and helping hunt for eggs, and when she went home, at the end of the visit, they were all glad to think that she was to spend the summer with them.

"I am glad she is coming back," said Peggy to Alice. "Do you know, Alice, I think when she comes back, we'll teach her the geography game."

"I don't think she's got a very nice name," said Alice. "I'm glad they didn't call me Rebecca, for her. And she can only live in one State."

"Yes," said Peggy, "but it is such a nice State. She could live in Rhode Island, with all my dear Rhode Island Reds."

<eob>

Ungava

By

R.M. Ballantyne



Chapter One.

The Forest, And The Leaders Of The Folorn-Hope -- A Good Shot -- A Consultation -- An Ice-Floe, And A Narrow Chance Of Escape In A Small Way.

"Hallo! where are you!" shouted a voice that rang through the glades of the forest like the blast of a silver trumpet, testifying to lungs of leather and a throat of brass.

The ringing tones died away, and naught was heard save the rustling of the leafy canopy overhead, as the young man, whose shout had thus rudely disturbed the surrounding echoes, leaned on the muzzle of a long rifle, and stood motionless as a statue, his right foot resting on the trunk of a fallen tree, and his head bent slightly to one side, as if listening for a reply. But no reply came. A squirrel ran down the trunk of a neighbouring pine, and paused, with tail and ears erect, and its little black eyes glittering as if with surprise at the temerity of him who so recklessly dared to intrude upon and desecrate with his powerful voice the deep solitudes of the wilderness. They stood so long thus that it seemed as though the little animal and the man had been petrified by the unwonted sound. If so, the spell was quickly broken. The loud report of a fowling-piece was heard at a short distance. The squirrel incontinently disappeared from the spot on which it stood, and almost instantaneously reappeared on the topmost branch of a high tree; while the young man gave a smile of satisfaction, threw the rifle over his shoulder, and, turning round, strode rapidly away in the direction whence the shot proceeded.

A few minutes' walk brought him to the banks of a little brook, by the side of which, on the projecting root of a tree, sat a man, with a dead goose at his feet and a fowling-piece by his side. He was dressed in the garb of a hunter; and, from the number of gray hairs that shone like threads of silver among the black curls on his temples, he was evidently past the meridian of life -- although, from the upright bearing of his tall, muscular frame, and the quick glance of his fearless black eye, it was equally evident that the vigour of his youth was not yet abated.

"Why, Stanley," exclaimed the young man as he approached, "I've been shouting till my throat is cracked, for at least half an hour. I verily began to think that you had forsaken me altogether."

"In which case, Frank," replied the other, "I should have treated you as you deserve, for your empty game-bag proves you an unworthy comrade in the chase."

"So, so, friend, do not boast," replied the youth with a smile; "if I mistake not, that goose was winging its way to the far north not ten minutes agone. Had I come up half an hour sooner, I suspect we should have met on equal terms; but the fact is that I have not seen hair or feather, save a tree-squirrel, since I left you in the morning."

"Well, to say truth, I was equally unfortunate until I met this luckless goose, and fired the shot that brought him down and brought you up. But I've had enough o' this now, and shall back to the fort again. What say you? Will you go in my canoe or walk?"

The young man was silent for a few seconds; then, without replying to his companion's question, he said, -- "By-the-bye, is it not to-night that you mean to make another attempt to induce the men to volunteer for the expedition!"

"It is," replied Stanley, with a alight frown. "And what if they still persist in refusing to go?"

"I'll try once more to shame them out of their cowardice. But if they won't agree, I'll compel them to go by means of more powerful arguments than words."

"'Tis not cowardice; you do the men injustice," said Frank, shaking his head.

"Well, well, I believe I do, lad; you're right," replied Stanley, while a smile smoothed out the firm lines that had gathered round his lips for a few seconds. "No doubt they care as little for the anticipated dangers of the expedition as any men living, and they hesitate to go simply because they know that the life before them will be a lonely one at such an out-o'-the-way place as Ungava. But we can't help that, Frank; the interests of the Company must be attended to, and so go they must, willing or not willing. But I'm annoyed at this unexpected difficulty, for there's a mighty difference between men who volunteer to go and men who go merely because they must and can't help it."

The young man slowly rubbed the stock of his rifle with the sleeve of his coat, and looked as if he understood and sympathised with his friend's chagrin.

"If Prince were only here just now," said he, looking up, "there would be no difficulty in the matter. These fellows only want a bold, hearty comrade to step forward and show them the way, and they will follow to the North Pole if need be. They look upon our willingness to go as a mere matter of course, though I don't see why we should be expected to like banishment more than themselves. But if Prince were -- "

"Well, well, Prince is not here, so we must do the best we can without him," said Stanley.

As he spoke, the trumpet note of a goose was heard in the distance.

"There he goes! -- down with you!" exclaimed Frank, darting suddenly behind the stump of the tree, while his companion crouched beside him, and both began to shout at the top of their voices in imitation of the goose. The bird was foolish enough to accept the invitation immediately, although, had it been other than a goose, it would have easily recognised the sound as a wretched counterfeit of the goose language. It flew directly towards them, as geese always do in spring when thus enticed, but passed at such a distance that the elder sportsman was induced to lower his piece.

"Ah! he's too far off. You'd better give him a shot with the rifle, Frank; but you're sure to miss."

"To hit, you mean," cried his companion, flushing with momentary indignation at this disparaging remark. At the same moment he took a rapid aim and fired. For a few yards the goose continued its forward flight as if unhurt; then it wavered once or twice, and fell heavily to the ground.

"Bravo, boy!" cried Stanley. "There, don't look nettled; I only jested with you, knowing your weakness on the score of rifle-shooting. Now, pick up your bird, and throw it into the canoe, for I must away."

Frank finished reloading his piece as his friend spoke, and went to pick up the goose; while the other walked down to the edge of the rivulet, and disengaged a light birch-bark canoe from the long grass and sedges that almost hid it from view.

"Make haste, Frank!" he shouted; "there's the ice coming up with the flood-tide, and bearing down on the creek here."

At a short distance from the spot where the sportsmen stood, the streamlet already alluded to mingled its waters with a broad river, which, a few miles farther down, flows into James's Bay. As every one knows, this bay lies to the south of Hudson's Bay, in North America. Here the river is about two miles wide; and the shores on either side being low, it has all the appearance of an extensive lake. In spring, after the disruption of the ice, its waters are loaded with large floes and fields of ice; and later in the season, after it has become quite free from this wintry encumbrance, numerous detached masses come up with every flood-tide. It was the approach of one of these floes that called forth Stanley's remark.

The young man replied to it by springing towards the canoe, in which his companion was already seated. Throwing the dead bird into it, he stooped, and gave the light bark a powerful shove into the stream, exclaiming, as he did so, "There, strike out, you've no time to lose, and I'll go round by the woods."

There was indeed no time to lose. The huge mass of ice was closing rapidly into the mouth of the creek, and narrowing the only passage through which the canoe could escape into the open water of the river beyond. Stanley might, indeed, drag his canoe up the bank, if so disposed, and reach home by a circuitous walk through the woods; but by doing so he would lose much time, and be under the necessity of carrying his gun, blanket, tin kettle, and the goose, on his back. His broad shoulders were admirably adapted for such a burden, but he preferred the canoe to the woods on the present occasion. Besides, the only risk he ran was that of getting his canoe crushed to pieces. So, plunging his paddle vigorously in the water, he shot through the lessening channel like an arrow, and swept out on the bosom of the broad river just as the ice closed with a crash upon the shore and ground itself to powder on the rocks.

"Well done!" shouted Frank, with a wave of his cap, as he witnessed the success of his friend's exploit.

"All right," replied Stanley, glancing over his shoulder.

In another moment the canoe disappeared behind a group of willows that grew on the point at the river's mouth, and the young man was left alone. For a few minutes he stood contemplating the point behind which his companion had disappeared; then giving a hasty glance at the priming of his rifle, he threw it across his shoulder, and striding rapidly up the bank, was soon lost to view amid the luxuriant undergrowth of the forest.



Chapter Two.

Headquarters -- The Men -- Disputation And Uncertainty -- New Uses For The Skins Of Dead Boys! -- Mutinous Resolves.

Moose Fort, the headquarters and depot of the fur-traders, who prosecute their traffic in almost all parts of the wild and uninhabited regions of North America, stands on an island near the mouth of Moose River. Like all the establishments of the fur-traders, it is a solitary group of wooden buildings, far removed beyond the influences -- almost beyond the ken -- of the civilised world, and surrounded by the primeval wilderness, the only tenants of which were, at the time we write of, a few scattered tribes of Muskigon Indians, and the wild animals whose flesh furnished them with food and whose skins constituted their sole wealth. There was little of luxury at Moose Fort. The walls of the houses within the stockade, that served more as an ornament than a defence, were of painted, in some cases unpainted, planks. The floors, ceilings, chairs, tables, and, in short, all the articles of furniture in the place, were made of the same rough material. A lofty scaffolding of wood rose above the surrounding buildings, and served as an outlook, whence, at the proper season, longing eyes were wont to be turned towards the sea in expectation of "the ship" which paid the establishment an annual visit from England. Several large iron field-pieces stood before the front gate; but they were more for the sake of appearance than use, and were never fired except for the purpose of saluting the said ship on the occasions of her arrival and departure. The first boom of the cannon unlocks the long-closed portals of connection between Moose Fort and England; the second salvo shuts them up again in their frozen domains for another year! A century and a half ago, the band of "adventurers trading into Hudson's Bay" felled the first trees and pitched their tents on the shores of James's Bay, and successive generations of fur-traders have kept the post until the present day; yet there is scarcely a symptom of the presence of man beyond a few miles round the establishment. Years ago the fort was built, and there it stands now, with new tenants, it is true, but in its general aspect unchanged; and there it is likely to remain, wrapped in its barrier of all but impregnable solitude, for centuries to come.

Nevertheless, Moose is a comfortable place in its way, and when contrasted with other trading establishments is a very palace and temple of luxury. There are men within its walls who can tell of log-huts and starvation, solitude and desolation, compared with which Moose is a terrestrial paradise. Frank Morton, whom we have introduced in the first chapter, said, on his arrival at Moose, that it appeared to him to be the very fag-end of creation. He had travelled night and day for six weeks from what he considered the very outskirts of civilisation, through uninhabited forests and almost unknown rivers, in order to get to it; and while the feeling of desolation that overwhelmed him on his first arrival was strong upon him, he sighed deeply, and called it a "horrid dull hole." But Frank was of a gay, hearty, joyous disposition, and had not been there long ere he loved the old fort dearly. Poor fellow! far removed though he was from his fellow-men at Moose, he afterwards learned that he had but obtained an indistinct notion of the signification of the word "solitude."

There were probably about thirty human beings at Moose, when Mr George Stanley, one of the principal fur-traders of the place, received orders from the governor to make preparations, and select men, for the purpose of proceeding many hundred miles deeper into the northern wilderness, and establishing a station on the distant, almost unknown, shores of Ungava Bay. No one at Moose had ever been there before; no one knew anything about the route, except from the vague report of a few Indians; and the only thing that was definitely known about the locality at all was, that its inhabitants were a few wandering tribes of Esquimaux, who were at deadly feud with the Indians, and generally massacred all who came within their reach. What the capabilities of the country were, in regard to timber and provisions, nobody knew, and, fortunately for the success of the expedition, nobody cared! At least those who were to lead the way did not; and this admirable quality of total indifference to prospective dangers is that which, to a great extent, insures success in a forlorn hope.

Of the leaders of this expedition the reader already knows something. George Stanley was nearly six feet high, forty years of age, and endued with a decision of character that, but for his quiet good humour, would have been deemed obstinacy. He was deliberate in all his movements, and exercised a control over his feelings that quite concealed his naturally enthusiastic disposition. Moreover, he was married, and had a daughter of ten years of age. This might be thought a disadvantage in his present circumstances; but the governor of the fur-traders, a most energetic and active ruler, thought otherwise. He recommended that the family should be left at Moose until an establishment had been built, and a winter passed at Ungava. Afterwards they could join him there. As for Frank Morton, he was an inch taller than his friend Stanley, and equally powerful; fair-haired, blue-eyed, hilarious, romantic, twenty-two years of age, and so impulsive that, on hearing of the proposed expedition from one of his comrades, who happened to be present when Stanley was reading the dispatches, he sprang from his chair, which he upset, dashed out at the door, which he banged, and hurried to his friend's quarters in order to be first to volunteer his services as second in command; which offer was rendered unnecessary by Stanley's exclaiming, the moment he entered his room -- 

"Ha, Frank, my lad, the very man I wanted to see! Here's a letter from headquarters ordering me off on an expedition to Ungava. Now, I want volunteers; will you go!"

It is needless to add that Frank's blue eyes sparkled with animation as he seized his friend's hand and replied, "To the North Pole if you like, or farther if need be!"

It was evening. The sun was gilding the top of the flagstaff with a parting kiss, and the inhabitants of Moose Fort, having finished their daily toil, were making preparations for their evening meal. On the end of the wharf that jutted out into the stream was assembled a picturesque group of men, who, from the earnest manner in which they conversed, and the energy of their gesticulations, were evidently discussing a subject of more than ordinary interest. Most of them were clad in corduroy trousers, gartered below the knee with thongs of deer-skin, and coarse, striped cotton shirts, open at the neck, so as to expose their sunburnt breasts. A few wore caps which, whatever might have been their original form, were now so much soiled and battered out of shape by long and severe service that they were nondescript; but most of these hardy backwoodsmen were content with the covering afforded by their thick, bushy locks.

"No, no," exclaimed a short, thick-set, powerful man, with a somewhat ascetic cast of countenance; "I've seen more than enough o' these rascally Huskies [Esquimaux]. 'Tis well for me that I'm here this blessed day, an' not made into a dan to bob about in Hudson's Straits at the tail of a white whale, like that poor boy Peter who was shot by them varmints."

"What's a dan?" asked a young half-breed who had lately arrived at Moose, and knew little of Esquimau implements.

"What a green-horn you must be, Francois, not to know what a dan is!" replied another, who was inclined to be quizzical. "Why, it's a sort of sea-carriage that the Esquimaux tie to the tail of a walrus or sea-horse when they feel inclined for a drive. When they can't get a sea-horse they catch a white whale asleep, and wake him up after fastening the dan to his tail. I suppose they have conjurers or wizards among them, since Massan told us just now that poor Peter was -- "

"Bah! gammon," interrupted Francois with a smile, as he turned to the first speaker. "But tell me, Massan, what is a dan?"

"It's a sort o' float or buoy, lad, used by the Huskies, and is made out o' the skin o' the seal. They tie it with a long line to their whale spears to show which way the fish bolts when struck."

"And did they use Peter's skin for such a purpose?" inquired Francois earnestly.

"They did," replied Massan.

"And did you see them do it?"

"Yes, I did."

Francois gazed intently into his comrade's face as he spoke; but Massan was an adept at what is usually called drawing the long bow, and it was with the most imperturbable gravity that he continued -- 

"Yes, I saw them do it; but I could not render any assistance to the poor child, for I was lying close behind a rock at the time, with an arrow sticking between my shoulders, and a score o' them oily varmints a-shoutin', and yellin', and flourishing their spears in search o' me."

"Tell us how it happened, Massan. Let's hear the story," chorused the men, as they closed round their comrade.

"Well then," began the stout backwoodsman, proceeding leisurely to fill his pipe from an ornamented bag that hung at his belt, "here goes. It was about the year -- a -- I forget the year, but it don't matter -- that we were ordered off on an expedition to the Huskies; 'xactly sich a one as they wants us to go on now, and -- but you've heerd o' that business, lads, haven't you?"

"Yes, yes, we've heard all about it; go on."

"Well," continued Massan, "I needn't be wastin' time tellin' you how we failed in that affair, and how the Huskies killed some of our men and burnt our ship to the water's edge. After it was all over, and they thought they had killed us all, I was, as I said, lyin' behind a great rock in a sort o' cave, lookin' at the dirty villains as they danced about on the shore, and took possession of all our goods. Suddenly I seed two o' them carry Peter down to the beach, an' I saw, as they passed me, that he was quite dead. In less time than I can count a hundred they took the skin off him, cut off his head, sewed up the hole, tied his arms and legs in a knot, blew him full o' wind till he was fit to bu'st, an' then hung him up to dry in the sun! In fact, they made a dan of him!"

A loud shout of laughter greeted this startling conclusion. In truth, we must do Massan the justice to say, that although he was much in the habit of amusing his companions by entertaining them with anecdotes which originated entirely in his own teeming fancy, he never actually deceived them, but invariably, either by a sly glance or by the astounding nature of his communication, gave them to understand that he was dealing not with fact but fiction.

"But seriously, lads," said Francois, whose intelligence, added to a grave, manly countenance and a tall, muscular frame, caused him to be regarded by his comrades as a sort of leader both in action and in council, "what do you think of our bourgeois' plan? For my part, I'm willing enough to go to any reasonable part o' the country where there are furs and Indians; but as for this Ungava, from what Massan says, there's neither Indians, nor furs, nor victuals -- nothin' but rocks, and mountains, and eternal winter; and if we do get the Huskies about us, they'll very likely serve us as they did the last expedition to Richmond Gulf."

"Ay, ay," cried one of the others, "you may say that, Francois. Nothin' but frost and starvation, and nobody to bury us when we're dead."

"Except the Huskies," broke in another, "who would save themselves the trouble by converting us all into dans!"

"Tush, man! stop your clapper," cried Francois, impatiently; "let us settle this business. You know that Monsieur Stanley said he would expect us to be ready with an answer to-night. -- What think you, Gaspard? Shall we go, or shall we mutiny?"

The individual addressed was a fine specimen of an animal, but not by any means a good specimen of a man. He was of gigantic proportions, straight and tall as a poplar, and endowed with the strength of a Hercules. His glittering dark eyes and long black hair, together with the hue of his skin, bespoke him of half-breed extraction. But his countenance did not correspond to his fine physical proportions. True, his features were good, but they wore habitually a scowling, sulky expression, even when the man was pleased, and there was more of sarcasm than joviality in the sound when Gaspard condescended to laugh.

"I'll be shot if I go to such a hole for the best bourgeois in the country," said he in reply to Francois' question.

"You'll be dismissed the service if you don't," remarked Massan with a smile.

To this Gaspard vouchsafed no reply save a growl that, to say the best of it, did not sound amiable.

"Well, I think that we're all pretty much of one mind on the point," continued Francois; "and yet I feel half ashamed to refuse after all, especially when I see the good will with which Messieurs Stanley and Morton agree to go."

"I suppose you expect to be a bourgeois too some day," growled Gaspard with a sneer.

"Eh, tu gros chien!" cried Francois, as with flashing eyes and clinched fists he strode up to his ill-tempered comrade.

"Come, come, Francois; don't quarrel for nothing," said Massan, interposing his broad shoulders and pushing him vigorously back.

At that moment an exclamation from one of the men diverted the attention of the others.

"Voila! the canoe."

"Ay, it's Monsieur Stanley's canoe. I saw him and Monsieur Morton start for the swamp this morning."

"I wonder what Dick Prince would have done in this business had he been here," said Francois to Massan in a low tone, as they stood watching the approach of their bourgeois' canoe.

"Can't say. I half think he would have gone."

"There's no chance of him coming back in time, I fear."

"None; unless he prevails on some goose to lend him a pair of wings for a day or two. He won't be back from the hunt for three weeks good."

In a few minutes more the canoe skimmed up to the wharf.

"Here, lads," cried Mr Stanley, as he leaped ashore and dragged the canoe out of the water; "one of you come and lift this canoe up the bank, and take these geese to the kitchen."

Two of the men instantly hastened to obey, and Stanley, with the gun and paddles under his arm, proceeded towards the gateway of the fort. As he passed the group assembled on the wharf, he turned and said -- 

"You'll come to the hall in an hour, lads; I shall expect you to be ready with an answer by that time."

"Ay, ay, sir," replied several of the men.

"But we won't go for all your expectations," said one in an undertone to a comrade.

"I should think not," whispered another.

"I'll be hanged, and burnt, and frozen if I do," said a third.

In the meantime Mr Stanley walked briskly towards his dwelling, and left the men to grumble over their troubles and continue their debate as to whether they should or should not agree to go on the pending expedition to the distant regions of Ungava.



Chapter Three.

Shows How Stanley Deigned To Consult With Womankind -- The Opinions Of A Child Developed -- Persuasion Fails -- Example Triumphs -- The First Volunteers To Ungava.

On reaching his apartment, which was in an angle of the principal edifice in the fort, Mr Stanley flung down his gun and paddles, and drawing a chair close to his wife, who was working with her needle near a window, took her hand in his and heaved a deep sigh.

"Why, George, that's what you used to say to me when you were at a loss for words in the days of our courtship."

"True, Jessie," he replied, patting her shoulder with a hand that rough service had rendered hard and long exposure had burnt brown. "But the producing cause then was different from what it is now. Then it was love; now it is perplexity."

Stanley's wife was the daughter of English parents, who had settled many years ago in the fur countries. Being quite beyond the reach of any school, they had been obliged to undertake the instruction of their only child, Jessie, as they best could. At first this was an easy matter, but as years flew by, and little Jessie's mind expanded, it was found to be a difficult matter to carry on her education in a country in most parts of which books were not to be had and schoolmasters did not exist. When the difficulty first presented itself, they talked of sending their little one to England to finish her education; but being unable to bring themselves to part with her, they resolved to have a choice selection of books sent out to them. Jessie's mother was a clever, accomplished, and lady-like woman, and decidedly pious, so that the little flower, which was indeed born to blush unseen, grew up to be a gentle, affectionate woman -- one who was a lady in all her thoughts and actions, yet had never seen polite society, save that of her father and mother. In process of time Jessie became Mrs Stanley, and the mother of a little girl whose voice was, at the time her father entered, ringing cheerfully in an adjoining room. Mrs Stanley's nature was an earnest one, and she no sooner observed that her husband was worried about something, than she instantly dropped the light tone in which she at first addressed him.

"And what perplexes you now, dear George?" she said, laying down her work and looking up in his face with that straightforward, earnest gaze that in days of yore had set the stout backwoodsman's heart on fire, and still kept it in a perennial blaze.

"Nothing very serious," he replied with a smile; "only these fellows have taken it into their stupid heads that Ungava is worse than the land beyond the Styx; and so, after the tough battle that I had with you this morning in order to prevail on you to remain here for a winter without me, I've had to fight another battle with them in order to get them to go on this expedition."

"Have you been victorious?" inquired Mrs Stanley.

"No, not yet."

"Do you really mean to say they are afraid to go? Has Prince refused? are Francois, Gaspard, and Massan cowards?" she inquired, her eye kindling with indignation.

"Nay, my wife, not so. These men are not cowards; nevertheless they don't feel inclined to go; and as for Dick Prince, he has been off hunting for a week, and I don't expect him back for three weeks at least, by which time we shall be off."

Mrs Stanley sighed, as if she felt the utter helplessness of woman in such affairs.

"Why, Jessie, that's what you used to say to me when you were at a loss for words in the days of our courtship," said Stanley, smiling.

"Ah, George, like you I may say that the cause is now perplexity; for what can I do to help you in your present difficulty?"

"Truly not much. But I like to tell you of my troubles, and to make more of them than they deserve, for the sake of drawing forth your sympathy. Bless your heart!" he said, in a sudden burst of enthusiasm, "I would gladly undergo any amount of trouble every day, if by so doing I should secure that earnest, loving, anxious gaze of your sweet blue eyes as a reward!" Stanley imprinted a hearty kiss on his wife's cheek as he made this lover-like speech, and then rose to place his fowling-piece on the pegs from which it usually hung over the fireplace.

At that moment the door opened, and a little girl, with bright eyes and flaxen hair, bounded into the room.

"O mamma, mamma!" she said, holding up a sheet of paper, while a look of intense satisfaction beamed on her animated countenance, "see, I have drawn Chimo's portrait. Is it like, mamma? Do you think it like?"

"Come here, Eda, my darling, come to me," said Stanley, seating himself on a chair and extending his arms. Edith instantly left the portrait of the dog in her mother's possession, and, without waiting for an opinion as to its merits, ran to her father, jumped on his knee, threw her arms round his neck, and kissed him. Edith was by no means a beautiful child, but miserable indeed must have been the taste of him who would have pronounced her plain-looking. Her features were not regular; her nose had a strong tendency to what is called snubbed, and her mouth was large; but to counterbalance these defects she had a pair of large, deep-blue eyes, soft, golden hair, a fair, rosy complexion, and an expression of sweetness at the corners of her mouth that betrayed habitual good-nature. She was quick in all her movements, combined with a peculiar softness and grace of deportment that was exceedingly attractive.

"Would you like to go, my pet," said her father, "to a country far, far away in the north, where there are high mountains and deep valleys, inhabited by beautiful reindeer, and large lakes and rivers filled with fish; where there is very little daylight all the long winter, and where there is scarcely any night all the long, bright summer? Would my Eda like to go there?"

The child possessed that fascinating quality of being intensely interested in all that was said to her. As her father spoke, her eyes gradually expanded and looked straight into his, while her head turned slowly and very slightly to one side. As he concluded, she replied, "Oh! very, very, very much indeed," with a degree of energy that made both her parents laugh.

"Ah, my darling! would that my lazy men were endued with some of your spirit," said Stanley, patting the child's head.

"Is Prince a lazy man, papa?" inquired Edith anxiously.

"No, certainly, Prince is not. Why do you ask?"

"Because I love Prince."

"And do you not love all the men?"

"No," replied Edith, with some hesitation; "at least I don't love them very much, and I hate one."

"Hate one!" echoed Mrs Stanley. "Come here, my darling."

Eda slipped from her father's knee and went to her mother, feeling and looking as if she had said something wrong.

Mrs Stanley was not one of those mothers who, whenever they hear of their children having done anything wrong, assume a look of intense, solemnised horror, that would lead an ignorant spectator to suppose that intelligence had just been received of some sudden and appalling catastrophe. She knew that children could not be deceived by such pieces of acting. She expressed on her countenance precisely what she felt -- a slight degree of sorrow that her child should cherish an evil passion, which, she knew, existed in her heart in common with all the human race, but which she expected, by God's help and blessing, to subdue effectually at last. Kissing Eda's forehead she said kindly, -- "Which of them do you hate, darling?"

"Gaspard," replied the child.

"And why do you hate him?"

"Because he struck my dog," said Eda, while her face flushed and her eyes sparkled; "and he is always rude to everybody, and very, very cruel to the dogs."

"That is very wrong of Gaspard; but, dearest Eda, do you not remember what is written in God's Word, -- 'Love your enemies?' It is wrong to hate anybody."

"I know that, mamma, and I don't wish to hate Gaspard, but I can't help it. I wish if I didn't hate him, but it won't go away."

"Well, my pet," replied Mrs Stanley, pressing the child to her bosom, "but you must pray for him, and speak kindly to him when you meet him, and that will perhaps put it away. And now let us talk of the far-off country that papa was speaking about. I wonder what he has to tell you about it."

Stanley had been gazing out of the window during the foregoing colloquy, apparently inattentive, though, in reality, deeply interested in what was said. Turning round, he said -- 

"I was going to tell Eda that you had arranged to follow me to that country next year, and that perhaps you would bring her along with you."

"Nay, George, you mistake. I did not arrange to do so -- you only proposed the arrangement; but, to say truth, I don't like it, and I can't make up my mind to let you go without us. I cannot wait till next year."

"Well, well, Jessie, I have exhausted all my powers of persuasion. I leave it entirely to yourself to do as you think best."

At this moment the sound of deep voices was heard in the hall, which was separated from Stanley's quarters by a thin partition of wood. In a few seconds the door opened, and George Barney, the Irish butler and general factotum to the establishment, announced that the "min wos in the hall awaitin'."

Giving Eda a parting kiss, Stanley rose and entered the hall, where Francois, Massan, Gaspard, and several others were grouped in a corner. On their bourgeois entering, they doffed their bonnets and bowed.

"Well, lads," began Stanley, with a smile, "you've thought better of it, I hope, and have come to volunteer for this expedition -- " He checked himself and frowned, for he saw by their looks that they had come with quite a different intention. "What have you to say to me?" he continued abruptly.

The men looked uneasily at each other, and then fixed their eyes on Francois, who was evidently expected to be spokesman.

"Come, Francois, speak out," said Stanley; "if you have any objections, out with them; you're free to say what you please here."

As he spoke, and ere Francois could reply, Frank Morton entered the room. "Ah!" he exclaimed, as he deposited his rifle in a corner and flung his cap on the table, "in time, I see, to help at the council!"

"I was just asking Francois to state his objections to going," said Stanley, as his young friend took his place beside him.

"Objections!" repeated Frank; "what objections can bold spirits have to go on a bold adventure? The question should have been, 'Who will be first to volunteer?'"

At this moment the door of Stanley's apartment opened, and his wife appeared leading Eda by the hand.

"Here are two volunteers," she said, with a smile; "pray put us at the head of your list. We will go with you to any part of the world!"

"Bravo!" shouted Frank, catching up Eda, with whom he was a great favourite, and hugging her tightly in his arms.

"Nay, but, wife, this is sheer folly. You know not the dangers that await you -- "

"Perhaps not," interrupted Mrs Stanley; "but you know them, and that is enough for me."

"Indeed, Jessie, I know them not. I can but guess at them. -- But, ah! well, 'tis useless to argue further. Be it so; we shall head the list with you and Eda."

"And put my name next," said a deep-toned voice from behind the other men. All turned round in surprise.

"Dick Prince!" they exclaimed; "you here?"

"Ay, lads," said a tall man of about forty, who was not so remarkable for physical development (though in this respect he was by no means deficient) as for a certain decision of character that betrayed itself in every outline of his masculine, intelligent countenance -- "ay, lads, I'm here; an' sorry am I that I've jist comed in time to hear that you're sich poor-spirited rascals as to hang back when ye should jump for'ard."

"But how came you so opportunely, Prince?" inquired Stanley.

"I met an Injin, sir, as told me you was goin' off; so I thought you might want me, and comed straight back. And now, sir, I'm ready to go; and so is Francois," he continued, turning to that individual, who seized his hand and exclaimed, "That am I, my boy -- to the moon if ye like!"

"And Massan, too," continued Prince.

"All right; book me for Nova Zembla," replied that worthy.

"So, so," cried Mr Stanley, with a satisfied smile. "I see, lads, that we're all of one mind now. Is it not so? Are we agreed?"

"Agreed! agreed!" they replied with one voice.

"That's well," he continued. "Now then, lads, clear out and get your kits ready. -- And ho! Barney, give these men a glass of grog. -- Prince, I shall want to talk with you this evening. Come to me an hour hence. --  And now," he added, taking Eda by the hand, "come along, my gentle volunteers; let's go to supper."



Chapter Four.

Explanatory, But Not Dry! -- Murderous Designs Thwarted By Vigorous Treatment -- The Cattle Pay For It! -- Preparations For A Long, Long Voyage.

In order to render our story intelligible, it is necessary here to say a few words explanatory of the nature and object of the expedition referred to in the foregoing chapters.

Many years previous to the opening of our tale, it was deemed expedient, by the rulers of the Hudson's Bay Fur Company, to effect, if possible, a reconciliation or treaty of peace between the Muskigon Indians of James's Bay and the Esquimaux of Hudson's Straits. The Muskigons are by no means a warlike race; on the contrary, they are naturally timid, and only plucked up courage to make war on their northern neighbours in consequence of these poor people being destitute of firearms, while themselves were supplied with guns and ammunition by the fur-traders. The Esquimaux, however, are much superior to the Muskigon Indians physically, and would have held their adversaries in light esteem had they met on equal terms, or, indeed, on any terms at all; but the evil was that they never met. The Indians always took them by surprise, and from behind the rocks and bushes sent destruction into their camps with the deadly bullet; while their helpless foes could only reply with the comparatively harmless arrow and spear. Thus the war was in fact an annual raid of murderers. The conceited Muskigons returned to their wigwams in triumph, with bloody scalps hanging at their belts; while the Esquimaux pushed farther into their ice-bound fastnesses, and told their comrades, with lowering brows and heaving bosoms, of the sudden attack, and of the wives and children who had been butchered in cold blood, or led captive to the tents of the cowardly red men.

At such times those untutored inhabitants of the frozen regions vowed vengeance on the Indians, and cursed in their hearts the white men who supplied them with the deadly gun. But the curse was unmerited. In the councils of the fur-traders the subject of Esquimau wrongs had been mooted, and plans for the amelioration of their condition devised. Trading posts were established on Richmond Gulf and Little Whale River; but owing to circumstances which it is unnecessary to detail here, they turned out failures, and were at length abandoned. Still, those in charge of the districts around Hudson's Bay and Labrador continued to use every argument to prevail on the Indians to cease their murderous assaults on their unoffending neighbours, but without much effect. At length the governor of East Main -- a territory lying on the eastern shores of James's Bay -- adopted an argument which proved eminently successful, at least for one season.

His fort was visited by a large band of Muskigons from Albany and Moose districts, who brought a quantity of valuable furs, for which they demanded guns and ammunition, making no secret of their intention to proceed on an expedition against their enemies the Esquimaux. On hearing of this, the governor went out to them, and, in a voice of extreme indignation, assured them that they should not have an ounce of supplies for such a purpose.

"But we will pay you for what we ask. We are not beggars!" exclaimed the astonished Indians, into whose calculations it had never entered that white traders would refuse good furs merely in order to prevent the death of a few Esquimaux.

"See," cried the angry governor, snatching up the nearest bale of furs -- "see, that's all I care for you or your payment!" and hurling the pack at its owner's head, he felled him therewith to the ground. "No," he continued, shaking his fist at them, "I'll not give you as much powder or shot as would blow off the tail of a rabbit, if you were to bring me all the skins in Labrador!"

The consequence of this vigorous conduct was that the Indians retired crestfallen -- utterly discomfited. But in the camp that night they plotted revenge. In the darkness of the night they slaughtered all the cattle around the establishment, and before daybreak were over the hills and far away in the direction of their hunting-grounds, loaded with fresh beef sufficient for the supply of themselves and their families for the winter! It was a heavy price to pay; but the poor Esquimaux remained unmolested that year, while the Indians received a salutary lesson. But the compulsory peace was soon broken, and it became apparent that the only effectual way to check the bloodthirsty propensity of the Indians was to arm their enemies with the gun. The destruction of the first expedition to the Esquimaux, and the bad feeling that existed in the minds of the natives of Richmond Gulf consequent thereon, induced the fur-traders to fix on another locality for a new attempt. It was thought that the remote solitudes of Ungava Bay, at the extreme north of Labrador, -- where the white man's axe had never yet felled the stunted pines of the north, nor the ring of his rifle disturbed its echoes, -- would be the spot best suited for the erection of a wooden fort.

Accordingly, it was appointed that Mr George Stanley should select a coadjutor, and proceed with a party of picked men to the scene of action as early in the spring as the ice would permit, and there build a fort as he best could, with the best materials he could find; live on whatever the country afforded in the shape of food; establish a trade in oil, whalebone, arctic foxes, etcetera, etcetera, if they were to be got; and bring about a reconciliation between the Esquimaux and the Indians of the interior, if that were possible. With the careful minuteness peculiar to documents, Stanley's instructions went on to point out that he was to start from Moose -- with two half-sized canoes, each capable of carrying ten pieces or packages of 90 pounds weight each, besides the crew -- and bore through the ice, if the ice would allow him, till he should reach Richmond Gulf; cross this gulf, and ascend, if practicable, some of the rivers which fall into it from the height of land supposed, but not positively known, to exist somewhere in the interior. Passing this height, he was to descend by the rivers and lakes (if such existed) leading to the eastward, until he should fall upon a river reported to exist in these lands, and called by the natives Caniapuscaw, or South River, down which he was to proceed to the scene of his labours, Ungava Bay; on reaching which he was considerately left to the unaided guidance of his own discretion! Reduced to their lowest term and widest signification, the instructions directed our friend to start as early as he could, with whom he chose, and with what he liked; travel as fast as possible over terra incognita to a land of ice --  perhaps, also, of desolation -- and locate himself among bloody savages. It was hoped that there would be found a sufficiency of trees wherewith to build him a shelter against a prolonged winter; in the meantime he might enjoy a bright arctic summer sky for his canopy!

But it was known, or at least supposed, that the Esquimaux were fierce and cruel savages, if not cannibals. Their very name implies something of the sort. It signifies eaters of raw flesh, and was bestowed on them by their enemies the Muskigons. They call themselves Innuit-men, or warriors; and although they certainly do eat raw flesh when necessity compels them -- which it often does -- they asserted that they never did so from choice. However, be this as it may, the remembrance of their misdeeds in the first expeditions was fresh in the minds of the men in the service of the fur-traders, and they evinced a decided unwillingness to venture into such a country and among such a people, -- an unwillingness which was only at length overcome when Mrs Stanley and her little daughter heroically volunteered to share the dangers of the expedition in the manner already narrated.

Stanley now made vigorous preparations for his departure. Some of the men had already been enrolled, as we have seen, and there were more than enough of able and active volunteers ready to complete the crews.

"Come hither, lads," he cried, beckoning to two men who were occupied on the bank of the river, near the entrance to Moose Fort, in repairing the side of a canoe.

The men left their work and approached. They were both Esquimaux, and good stout, broad-shouldered, thick-set specimens of the race they were. One was called Oolibuck, [This name is spelt as it should be pronounced. The correct spelling is Ouligbuck], the other Augustus; both of which names are now chronicled in the history of arctic adventure as having belonged to the well-tried and faithful interpreters to Franklin, Back, and Richardson, in their expeditions of north-west discovery.

"I'm glad to see you busy at the canoe, boys," said Stanley, as they came up. "Of course you are both willing to revisit your countrymen."

"Yes, sir, we is. Glad to go where you choose send us," answered Oolibuck, whose broad, oily countenance lighted up with good-humour as he spoke.

"It will remind you of your trip with Captain Franklin," continued Stanley, addressing Augustus.

"Me no like to 'member dat," said the Esquimau, with a sorrowful shake of the head. "Me love bourgeois Franklin, but tink me never see him more."

"I don't know that, old fellow," returned Stanley, with a smile. "Franklin is not done with his discoveries yet; there's a talk of sending off another expedition some of these days, I hear, so you may have a chance yet."

Augustus's black eyes sparkled with pleasure as he heard this. He was a man of strong feeling, and during his journeyings with our great arctic hero had become attached to him in consequence of the hearty and unvarying kindness and consideration with which he treated all under his command. But the spirit of enterprise had been long slumbering, and poor Augustus, who was now past the prime of life, feared that he should never see his kind master more.

"Now I want you, lads, to get everything in readiness for an immediate start," continued Stanley, glancing upwards at the sky; "if the weather holds, we shan't be long off paying your friends a visit. Are both canoes repaired?"

"Yes, sir, they is," replied Oolibuck.

"And the baggage, is it laid out? And -- "

"Pardon, monsieur," interrupted Massan, walking up, and touching his cap. "I've jest been down at the point, and there's a rig'lar nor'-wester a-comin' down. The ice is sweepin' into the river, an' it'll be choked up by to-morrow, I'm afraid."

Stanley received this piece of intelligence with a slight frown, and looked seaward, where a dark line on the horizon and large fields of ice showed that the man's surmise was likely to prove correct.

"It matters not," said Stanley, hastily; "I've made arrangements to start to-morrow, and start we shall, in spite of ice or wind, if the canoes will float!"

Massan, who had been constituted principal steersman of the expedition, in virtue of his well-tried skill and indomitable energy, felt that the tone in which this was said implied a want of confidence in his willingness to go under any circumstances, so he said gravely -- 

"Pardon, monsieur; I did not say we could not start."

"True, true, Massan; don't be hurt. I was only grumbling at the weather," answered Stanley, with a laugh.

Just then the first puff of the coming breeze swept up the river, ruffling its hitherto glassy surface.

"There it comes," cried Stanley, as he quitted the spot. "Now, Massan, see to it that the crews are assembled in good time on the beach to-morrow. We start at daybreak."

"Oui, monsieur," replied Massan, as he turned on his heel and walked away. "Parbleu! we shall indeed start to morrow, an it please you, if all the ice and wind in the polar regions was blowed down the coast and crammed into the river's mouth. C'est vrai!"



Chapter Five.

Ice Looks Unpropitious -- The Start -- An Important Member Of The Party Nearly Forgotten -- Chimo.

Stanley's forebodings and Massan's prognostications proved partly incorrect on the following morning. The mouth of the river, and the sea beyond, were quite full of ice; but it was loose, and intersected in all directions by lanes of open water. Moreover, there was no wind.

The gray light of early morning brightened into dawn, and the first clear ray of the rising sun swept over a scene more beautiful than ever filled the fancy of the most imaginative poet of the Temperate Zones. The sky was perfectly unclouded, and the surface of the sea was completely covered with masses of ice, whose tops were pure white like snow, and their sides a delicate greenish-blue, their dull, frosted appearance forming a striking contrast to the surrounding water, which shone, when the sun glanced upon it, like burnished silver. The masses of ice varied endlessly in form and size, some being flat and large like fields, others square and cornered like bastions or towers -- here a miniature temple with spires and minarets, there a crystal fortress with embrasures and battlements; and, in the midst of these, thousands of broken fragments, having all the varied outlines of the larger masses, appearing like the smaller houses, cottages, and villas of this floating city of ice.

"Oh how beautiful!" exclaimed little Edith, as her father led her and Mrs Stanley towards the canoes, which floated lightly in the water, while the men stood in a picturesque group beside them, leaning on their bright red paddles.

"It is indeed, my pet," replied Stanley, a smile almost of sadness playing around his lips.

"Come, George, don't let evil forebodings assail you to-day," said Mrs Stanley in a low tone. "It does not become the leader of a forlorn hope to cast a shade over the spirits of his men at the very outset." She smiled as she said this, and pressed his arm; but despite herself, there was more of sadness in the smile and in the pressure than she intended to convey.

Stanley's countenance assumed its usual firm but cheerful expression while she spoke. "True, Jessie, I must not damp the men; but when I look at you and our darling Eda, I may be forgiven for betraying a passing glance of anxiety. May the Almighty protect you!"

"Is the country we are going to like this, papa?" inquired Eda, whose intense admiration of the fairy-like scene rendered her oblivious of all else.

"Yes, dear, more like this than anything else you have ever seen; but the sun does not always shine so brightly as it does just now, and sometimes there are terrible snow-storms. But we will build you a nice house, Eda, with a very large fireplace, so that we won't feel the cold."

The entire population of Moose Fort was assembled on the beach to witness the departure of the expedition. The party consisted of fifteen souls. As we shall follow them to the icy regions of Ungava, it may be worth while to rehearse their names in order as follows: -- 

MR. AND MRS. STANLEY and EDITH. FRANK MORTON. MASSAN, the guide. DICK PRINCE, principal hunter to the party. LA ROCHE, Stanley's servant and cook. BRYAN, the blacksmith. FRANCOIS, the carpenter. OOLIBUCK, AUGUSTUS, and MOSES, Esquimau interpreters. GASPARD, labourer and fisherman. OOSTESIMOW and MA-ISTEQUAN, Indian guides and hunters.

The craft in which these were about to embark were three canoes, two of which were large and one small. They were made of birch bark, a substance which is tough, light, and buoyant, and therefore admirably adapted for the construction of craft that have not only to battle against strong and sometimes shallow currents, but have frequently to be carried on the shoulders of their crews over rocks and mountains. The largest canoe was sixteen feet long by five feet broad in the middle, narrowing gradually towards the bow and stern to a sharp edge. Its loading consisted of bales, kegs, casks, and bundles of goods and provisions; each bale or cask weighed exactly 90 pounds, and was called a piece. There were fifteen pieces in the canoe, besides the crew of six men, and Mr Stanley and his family, who occupied the centre, where their bedding, tied up in flat bundles and covered with oiled cloth, formed a comfortable couch. Notwithstanding the size and capacity of this craft, it had been carried down to the beach on the shoulders of Massan and Dick Prince, who now stood at its bow and stern, preventing it with their paddles from rubbing its frail sides against the wharf; for although the bark is tough, and will stand a great deal of tossing in water and plunging among rapids, it cannot sustain the slightest blow from a rock or other hard substance without being cracked, or having the gum which covers the seams scraped off. To those who are unacquainted with travelling in the wild regions of the north it would seem impossible that a long journey could be accomplished in such tender boats; but a little experience proves that, by judicious treatment and careful management, voyages of great length may be safely accomplished in them -- that they are well adapted for the necessities of the country, and can be taken with greater ease through a rough, broken, and mountainous region than ordinary wooden boats, even of smaller size, could be.

The second canoe was in all respects similar to the one we have described, excepting that it was a few inches shorter. The third was much smaller -- so small that it could not contain more than three men, with their provisions and a few bales, and so light that it could with the greatest ease be carried on the shoulders of one man. It was intended to serve as a sort of pioneer and hunting craft, which should lead the way, dart hither and thither in pursuit of game, and warn the main body of any danger that should threaten them ahead. It was manned by the two Indian guides, Oostesimow and Ma-istequan, and by Frank Morton, who being acknowledged one of the best shots of the party, was by tacit understanding regarded as commissary-general. It might have been said that Frank was the best shot, were it not for the fact that the aim of Dick Prince was perfect, and it is generally admitted that perfection cannot be excelled.

Although differing widely in their dispositions and appearance, the men of the expedition were similar at least in one respect -- they were all first-rate, and had been selected as being individually superior to their comrades at Moose Fort. And a noble set of fellows they looked, as they stood beside their respective canoes, leaning on their little, brilliantly coloured paddles, awaiting the embarkation of their leaders. They all wore new suits of clothes, which were sufficiently similar to give the effect of a uniform, yet so far varied in detail as to divest them of monotony, and relieve the eye by agreeable contrast of bright colours. All of them wore light-blue cloth capotes with hoods hanging down behind, all had corduroy trousers gartered below the knee, and all wore moccasins, and had fire-bags stuck in their belts, in which were contained the materials for producing fire, tobacco, and pipes. So far they were alike, but the worsted belts of some were scarlet, of others crimson, and of others striped. Some gartered their trousers with thongs of leather, others used elegant bands of bead-work -- the gifts, probably, of sorrowing sweethearts, sisters, or mothers -- while the fire-bags, besides being composed some of blue, some of scarlet cloth, were ornamented more or less with flowers and fanciful devices elegantly wrought in the gaily-dyed quills of the porcupine.

On seeing Stanley and his wife and child approaching, Massan gave the order to embark. In a moment every man divested himself of his capote, which he folded up and placed on the seat he was to occupy; then, shaking hands all round for the last time, they stepped lightly and carefully into their places.

"All ready, I see, Massan," said Stanley, as he came up, "and the ice seems pretty open. How say you? shall we make a good day of it?"

Massan smiled dubiously as he presented his thick shoulder as a support to Mrs Stanley, while she stepped into her place. He remembered the conversation of the previous evening, and determined that, whatever should happen, he at least would not cast the shadow of a doubt on their prospects. But in his own mind he suspected that their progress would be interrupted ere long, as the wind, although very light -- almost imperceptible -- was coming from the north-west.

"It'll be full flood in less nor half an hour," he replied, "and -- (take care, Miss Edith, give me your little hand; there, now, jump light) -- and we'll be past the p'int by that time, and git the good o' the ebb till sun-down."

"I fear," said Frank Morton, approaching, "that the ice is rather thick for us; but it don't much matter, it will only delay us a bit -- and at any rate we'll make good way as far as the point."

"True, true," said Stanley; "and it's a great matter to get fairly started. Once off we must go forward. All ready, lads?"

"Ay, ay, sir."

"Now, Frank, into your canoe and show us the way; mind we trust to your guidance to keep us clear of blind alleys among these lanes of water in the ice."

At this moment Edith -- who had been for the last few minutes occupied in alternately drying her eyes and kissing her hands to a group of little children who had been her play-fellows during her sojourn at the fort --  uttered a loud exclamation.

"Oh! oh! papa, mamma -- Chimo! -- we've forgot Chimo! Oh me! don't go away yet!"

"So we have!" said her father; "dear me, how stupid to forget our old friend! -- Hallo! Frank, Frank, we've forgot the dog," shouted Stanley to his young comrade, who was on the point of starting.

On hearing this, Frank gave a long, shrill whistle. "That'll bring him if he's within ear-shot."

When the well-known sound broke upon Chimo's ear, he was lying coiled up in front of the kitchen fire, being privileged to do so in consequence of his position as Edith's favourite. The cook, having gone out a few minutes previously, had left Chimo to enjoy his slumbers in solitude, so that, when he started suddenly to his feet on hearing Frank's whistle, he found himself a prisoner. But Chimo was a peculiarly strong-minded and strong-bodied dog, and was possessed of an iron will! He was of the Esquimau breed, and bore some resemblance to the Newfoundland, but was rather shorter in the legs, longer in the body, and more powerfully made. Moreover, he was more shaggy, and had a stout, blunt, straightforward appearance, which conveyed to the beholder the idea that he scorned flattery, and would not consent to be petted on any consideration. Indeed this was the case, for he always turned away with quiet contempt from any of the men who attempted to fondle him. He made an exception, however, of little Edith, whom he not only permitted to clap him to any extent, but deliberately invited her to do so by laying his great head in her lap, rubbing himself against her, and wagging his bushy tail, as if to say, "Now, little girl, do what you will with me!" And Eda never refused the animal's dumb-show request. When she was very young and had not much sense -- at which time Chimo was young too, but possessed of a great deal of sense -- she formed a strong affection for the Esquimau dog, an affection which she displayed by putting her little arms round his neck and hugging him until he felt a tendency to suffocation; she also pulled his ears and tail, and stuffed her fat little hands into his eyes and mouth, -- all of which dreadful actions she seemed to think, in her childish ignorance, must be very pleasant to Chimo, and all of which the dog appeared really to enjoy. At all events, whether he liked it or not, he came regularly to have himself thus treated every day. As Eda grew older she left off choking her favourite and poking out his eyes, and contented herself with caressing him. Chimo also evinced a partiality for Mr Stanley and Frank Morton, and often accompanied the latter on his hunting excursions; but he always comported himself towards them with dignified hauteur, accepting their caresses with a slight wag of acknowledgment, but never courting their favour.

On jumping up, as we have already said, and observing that the door was shut, the dog looked slowly and calmly round the apartment, as if to decide on what was best to be done; for Chimo was a dog of great energy of character, and was never placed in any circumstances in which he did not pursue some decided course of action. On the present occasion there was not a hole, except the key-hole, by which he could hope to make his escape. Yes, by-the-bye, there was a hole in the window, which was made of parchment; but as that was merely the bullet-hole through which the animal that had given his skin for a window had been shot, and was not larger than a shilling, it did not afford much hope. Nevertheless Chimo regarded it with a steady gaze for a minute or two, then he turned to the fire, and having satisfied himself that the chimney was impracticable, being full of flames and smoke, he faced the window once more, and showed his teeth, as if in chagrin.

"Whew-ew! Chimo-o-o!" came Frank's voice, floating faintly from afar. Chimo took aim at the bullet-hole. One vigorous bound -- a horrible crash, that nearly caused the returning cook to faint -- and the dog was free.

"Ah, here he comes! -- good dog!" cried Frank, as the animal came bounding over intervening obstacles towards the canoes. Chimo made straight for the small canoe, in answer to his master's call; but, like many dogs and not a few men, he owned a higher power than that of a master. The voice of his little mistress sounded sweetly in his ear, like the sound of a silver bell. "O Chimo, Chimo! my darling pet! come here -- here." It was a soft, tiny voice at the loudest, and was quite drowned amid the talking and laughter of the men, but Chimo heard it. Turning at a sharp angle from his course, he swept past the light canoe, and bounding into that of Mr Stanley, lay down beside Eda and placed his head in her lap, where it was immediately smothered in the caresses of its young mistress.

Mr Stanley smiled and patted his little girl on the shoulder, as he said, "That's right, Eda; the love of a faithful dog is worth having and cherishing." Then turning towards the stern of the canoe, where Massan stood erect, with his steering paddle ready for action, he said to that worthy -- 

"Now, Massan, all ready; give the word."

"Ho, ho, boys; forward!"

The paddles dipped simultaneously in the water with a loud, gurgling sound; the two large canoes shot out into the stream abreast of each other, preceded by the light one, which, urged forward by the powerful arms of Frank and the two Indians, led the way among the floating fields of ice. The people on shore took off their caps and waved a last farewell. Dick Prince, who possessed a deep, loud, sonorous voice, began one of those beautiful and wild yet plaintive songs peculiar to the voyageurs of the wilderness. The men joined, with a full, rich swell, in the chorus, as they darted forward with arrow-like speed -- and the voyage began.



Chapter Six.

Character Partially Developed -- Ducks For Supper -- A Threatened "Nip" --  Bundled Out On The Ice.

Fortunately the wind veered round to the south-east soon after the departure of the canoes from Moose Fort, and although there was not enough of it to ruffle the surface of the river, it had the effect of checking the influx of ice from James's Bay. The tide, too, began to ebb, so that the progress of the canoes was even more rapid than it appeared to be; and long before the sun set, they were past the point at the mouth of the river, and coasting along the shores of the salt ocean.

Outside of them the sea was covered with hummocks and fields of ice, some of which ever and anon met in the cross currents caused by the river, with a violent shock. Close to the shore, however, the thickness of the ice caused it to strand, leaving a lane of open water, along which the canoes proceeded easily, the depth of water being much more than sufficient for them, as the largest canoe did not draw more than a foot. Sometimes, however, this space was blocked up by smaller fragments, and considerable difficulty was experienced in steering the canoes amongst them. Had the party travelled in boats, they would have easily dashed through many of these checks; but with canoes it is far otherwise. Not only are their bark sides easily broken, but the seams are covered with a kind of pitch which becomes so brittle in ice-cold water that it chips off in large lumps with the slightest touch. For the sea, therefore, boats are best; but when it comes to carrying the craft over waterfalls and up mountain sides, for days and weeks together, canoes are more useful, owing to their lightness.

"Take care, Massan," said Mr Stanley, on approaching one of these floes. "Don't chip the gum off if you can help it. If we spring a leak, we shan't spend our first night on a pleasant camping-ground, for the shore just hereabouts does not look inviting."

"No fear, sir," replied Massan. "Dick Prince is in the bow, and as long as his mouth's shut I keep my mind easy."

"You appear to have unlimited confidence in Prince," said Stanley, with a smile. "Does he never fail in anything, that you are so sure of him?"

"Fail!" exclaimed the steersman, whose paddle swept constantly in a circle round his head, while he changed it from side to side as the motions of the canoe required -- "fail! ay, that does he sometimes. Mortal man must get on the wrong side o' luck now and then. I've seen Dick Prince fail, but I never saw him make a mistake."

"Well, I've no doubt that he deserves your good opinion. Nevertheless, be more than ordinarily careful. If you had a wife and child in the canoe, Massan, you would understand my anxiety better." Stanley smiled as he said this, and the worthy steersman replied in a grave tone, -- "I have the wife and child of my bourgeois under my care."

"True, true, Massan," said Stanley, lying back on his couch and conversing with his wife in an undertone.

"'Tis curious," said he, "to observe the confidence that Massan has in Prince; and yet it would be difficult to say wherein consists the superiority of the one over the other."

"Perhaps it is the influence of a strong mind over a weaker," suggested his wife.

"It may be so. Yet Prince is an utterly uneducated man. True, he shoots a hair's-breadth better than Massan; but he is not a better canoe-man, neither is he more courageous, and he is certainly less powerful: nevertheless Massan looks up to him and speaks of him as if he were greatly his superior. The secret of his power must lie in that steady, never-wavering inflexibility of purpose, that characterises our good bowman in everything he does."

"Papa," said Edith, who had been holding a long conversation with Chimo on the wonders of the scene around them -- if we may call that a conversation where the one party does all the talking and the other all the listening -- "papa, where shall we all sleep to-night?"

The thought seemed to have struck her for the first time, and she looked up eagerly for an answer, while Chimo gave a deep sigh of indifference, and went to sleep, or pretended to do so, where he was.

"In the woods, Eda. How do you think you will like it?"

"Oh, I'm sure I shall like it very much," replied the little one. "I've often wished to live in the woods altogether like the Indians, and do nothing but wander about and pull berries."

"Ah, Jessie," said Stanley, "what an idle little baggage your daughter is! I fear she's a true chip of the old block!"

"Which do you consider the old block," retorted Mrs Stanley -- "you or me?"

"Never mind, wife; we'll leave that an open question. -- But tell me, Eda, don't you think that wandering about and pulling berries would be a very useless sort of life?"

"No," replied Edith, gravely. "Mamma often tells me that God wants me to be happy, and I'm quite sure that wandering about all day in the beautiful woods would make me happy."

"But, my darling," said Stanley, smiling at the simplicity of this plausible argument in favour of an idle life, "don't you know that we ought to try to make others happy too, as well as ourselves?"

"Oh yes," replied Eda, with a bright smile, "I know that, papa; and I would try to make everybody happy by going with them and showing them where the finest flowers and berries were to be found; and so we would all be happy together, and that's what God wants, is it not?"

Mr Stanley glanced towards his wife with an arch smile. "There, Jessie, what think you of that?"

"Nay, husband, what think you?"

"I think," he replied in an undertone, "that your sagacious teaching against idleness, and in favour of diligence and attention to duty, and so forth, has not taken very deep root yet."

"And I think," said Mrs Stanley, "that however wise you men may be in some things, you are all most incomprehensibly stupid in regard to the development of young minds."

"Take care now, Jessie; you're verging upon metaphysics. But you have only given me your opinion of men as yet; you have still to say what you think of Eda's acknowledged predilection for idleness."

"Well," replied Mrs Stanley, "I think that my sagacious teaching, as you are pleased to call it, has taken pretty firm root already, and that Eda's speech is one of the first bright, beautiful blossoms, from which we may look for much fruit hereafter; for to make one's self and one's fellow-creatures happy, because such is the will of God, seems to me a simple and comprehensive way of stating the whole duty of man."

Stanley's eyes opened a little at this definition. "Hum! multum in parvo; it may be so," he said; and casting down his eyes, he was soon lost in a profound reverie, while the canoe continued to progress forward by little impulsive bounds, under the rapid stroke of the paddles. Eda rested her fair cheek on the shaggy brow of Chimo, and accompanied him to the land of nod, until the sun began to sink behind the icebergs on the seaward horizon, where a dark line indicated an approaching breeze.

Massan cast an uneasy glance at this from time to time. At length he called to his friend in the bow, "Hello, Prince! will it come stiff; think ye?"

"No," replied Prince, rising and shading his eyes with his hand; "it'll be only a puff; but that's enough to drive the ice down on us, an' shut up the open water."

"It's my 'pinion," said Massan, "that we should hold away for the p'int yonder, an' camp there."

Dick Prince nodded assent, and resumed his paddle.

As he did so the report of a gun came sharply over the water.

"Ha!" exclaimed Stanley, looking out ahead; "what's that?"

"Only Mr Frank," said Massan; "he's dowsed two birds. I see'd them splash into the water."

"That's right," said Stanley; "we shall have something fresh for the kettle to-night. And, by the way, we'll need all we can kill, for we haven't much provision to depend on, and part of it must be reserved in case of accidents, so that if Frank does not do his duty, we shall have to live on birch bark, Massan."

"That would be rayther tough. I'm afeerd," replied the steersman, laughing. "I've tried the tail o' a deer-skin coat afore now, an' it wasn't much to boast of; but I niver tried a birch-bark steak. I doubt it would need a power o' chewin?"

By this time the two large canoes had drawn gradually nearer to the leading one. As they approached, Frank ordered his men to cease paddling.

"Well, Frank, what success?" said Stanley, as they came up.

"There's our supper," cried Frank, tossing a large duck into the canoe; "and there's a bite for the men," he added, sending a huge gray goose into the midst of them. "I saw a herd of reindeer on the other side of the point; but the ice closed up the passage, and prevented me from getting within range. It will stop our further progress for to-night too; so I waited to advise you to camp here."

"There it comes!" cried Dick Prince. "Jump out on the ice, lads, and unload as fast as you can."

As Dick spoke he sprang on to a field of ice which was attached to the shore, and drawing the canoe alongside, began hastily to remove the cargo. His example was instantly followed by the men, who sprang over the gunwales like cats; and in less than five minutes the cargoes were scattered over the ice. Meanwhile, the breeze which Massan had observed continued to freshen, and the seaward ice bore rapidly down on the shore, gradually narrowing and filling up the lanes of water among which the travellers had been hitherto wending their way. Dick Prince's sudden action was caused by his observing a large, solid field, which bore down on them with considerable rapidity. His warning was just in time, for the goods were scarcely landed and the three canoes lifted out of the water, when the ice closed in with a crash that would have ground the frail barks to pieces, and the passage was closed up. So completely was every trace of water obliterated, that it seemed as though there never had been any there before.



Chapter Seven.

Shows How The Party Made Themselves At Home In The Bush -- Talk Round The Camp Fire -- A Flash Of Temper -- Turning In.

The spot where they were thus suddenly arrested in their progress was a small bay, formed by a low point which jutted from the mainland, and shut out the prospect in advance. There was little or no wood on the point, except a few stunted willows, which being green and small would not, as La Roche the cook remarked, "make a fire big enough to roast the wing of a mosquito." There was no help for it, however. The spot on which Massan had resolved to encamp for the night was three miles on the other side of the point, and as the way was now solid ice instead of water, there was no possibility of getting there until a change of wind should drive the ice off the shore. Moreover, it was now getting dark, and it behoved them to make their preparations with as much speed as possible. Accordingly, Massan and Prince shouldered one canoe, Francois and Gaspard carried the other, and the light one was placed on the shoulders of Bryan the blacksmith; La Roche took the provision-basket and cooking utensils under his special charge; while the three Esquimau interpreters and the two Indian guides busied themselves in carrying the miscellaneous goods and baggage into camp. As for Chimo, he seated himself quietly on a lump of ice, and appeared to superintend the entire proceedings; while his young mistress and her mother, accompanied by Frank and Stanley, crossed the ice to the shore, to select a place for their encampment.

But it was some time ere a suitable place could be found, as the point happened to be low and swampy, and poor Eda's first experience of a life in the woods was stepping into a hole which took her up to the knees in mud and water. She was not alone, however, in misfortune, for just at the same moment Bryan passed through the bushes with his canoe, and staggered into the same swamp, exclaiming as he did so, in a rich brogue which many years' residence among the French half-breeds of Rupert's Land had failed to soften, "Thunder an' turf! such a blackguard counthry I niver did see. Och, Bryan dear, why did ye iver lave yer native land?"

"Pourquoi, why, mon boy? for ver' goot raison," cried La Roche, in a horrible compound of French and broken English, as he skipped lightly past, with a loud laugh, "for ver' goot raison -- dey was tired of you to home, vraiment. You was too grande raskale; dey could not keep you no longer."

"Thrue for ye, La Roche," replied the blacksmith, "thrue for ye, boy; they sartinly could not keep me on nothin', an' as the murphies was all sp'iled wi' the rot, I had to lave or starve."

At last, after a long search, Frank Morton found a spot pretty well adapted for their purpose. It was an elevated plot of gravel, which was covered with a thin carpet of herbage, and surrounded by a belt of willows which proved a sufficient shelter against the wind. A low and rather shaggy willow-tree spread its branches over the spot, and gave to it a good deal of the feeling and appearance of shelter, if not much of the reality. This was of little consequence, however, as the night proved fine and comparatively mild, so that the black vault of heaven, spangled with hosts of brilliant stars, amply compensated for the want of a leafy canopy.

Under the willow-tree, Frank and La Roche busied themselves in spreading a very small white tent for Mr Stanley and his family. Frank himself, although entitled from his position in the Company's service to the luxury of a tent, scorned to use one, preferring to rough it like the men, and sleep beneath the shelter of the small canoe. Meanwhile, Mr Stanley proceeded to strike a light with his flint and steel; and Bryan, having deposited his burden near the tent, soon collected a sufficiency of driftwood to make a good fire. Edith and her mother were not idle in the midst of this busy scene. They collected a few bundles of dried twigs to make the fire light more easily, and after the blaze was casting its broad glare of light over the camp, and the tent was pitched, they assisted La Roche in laying the cloth for supper. Of course, in a journey like this, none but necessary articles were taken, and these were of the most homely character. The kettle was the tea-pot, the cups were tin pannikins, and the table-cloth was a large towel, while the table itself was the ground, from the damp of which, however, the party in the tent were protected by an ample oil-cloth.

When all the things were carried up, and the men assembled, the camp presented the following appearance: in the centre of the open space, which nature had arranged in the form of a circle, blazed the fire; and a right jovial, sputtering, outrageous fire it was, sending its sparks flying in all directions, like the artillery of a beleaguered fortress in miniature, and rolling its flames about in fierce and wayward tongues, that seemed bent on licking in and swallowing up the entire party, but more especially La Roche, who found no little difficulty in paying due attention to his pots and kettles. Sometimes the flames roared fiercely upwards, singeing off the foliage of the overhanging willow as they went, and then, bursting away from their parent fire, portions of them floated off for a few seconds on the night air. On the weather side of this fire stood Mr Stanley's tent, under the willow-tree, as before described, its pure white folds showing strongly against the darkness of the sky beyond. The doorway, or curtain of the tent, was open, displaying the tea-equipage within, and the smiling countenances of Stanley and his wife, Frank and Eda, who, seated on blankets and shawls around the towel, were preparing to make an assault on the fat duck before mentioned. This duck had been split open and roasted on a piece of stick before the blaze, and now stood with the stumps of its wings and legs extended, as if demanding urgently to be eaten -- a demand which Chimo, who crouched near the doorway, could scarce help complying with.

To the right of the tent was placed the small canoe, bottom up, so as to afford a partial protection to the bedding which Oostesimow was engaged in spreading out for Frank and himself and his comrade Ma-Istequan. Facing this, at the other side of the fire, and on the left of the tent, the largest canoe was turned up in a similar manner, and several of the men were engaged in covering the ground beneath it with a layer of leaves and branches, above which they spread their blankets; while others lounged around the fire and smoked their beloved pipes, or watched with impatient eyes the operations of Bryan, who, being accustomed to have familiar dealings with the fire, had been deemed worthy of holding the office of cook to the men, and was inducted accordingly.

It is due to Bryan to say that he fully merited the honour conferred upon him; for never, since the days of Vulcan, was there a man seen who could daringly dabble in the fire as he did. He had a peculiar sleight-of-hand way of seizing hold of and tossing about red-hot coals with his naked hand, that induced one to believe he must be made of leather. Flames seemed to have no effect whatever on his sinewy arms when they licked around them; and as for smoke, he treated it with benign contempt. Not so La Roche: with the mercurial temperament of his class he leaped about the fire, during his culinary operations, in a way that afforded infinite amusement to his comrades, and not unfrequently brought him into violent collision with Bryan, who usually received him on such occasions with a strong Irish growl, mingled with a disparaging or contemptuous remark.

Beyond the circle of light thrown by the fire was the belt of willows which encompassed the camp on all sides except towards the sea, where a narrow gap formed a natural entrance and afforded a glimpse of the ocean with its fields and hummocks of ice floating on its calm bosom and glancing in the faint light of the moon, which was then in its first quarter.

"How comfortable and snug everything is!" said Mrs Stanley, as she poured out the tea, while her husband carved the duck.

"Yes, isn't it, Eda?" said Frank, patting his favourite on the head, as he held out her plate for a wing. "There, give her a bit of the breast too," he added. "I know she's ravenously hungry, for I saw her looking at Chimo, just before we landed, as if she meant to eat him for supper without waiting to have him cooked."

"O Frank, how can you be so wicked?" said Eda, taking up her knife and fork and attacking the wing with so much energy as almost to justify her friend's assertion.

"Snug, said you, Jessie? yes, that's the very word to express it," said Stanley. "There's no situation that I know of (and I wasn't born yesterday) that is so perfectly snug, and in all respects comfortable, as an encampment in the woods on a fine night in spring or autumn."

"Or winter," added Frank, swallowing a pannikin of tea at a draught, nodding to Chimo, as much as to say, "Do that if you can, old fellow," and handing it to Mrs Stanley to be replenished. "Don't omit winter --  cold, sharp, sunny winter. An encampment in the snow, in fine weather, is as snug as this."

"Rather cold, is it not?" said Mrs Stanley.

"Cold! not a bit," replied Frank, making a reckless dive with his hand into the biscuit-bag; "if you have enough wood to get up a roaring fire, six feet long by three broad and four deep, with a bank of snow five feet high all around ye, a pine-tree with lots of thick branches spreading overhead to keep off the snow, and two big green blankets to keep out the frost -- (another leg of that widgeon, please) -- you've no notion how snug it is, I assure you."

"Hum!" ejaculated Stanley, with a dubious smile, "you forgot to add -- a youthful, robust frame, with the blood careering through the veins like wildfire, to your catalogue of requisites. No doubt it is pleasant enough in its way; but commend me to spring or autumn for thorough enjoyment, when the air is mild, and the waters flowing, and the woods green and beautiful."

"Why don't you speak of summer, papa?" said Eda, who had been listening intently to this conversation.

"Summer, my pet! because -- "

"Allow me to explain," interrupted Frank, laying down his knife and fork, and placing the forefinger of his right hand in his left palm, as if he were about to make a speech. "Because, Eda, because there is such a thing as heat -- long-continued, never-ending, sweltering heat. Because there are such reprehensible and unutterably detestable insects as mosquitoes, and sand-flies, and bull-dogs; and there is such a thing as being bitten, and stung, and worried, and sucked into a sort of partial madness; and I have seen such sights as men perpetually slapping their own faces, and scratching the skin off their own cheeks with their own nails, and getting no relief thereby, but rather making things worse; and I have, moreover, seen men's heads swelled until the eyes and noses were lost, and the mouths only visible when opened, and their general aspect like that of a Scotch haggis; and there is a time when all this accumulates on man and beast till the latter takes to the water in desperation, and the former takes to intermittent insanity, and that time is -- summer. -- Another cup, please, Mrs Stanley. 'Pon my conscience, it creates thirst to think of it."

At this stage the conversation of the party in the tent was interrupted by a loud peal of laughter mingled with not a few angry exclamations from the men. La Roche, in one of his frantic leaps to avoid a tongue of flame which shot out from the fire with a vicious velocity towards his eyes, came into violent contact with Bryan while that worthy was in the act of lifting a seething kettle of soup and boiled pork from the fire. Fortunately for the party whose supper was thus placed in jeopardy, Bryan stood his ground; but La Roche, tripping over a log, fell heavily among the pannikins, tin plates, spoons, and knives, which had been just laid out on the ground in front of the canoe.

"Ach! mauvais chien," growled Gaspard, as he picked up and threw away the fragments of his pipe, "you're always cuttin' and jumpin' about like a monkey."

"Oh! pauvre crapaud," cried Francois, laughing; "don't abuse him, Gaspard. He's a useful dog in his way."

"Tare an' ages! you've done it now, ye have. Bad luck to ye! wasn't I for iver tellin' ye that same. Shure, if it wasn't that ye're no bigger or heavier than a wisp o' pea straw, ye'd have druve me and the soup into the fire, ye would. Be the big toe o' St. Patrick, not to mintion his riverince the Pope -- "

"Come, come, Bryan," cried Massan, "don't speak ill o' the Pope, an' down wi' the kettle."

"The kittle, is it? Sorra a kittle ye'll touch, Massan, till it's cool enough to let us all start fair at wance. Ye've got yer mouth and throat lined wi' brass, I believe, an' would ate the half o't before a soul of us could taste it!"

"Don't insult me, you red-faced racoon," retorted Massan, while he and his comrades circled round the kettle, and began a vigorous attack on the scalding mess; "my throat is not so used to swallowin' fire as your own. I never knowed a man that payed into the grub as you do. -- Bah! how hot it is. -- I say, Oolibuck, doesn't it remember you o' the dogs o' yer own country, when they gits the stone kettle to clean out?"

Oolibuck's broad visage expanded with a chuckle as he lifted an enormous wooden spoonful of soup to his ample mouth. "Me tink de dogs of de Innuit [Esquimaux] make short work of dis kettle if 'e had 'im."

"Do the dogs of the Huskies eat with their masters?" inquired Francois, as he groped in the kettle with his fork in search of a piece of pork.

"Dey not eat wid der masters, but dey al'ays clean hout de kettle," replied Moses, somewhat indignantly.

"Ha!" exclaimed Massan, pausing for a few minutes to recover breath; "yes, they always let the dogs finish off the feast. Ye must know, comrades, that I've seed them do it myself -- anyways I've seed a man that knew a feller who said he had a comrade that wintered once with the Huskies, which is pretty much the same thing. An' he said that sometimes when they kill a big seal, they boil it whole an' have a rig'lar feast. Ye must understand, mes garcons, that the Huskies make thumpin' big kettles out o' a kind o' soft stone they find in them parts, an' some o' them's big enough to boil a whole seal in. Well, when the beast is cooked, they take it out o' the pot, an' while they're tuckin' into it, the dogs come and sit in a ring round the pot to wait till the soup's cool enough to eat. They knows well that it's too hot at first, an' that they must have a deal o' patience; but afore long some o' the young uns can't hold on, so they steps up somewhat desperate like, and pokes their snouts in. Of course they pulls them out pretty sharp with a yell, and sit down to rub their noses for a bit longer. Then the old uns take courage an' make a snap at it now and again, but very tenderly, till it gits cooler at last, an' then at it they go, worryin', an' scufflin', an' barkin', an' gallopin', just like Moses there, till the pot's as clean as the day it wos made."

"Ha! ha! oh, ver' goot, tres bien; ah! mon coeur, just tres splendiferous!" shouted La Roche, whose risibility was always easily tickled.

"It's quite true, though -- isn't it, Moses?" said Massan, as he once more applied to the kettle, while some of his comrades cut up the goose that Frank had shot in the afternoon.

"Why, Moses, what a capacity you have for grub!" said Francois. "If your countrymen are anything like you, I don't wonder that they have boiled seals and whales for dinner."

"It'll take a screamin' kittle for a whale," spluttered Bryan, with his mouth full, "an' a power o' dogs to drink the broth."

"You tink you funny, Bryan," retorted Moses, while an oily smile beamed on his fat, good-humoured countenance; "but you not; you most dreadful stupid."

"Thrue for ye, Moses; I was oncommon stupid to let you sit so long beside the kittle," replied the Irishman, as he made a futile effort to scrape another spoonful from the bottom of it. "Och! but ye've licked it as clane as one of yer own dogs could ha' done it."

"Mind your eye!" growled Gaspard, at the same time giving La Roche a violent push, as that volatile worthy, in one of his eccentric movements, nearly upset his can of water.

"Oh! pardon, monsieur," exclaimed La Roche, in pretended sorrow, at the same time making a grotesque bow that caused a general peal of laughter.

"Why, one might as well travel with a sick bear as with you, Gaspard," said Francois half angrily.

"Hold your jaw," replied Gaspard.

"Not at your bidding," retorted Francois, half rising from his reclining posture, while his colour heightened. Gaspard had also started up, and it seemed as if the little camp were in danger of becoming a scene of strife, when Dick Prince, who was habitually silent and unobtrusive, preferring generally to listen rather than to speak, laid his hand on Gaspard's broad shoulder and pulled him somewhat forcibly to the ground.

"Shame on you, comrades!" he said, in a low, grave voice, that instantly produced a dead silence; "shame on you, to quarrel on our first night in the bush! We've few enough friends in these parts, I think, that we should make enemies o' each other."

"That's well said," cried Massan, in a very decided tone. "It won't do to fall out when there's so few of us." And the stout voyageur thrust his foot against the logs on the fire, causing a rich cloud of sparks to ascend, as if to throw additional light on his remark.

"Pardon me, mes comrades," cried Francois; "I did not intend to quarrel;" and he extended his hand to Gaspard, who took it in silence, and dropping back again to his recumbent posture, resumed his pipe.

This little scene was witnessed by the party in the tent, who were near enough to overhear all that was said by the men, and even to converse with them if they should desire to do so. A shade of anxiety crossed Mr Stanley's countenance, and some time after, recurring to the subject, he said -- 

"I don't feel quite easy about that fellow Gaspard. He seems a sulky dog, and is such a Hercules that he might give us a deal of trouble if he were high-spirited."

A slight smile of contempt curled Frank's lip as he said, "A strong arm without a bold heart is not of more value than that of my Eda here in the hour of danger. But I think better of Gaspard than you seem to do. He's a sulky enough dog, 'tis true; but he is a good, hard worker, and does not grumble; and I sometimes have noticed traces of a better spirit than usually meets the eye. As for his bulk, I think nothing of it; he wants high spirit to make it available. Francois could thrash him any day."

"Perhaps so," replied Stanley; "I hope they won't try their mettle on each other sooner than we expect. Not that I care a whit for any of the men having a round or two now and then and be done with it; but this fellow seems to 'nurse his wrath to keep it warm.' On such an expedition as ours, it behoves us to have a good understanding and a kindly feeling in the camp. One black sheep in the flock may do much damage."

"He's only piebald, not black," said Frank, laughing, as he rose to quit the tent. "But I must leave you. I see that Eda's eyes are refusing to keep open any longer, so good-night to you all, and a sound sleep."

Frank's concluding remarks in reference to him were overheard by Gaspard, who had risen to look at the night, and afterwards kneeled near the tent, in order to be at some distance from his comrades while he said his prayers; for, strange though it may seem, many of the rough and reckless voyageurs of that country, most of whom are Roman Catholics, regularly retire each night to kneel and pray beneath a tree before lying down on their leafy couches, and deem the act quite consistent with the swearing and quarrelling life that too many of them lead. Such is human nature. As Gaspard rose from his knees Frank's words fell upon his ear, and when he drew his blanket over his head that night there was a softer spot in his heart and a wrinkle less on his brow.

When Frank stepped over to the place where his canoe lay, the aspect of the camp was very different from what it had been an hour before. The fire had burned low, and was little more than a mass of glowing embers, from which a fitful flame shot forth now and then, casting a momentary glare on the forms of the men, who, having finished their pipes, were all extended in a row, side by side, under the large canoe. As they possessed only a single green blanket each, they had to make the most of their coverings, by rolling them tightly around their bodies, and doubling the ends down under their feet and over their heads; so that they resembled a row of green bolsters, all their feet being presented towards the fire, and all their heads resting on their folded capotes. A good deal of loud and regular snoring proved that toil and robust health seldom court the drowsy god long in vain. Turning to his own canoe, Frank observed that his Indian friends were extended out under it, with a wide space between them, in which his own bedding was neatly arranged. The grave sons of the forest had lain down to rest long before their white comrades, and they now lay as silent and motionless as the canoe that covered their heads. Being a small canoe, it did not afford protection to their legs and feet; but in fine weather this was of no consequence, and for the morrow they cared not.

Before lying down Frank kneeled to commend himself and his comrades to the protection of God; then stirring up the embers of the fire, he pulled out a small Bible from his breast pocket and sat down on a log to read. Frank was a careless, rollicking, kind-hearted fellow, and how much there was of true religion in these acts none but himself could tell. But the habit of reading the Word, and of prayer, had been instilled into him from infancy by a godly mother, and he carried it with him into the wilderness.

When he drew his blanket over him and laid his head on his capote the stars were still twinkling, and the moon still sailed in a clear sky and gave silver edges to the ice upon the sea. All was calm and solemn and beautiful, and it seemed as if it could never be otherwise in such a tranquil scene. But nature does not always smile. Appearances are often deceitful.



Chapter Eight.

Bryan's Adventure With A Polar Bear, Etcetera.

Ice, ice, ice! everything seemed to have been converted into ice when the day broke on the following morning and awoke the sleepers in the camp. A sharp frost during the night, accompanied by a fall of snow, had, as if by magic, converted spring into winter. Icy particles hung upon and covered, not only the young leaves and buds of the bushes, but the branches also, giving to them a white and extremely airy appearance. Snow lay on the upper sides of the canoes, and weighed heavily on the tent, causing its folds, once seemingly so pure and white, to look dirty by contrast. Snow lay on the protruding legs of the men, and encircled the black spot where rested the ashes of last night's brilliant fire. Ice grated on the pebbles of the shore; ice floated on the sea; icy hummocks and mounds rose above its surface; and icebergs raised their pinnacles on the far-off horizon, and cut sharply into the bright blue sky.

It was cold, but it was not cheerless; for when Eda put out her head at the curtain doorway of the tent, and opened her eyes upon the magic scene, the sun's edge rose above the horizon, as if to greet her, and sent a flood of light far and near through the spacious universe, converting the sea into glass, with islands of frosted silver on its bosom. It was a gorgeous scene, worthy of its great Creator, who in His mysterious working scatters gems of beauty oftentimes in places where there is scarce a single human eye to behold their excellence.

Although the sea was covered with ice, there were, nevertheless, several lanes of open water not far from the shore; so that when Stanley called a council, composed of Frank Morton, Dick Prince, and Massan, it was agreed unanimously that they should attempt to proceed. And it was well that they did so; for they had not advanced many miles, winding their way cautiously among the canals of open water, when they doubled a promontory, beyond which there was little or no ice to be seen, merely a few scattered fragments and fields, that served to enhance the beauty of the scene by the airy lightness of their appearance in contrast with the bright blue of the sea and sky, but did not interrupt the progress of the travellers. The three canoes always maintained their relative positions during the journey as much as possible. That is to say, Frank and the two Indians went first in the small canoe, to lead the way, while the two large canoes kept abreast of each other when the open water was wide enough to permit of their doing so. This, besides being more sociable, enabled the two crews to join in the chorus of those beautiful songs with which they frequently enlivened the voyage.

During all this day, and for many days following, they continued to enjoy fine weather and to make rapid progress. Sometimes the ice was pretty thick, and once or twice they narrowly escaped being nipped by collapsing masses, which caused them to jump out, hastily throw the baggage on the ice, and haul the canoes out of the water. On these occasions the men proved themselves to be sterling fellows, nearly all of them being cool, prompt, and collected in the moment of danger. No doubt there were exceptions. La Roche, when any sudden crisis of danger arose, usually threw himself blindly over the side of the canoe on to the ice with the lightness and agility of a harlequin. He recked not whether he came down on his head or his feet, and more than once nearly broke his neck in consequence of his precipitancy. But La Roche was no coward, and the instant the first burst of excitement was over he rushed to render effective assistance. Bryan, too, although not so mercurial as La Roche, was apt to lose self-command for about five minutes when any sudden danger assailed him, so that he frequently sat still, staring wildly straight before him, while the others were actively unloading the canoes; and once, when the danger was more critical than usual, having sat till the canoe was empty, and paid no attention to a prompt, gruff order to jump ashore, he had been seized by the strong arms of Gaspard and tossed out of the canoe like a puppy dog. On these occasions he invariably endeavoured to make up for his fault by displaying, on recovery, the most outrageous and daring amount of unnecessary recklessness, -- uttering, at the same time, an amazing number of strange expressions, among which "Tare an' ages!" "Och! murder!" and several others less lucid in signification, predominated. Chimo was always first ashore, and instantly wheeled round to greet Eda, who was also always second, thanks to the strong and prompt arm of Francois, who sat just in front, and by tacit agreement took her under his special charge. As for Mrs Stanley, the arm that was rightfully her own, and had been her shield in many a scene of danger, proved ever ready and able to succour the "first volunteer" to Ungava.

At times the sea was quite free of ice, and many miles were soon added to the space which separated the little band of adventurers from the rest of the human world. Their encampments varied according to the nature of the coast, being sometimes among pine-trees, or surrounded by dwarf willows; at other times on the bare sand of the sea-shore; and occasionally at the extremity of long-projecting capes and promontories, where they had to pitch their tent and make their beds in the clefts of the solid rock. But wherever they laid them down to rest -- on the rock, or on the sand, or within the shade of the forest -- it was always found, as Mrs Stanley remarked of the first night's encampment, that they were extremely comfortable and eminently snug.

They were successful, too, in procuring an ample supply of fresh provisions. There were ducks and geese of various kinds, and innumerable quantities of plover, cormorants, gulls, and eider-ducks, the eggs of which they found in thousands. Many of these birds were good for food, and the eggs of most of them, especially those of the eider-duck, were excellent. Reindeer were also met with; and, among other trophies of his skill as a hunter, Frank one day brought in a black bear, parts of which were eaten with great gusto by the Esquimaux and Indians, to the immense disgust of Bryan, who expressed his belief that the "haythens was barely fit to live," and were most justly locked out from society in "thim dissolate polar raygeons." There were many seals, also, in the sea, which put up their ugly, grotesque heads ever and anon, gazed at the canoes with their huge, fishy eyes, as in surprise at the sight of such novel marine monsters, and then sank slowly beneath the wave. These animals were never molested, out of respect to the feelings of the two Indians, who believed them to be gods, and assured Stanley that the destruction of one would infallibly bring down ill-luck and disaster on the heads of the party. Stanley smiled inwardly at this, but gave orders that no seals should be shot --  an order which all were very willing to obey, as they did not require the animals either for food or any other purpose. Several white polar bears were seen, but they also were spared, as they require a great deal of shot to kill them, if not hit exactly behind the ear; and besides, neither their bodies nor skins were of any use to the travellers.

Thus all went favourably for a time. But life is a chequered story, and the sun of prosperity does not always shine, as we shall see.

One fine morning, as they were paddling cheerfully along in the neighbourhood of Cape Jones, it struck Mr Stanley that he might prove the correctness of his sextant and other instruments before entering upon the country which to most of the party was terra incognita. This was the more necessary that he could not depend on the guidance of Oostesimow and Ma-Istequan, they having travelled only once, long ago, through part of the country, while the latter part of it was totally unknown to them. It was one of those beautiful mornings that are peculiar to arctic regions, when the air is inexpressibly still, and all inanimate nature seems hushed in profound repose -- a repose which is rather rendered more effective than otherwise by the plaintive cries of wild-fowl or the occasional puffing of a whale. There was a peculiar brilliancy, too, in the atmosphere, caused by the presence of so many fields and hummocks of white ice, looming fantastically through a thin, dry, gauze-like haze, which, while it did not dim the brightness of the solar rays, lent an additional charm to every object by shrouding it in a veil of mystery.

On passing the point the men ceased rowing, and proceeded to solace themselves with a five-minutes' pipe -- an indulgence which voyageurs always claim as their due after a long spell at the oars or paddles.

"Put ashore here, Massan," said Stanley, turning to the guide; "I shall take an observation, if possible, and you can set the men to hunt for eggs. We shall want them, as the larder is rather low just now."

Massan muttered assent, and, shouting to the other canoe to put ashore, ran alongside the rocks.

"You'd better hail the little canoe," said Stanley, as he landed. "I shall want Mr Morton to assist me."

Massan stepped upon an elevated rock, and, shading his eyes with his hands, looked earnestly ahead where he observed the little canoe almost beyond vision, and just going to double a point of land. Transferring his hands to his mouth, he used them as a trumpet, and gave forth a shout the like of which had never startled the echoes of the place before.

"It's no use, sir," said Massan; "he's past hearin'. I'm afeerd that they're off in the direction o' the White Bear Hills, in hopes o' gittin' a shot."

"Try again, Massan," urged Stanley; "raise your pipe a little higher. Perhaps it will reach them."

Massan shook his head. "Try it, Bryan," he said, turning to the Irishman, who was sitting on a rock leisurely filling his short, black pipe.

"Is it to halloo ye want me?" replied Bryan, rising. "Shure the great gun of Athlone itself could niver hold a candle to ye, Massan, at yellin'; but I'll try, anyhow;" and putting his hands to his mouth he gave forth a roar compared to which Massan's was nothing. There was a sort of crack in the tone of it, however, that was so irresistibly ridiculous that the whole party burst incontinently into a fit of laughter. Loud though it was, it failed to reach the ears of those in the little canoe, which in a few seconds doubled the point and disappeared.

"Ah, bad luck to it!" said Bryan, in disgust; "the pipe's damaged intirely. Small pace to ye, Bob Mahone; for shure it was howlin' and screechin' at your wake like a born scrandighowl that broke it."

"Never mind, lad; what remains of it is not bad," said Stanley, laughing, as he proceeded to open the box containing his scientific instruments.

Meanwhile his wife and Edith wandered along the rocks picking up shells and pebbles; and the men dispersed, some to smoke and chat, others to search for eggs. Bryan and La Roche, who were both aspiring geniuses, and had formed a sort of rough attachment to each other, asked permission to take a walk to the point ahead, where they would wait for the canoes. Having obtained it, they set off at a good round pace, that would have been "throublesome to kape up," as Bryan remarked, "with payse in yer shoes!"

"Why you come for to jine de company?" inquired La Roche, as they jogged along.

"Why? bekase I'd nothin' else to do, as the ould song says. Ye see, Losh," (Bryan had invented a contraction for his friend's name, which he said was "convanient") -- "ye see, Losh, there may be more nor wan raison for a gintleman lavin' his native land in order to thravel in furrin parts. It's thrue I had nothin' in the univarse to do, for I could niver git work nohow, an' whin I got it I could niver kape it. I niver could onderstan' why, but so it was. Nivertheless I managed to live well enough in the ould cabin wid the murphies -- "

"Vat is murphies?" inquired La Roche.

"Bliss yer innocent face, don't ye know it's praties?"

"'Tis vat?"

"Praties, boy, or pit-taties, if I must be partic'lar."

"Ah! goot, goot, I understan' -- pettitoes. Oui, oui, ye call him pomme de terre."

"Hum! well, as I was sayin', I got on pretty well wid the pumdeterres an' the pig, but the pig died wan day -- choked hisself on a murphy -- that is, a pumbleterre; an' more betoken, it was the last murphy in the house, a powerful big wan that my grandmother had put by for supper. After this ivery thin' wint to smithereens. The rot came, and I thought I should have to list for a sodger. Well, Bob Mahone died o' dhrink and starvation, an' we had a beautiful wake; but there was a rig'lar shindy got up, an' two or three o' the county p'lice misbehaved themselves, so I jist floored them all, wan after the other, an' bolted. Well, I wint straight to Dublin, an' there I met wid an ould friend who was the skipper o' a ship bound for New York. Says he, 'Bryan, will ye go?' Says I, 'Av coorse; 'an 'shure enough I wint, an' got over the say to 'Meriky.' But I could niver settle down, so, wan way or another, I came at last to Montreal and jined the Company; an' afther knockin' about in the Columbia and Mackenzie's River for some years, I was sint to Moose, an' here I am, Losh, yer sarvant to command."

"Goot, ver' goot, mais peculiaire," said La Roche, whose intimacy with this son of Erin had enabled him to comprehend enough of his jargon to grasp the general scope of his discourse.

"Av ye mane that lavin' the ould country was goot," said Bryan, stooping to pick up a stone and skim it along the smooth surface of the sea, "p'raps ye're right; but there's wan thing I niver could make my mind aisy about," and the blacksmith's voice became deep and his face grave as he recalled these bygone days.

"Vat were dat?" inquired La Roche.

"Why, ye see, Losh, I was so hard druve by the p'lice that I was forced to lave wid-out sayin' good day to my ould mother, an' they tould me it almost broke her heart; but I've had wan or two screeds from the priest wid her cross at them since, and she's got over it, an' lookin' out for my returnin' -- bliss her sowl! -- an' I've sint her five pounds ivery year since I left: so ye see, Losh, I've great hope o' seein' her yit, for although she's ould she's oncommon tough, an' having come o' a long-winded stock, I've great hopes o' her."

Poor Bryan! it never entered into his reckless brain to think that, considering the life of almost constant peril he led in the land of his pilgrimage, there was more hope of the longevity of his old mother than of himself. Like many of his countrymen, he was a man of strong, passionate, warm feelings, and remarkably unselfish.

"Is your contry resemblance to dat?" inquired La Roche, pointing, as he spoke, towards the sea, which was covered with fields and mountains of ice as far out as the eye could discern.

"Be the nose o' my great-grandmother (an' that was be no manes a short wan), no!" replied Bryan, with a laugh. "The say that surrounds ould Ireland is niver covered with sich sugar-plums as these. But what have we here?"

As he spoke they reached the point at which they were to await the coming up of the canoes, and the object which called forth Bryan's remark was the little canoe, which lay empty on the beach just beyond the point. From the manner in which it lay it was evident that Frank and his Indians had placed it there; but there was no sign of their presence save one or two footprints on the sand. While La Roche was examining these, his companion walked towards a point of rock that jutted out from the cliffs and intercepted the view beyond. On turning round this, he became suddenly rooted to the spot with horror. And little wonder, for just two yards before him stood an enormous polar bear, whose career was suddenly arrested by Bryan's unexpected appearance. It is difficult to say whether the man or the beast expressed most surprise at the rencounter. They both stood stock still, and opened their eyes to the utmost width. But the poor Irishman was evidently petrified by the apparition. He turned deadly pale, and his hands hung idly by his sides; while the bear, recovering from his surprise, rose on his hind legs and walked up to him -- a sure sign that he was quite undaunted, and had made up his mind to give battle. As for La Roche, the instant he cast his eyes on the ferocious-looking quadruped, he uttered a frightful yell, bounded towards a neighbouring tree, and ceased not to ascend until its topmost branches were bending beneath his weight. Meanwhile the bear walked up to Bryan, but not meeting with the anticipated grapple of an enemy, and feeling somewhat uneasy under the cataleptic stare of the poor man's eyes -- for he still stood petrified with horror -- it walked slowly round him, putting its cold nose on his cheek, as if to tempt him to move. But the five minutes of bewilderment that always preceded Bryan's recovery from a sudden fright had not yet expired. He still remained perfectly motionless, so that the bear, disdaining, apparently, to attack an unresisting foe, dropped on his forelegs again. It is difficult to say whether there is any truth in the well-known opinion that the calm, steady gaze of a human eye can quell any animal. Doubtless there are many stories, more or less authentic, corroborative of the fact; but whether this be true or not, we are ready to vouch for the truth of this fact -- namely, that under the influence of the blacksmith's gaze, or his silence it may be, the bear was absolutely discomfited. It retreated a step or two, and walked slowly away, looking over its shoulder now and then as it went, as if it half anticipated an onslaught in the rear.

We have already said that Bryan was no craven, and that when his faculties were collected he usually displayed a good deal of reckless valour on occasions of danger. Accordingly, no sooner did he see his shaggy adversary in full retreat, than the truant blood returned to his face with a degree of violence that caused it to blaze with fiery red, and swelled the large veins of his neck and forehead almost to bursting. Uttering a truly Irish halloo, he bounded forward like a tiger, tore the cap off his head and flung it violently before him, drew the axe which always hung at his belt, and in another moment stood face to face with the white monster, which had instantly accepted the challenge, and rose on its hind legs to receive him. Raising the axe with both hands, the man aimed a blow at the bear's head; but with a rapid movement of its paw it turned the weapon aside and dashed it into the air. Another such blow, and the reckless blacksmith's career would have been brought to an abrupt conclusion, when the crack of a rifle was heard. Its echo reverberated along the cliffs and floated over the calm water as the polar bear fell dead at Bryan's feet.

"Hurrah!" shouted Frank Morton, as he sprang from the bushes, knife in hand, ready to finish the work which his rifle had so well begun. But it needed not. Frank had hit the exact spot behind the ear which renders a second ball unnecessary -- the bear was already quite dead.



Chapter Nine.

A Storm Brewing -- It Bursts, And Produces Consequences -- The Party Take To The Water Per Force -- All Saved.

"Ah, Bryan! 'a friend in need is a friend indeed,'" said Frank, as he sat on a rock watching the blacksmith and his two Indians while they performed the operation of skinning the bear, whose timely destruction has been related in the last chapter. "I must say I never saw a man stand his ground so well, with a brute like that stealing kisses from his cheek. Were they sweet, Bryan? Did they remind you of the fair maid of Derry, hey?"

"Ah! thrue for ye," replied the blacksmith, as he stepped to a rock for the purpose of whetting his knife; "yer honour was just in time to save me a power o' throuble. Bad skran to the baste! it would have taken three or four rounds at laste to have finished him nately off, for there's no end o' fat on his ribs that would have kep' the knife from goin' far in."

Frank laughed at this free-and-easy way of looking at it. "So you think you would have killed him, do you, if I had not saved you the trouble?"

"Av coorse I do. Shure a man is better than a baste any day; and besides, had I not a frind at my back ridy to help me?" Bryan cast a comical leer at La Roche as he said this, and the poor Frenchman blushed, for he felt that his conduct in the affair had not been very praiseworthy. It is due to La Roche to say, however, that no sooner had he found himself at the top of the tree, and had a moment to reflect, than he slid rapidly to the bottom again, and ran to the assistance of his friend, not, however, in time to render such assistance available, as he came up just at the moment the bear fell.

In half an hour afterwards the two large canoes came up, and Bryan and his little friend had to undergo a rapid fire of witticism from their surprised and highly-amused comrades. Even Moses was stirred up to say that "Bryan, him do pratty well; he most good 'nuff to make an Eskimo!"

Having embarked the skin of the bear, the canoes once more resumed their usual order and continued on their way. The carcass of the bear being useless for food, was left for the wolves; and the claws, which were nearly as large as a man's finger, were given by Frank to the blacksmith, that he might make them into a necklace, as the Indians do, and keep it in remembrance of his rencounter.

But the weather was now beginning to change. Dick Prince, whose black eye was ever roving about observantly, told Massan that a storm was brewing, and that the sooner he put ashore in a convenient spot the better. But Stanley was anxious to get on, having a long journey before him, at the termination of which there would be little enough time to erect a sufficient protection against the winter of the north; so he continued to advance along shore until they came to a point beyond which there was a very deep bay that would take them many hours to coast. By making a traverse, however, in a direct line to the next point, they might cross it in a much shorter time.

"How say you, Prince? shall we cross?" asked Stanley, as they rested on their paddles and cast furtive glances up at the dark clouds and across the still quiet bay.

Prince shook his head. "I fear we won't have time to cross. The clouds are driving too fast and growin' black."

"Well, then, we had better encamp," said Stanley. -- "Is there a proper place, Massan, hereabouts?"

"No, sir," replied the guide. "The stones on the beach are the only pillows within six mile o' us."

"Ho! then, forward, boys, make a bold push for it," cried Stanley; "if it does begin to blow before we're over, we can run back again at all events."

In another moment the canoes swept out to sea, and made for the point far ahead like race-horses. Although the clouds continued to gather, the wind did not rise, and it seemed as though they would get over easily, when a sudden gust came off the shore -- a direction whence, from the appearance of the clouds, it had not been expected. Ruffling the surface of the water for a few seconds, it passed away.

"Give way, boys, give way," cried Massan, using his large steering paddle with a degree of energy that sent the canoe plunging forward. "We can't go back, an' if the storm bursts off the shore -- "

A loud peal of thunder drowned the remainder of the sentence, and in a few seconds the wind that had been dreaded came whistling violently off the shore and covered the sea with foam. The waves soon began to rise, and ere long the frail barks, which were ill calculated to weather a storm, were careering over them and shipping water at every plunge.

It now became a matter of life and death with them that they should gain the point, for, deeply loaded as they were, it was impossible that they could float long in such a sea. It is true that a wind off the shore does not usually raise what sailors would consider much of a sea; but it must be remembered that, although it was off shore, the bay which they were crossing extended far inland, so that the gale had a wide sweep of water to act upon before it reached them. Besides this, as has already been explained, canoes are not like boats. Their timbers are weak, the bark of which they are made is thin, the gum which makes their seams tight is easily knocked off in cold water, and, in short, they cannot face a sea on which a boat might ride like a sea-gull.

For a considerable time the men strained every nerve to gain the wished-for point of land, but with so little success that it became evident they would never reach it. The men began to show signs of flagging, and cast uneasy glances towards Stanley, as if they had lost all hope of accomplishing their object, and waited for him to suggest what they should do. Poor Mrs Stanley sat holding on to the gunwale with one hand and clasping Edith round the waist with the other, as she gazed wistfully towards the cape ahead, which was now almost lost to view under the shadow of a dark cloud that rolled towards them like a black pall laden with destruction.

"God help us!" murmured Stanley, in an undertone, as he scanned the seaward horizon, which was covered with leaden clouds and streaks of lurid light, beneath which the foaming sea leaped furiously.

"Call upon Me in the time of trouble, and I will deliver thee," said Mrs Stanley, who overheard the exclamation.

Stanley either heard her not or his mind was too deeply concentrated on the critical nature of their position to make any reply. As she buried her face in her hands, Edith threw her trembling arms round her mother and hid her face in her bosom. Even Chimo seemed to understand their danger, for he crept closer to the side of his young mistress and whined in a low tone, as if in sympathy. The waves had now increased to such a degree that it required two of the men to bail incessantly in order to prevent their being swamped, and as Stanley cast a hurried glance at the other canoes, which were not far off, he observed that it was as much as they could do to keep afloat. "Could we not run back, Massan?" asked Stanley, in despair.

"Unposs'ble, sir," replied the guide, whose voice was almost drowned by the whistling of the wind. "We're more nor half-way over, an' it would only blow us farther out to sea if we was to try."

While the guide spoke, Stanley was gazing earnestly in the direction of the horizon.

"Round with you, Massan," he exclaimed suddenly; "put the canoe about and paddle straight out to sea. -- Hallo!" he shouted to the other canoes, "follow us out to sea -- straight out."

The men looked aghast at this extraordinary order. "Look alive, lads," continued their leader; "I see an island away there to leeward. Perhaps it's only a rock, but any way it's our only chance."

The canoes' heads were turned round, and in another moment they were driving swiftly before the wind in the direction of the open sea.

"Right, right," murmured Dick Prince, as they made towards this new source of hope; "mayhap it's only a bit o' ice, but even that's better than nothin'."

"If 'tis only ice," cried La Roche, "ye have ver' pauvre chance at all."

"Shure, an' if we are to go ashore at all, at all," said Bryan, whose spirits had suddenly risen with this gleam of hope from fifty degrees below to fifty above zero -- "if we are to go ashore at all, at all, it's better to land on the ice than on the wather."

With such a breeze urging them on, the three canoes soon approached what appeared to be a low sand-bank, on which the sea was dashing in white foam. But from the tossing of the waves between them and the beach, it was difficult to form a conjecture as to its size. Indeed, at times they could scarcely see it at all, owing to the darkness of the day and the heavy rain which began to fall just as they approached; and more than once Stanley's heart sank when he lost sight of the bank, and he began to think that he had made a mistake, and that they were actually flying out to the deep sea, in which case all hope would be gone for ever. But God's mercy was extended to them in this hour of peril. The island appeared to grow larger as they neared it, and at last they were within a stone's-throw of the shore. But a new danger assailed them here. The largest canoe, which neared the island first, had begun to leak, and took in water so fast that the utmost efforts of those who bailed could not keep it under, and from the quantity that was now shipped they made very little way. To add to the horror of the scene, the sky became very dark, and another crash of thunder pealed forth accompanied by a blinding flash of lightning.

"Paddle, boys, paddle for your lives!" cried Stanley, throwing off his coat, and seizing a tin dish, with which he began to throw out the water.

The canoe rose on a huge wave which broke all round it. This nearly filled it with water, and carried it towards the shore with such velocity that it seemed as if they should be dashed in pieces; but they fell back into the trough of the sea, and lay motionless like a heavy log, and in a sinking condition.

"Now, lads, look out for the next wave, and give way with a will," cried Massan. The worthy steersman acted rather too energetically on his own advice, for he dipped his paddle with such force that it snapped in two.

"Be ready to jump out," cried Dick Prince, standing up in the bow in order to give more power to his strokes.

As he spoke, Stanley turned to his wife, and said, "Jessie, hold on by my collar; I'll take Eda in my arms." At that instant the canoe gave a lurch, and before Stanley could grasp his child, they were all struggling in the sea! At this awful moment, instead of endeavouring to do as her husband directed, Mrs Stanley instinctively threw her arms around Edith, and while the waves were boiling over her, she clasped the child tightly to her bosom with her left arm, while with her right she endeavoured to raise herself to the surface. Twice she succeeded, and twice she sank, when a box of merchandise providentially struck her arm. Seizing this, she raised herself above the water, and poor Edith gasped convulsively once or twice for air. Then the box was wrenched from her grasp by a wave, and with a wild shriek she sank again. Just then a strong arm was thrown around her, her feet touched the ground, and in a few seconds she was dragged violently from the roaring waves and fell exhausted on the beach.

"Thanks be to God, we are saved!" murmured Mrs Stanley, as her husband assisted her to rise and led her beyond the reach of the waves, while Edith still clung with a deadly grasp to her mother's neck.

"Ay, Jessie, thank God indeed! But for His mercy we should have all been lost. I was floundering about beside the canoe when your scream showed me where you were, and enabled me to save you. But rest here, in the lee of this bale. -- I cannot stay by you. Frank is in danger still."

Without waiting for a reply, he sprang from her side and hurried down to the beach. Here everything was in the utmost confusion. The two large canoes had been saved and dragged out of the reach of the waves, and the men were struggling in the boiling surf to rescue the baggage and provisions, on which latter their very lives depended. As Stanley reached the scene of action, he observed several of the men watching the small canoe which contained Frank and his two Indians. It had been left some distance behind by the others, and was now approaching with arrow speed on the summit of a large wave. Suddenly the top of the billow curled over, and in another moment the canoe was turned bottom up! Like a cork it danced on the wave's white crest, then falling beneath the thundering mass of water, it was crushed to pieces and cast empty upon the beach. But Frank and his men swam like otters, and the party on shore watched them with anxious looks as they breasted manfully over the billows. At last a towering wave came rolling majestically forward. It caught the three swimmers in its rough embrace, and carrying them along on its crest, launched them on the beach, where it left them struggling with the retreating water. Those who have bathed in rough weather on an exposed coast know well how difficult it is to regain a firm footing on loose sand while a heavy wave is sweeping backward into its parent ocean. Frank and the two Indians experienced this; and they might have struggled there till their strength had been exhausted, were it not for Stanley, Prince, and Massan, who rushed simultaneously into the water and rescued them.

As the whole party had now, by the goodness of God, reached the land in safety, they turned their undivided energies towards the bales and boxes which were rolling about in the surf. Many of these had been already collected, and were carried to the spot where Mrs Stanley and Edith lay under the shelter of a bale. As the things were successively brought up they were piled around the mother and child, who soon found themselves pretty well sheltered from the wind, though not from the rain, which still fell in torrents. Soon after Frank came to them, and said that all the things were saved, and that it was time to think of getting up some sort of shelter for the night. This was very much needed, for poor Edith was beginning to shiver from the wet and cold.

"Now then, Francois, Massan," shouted Frank, "lend a hand here to build a house for Eda. We'll be all as snug as need be in a few minutes."

Despite the cold and her recent terror, the poor child could not help smiling at the idea of building a house in a few minutes, and it was with no little curiosity that she watched the operations of the men. Meanwhile Mr Stanley brought some wine in a pannikin, and made Edith and his wife drink a little. This revived them greatly, and as the rain had now almost ceased they rose and endeavoured to wring the water out of their garments. In less than half an hour the men piled the bales and boxes in front of the largest canoe, which was turned bottom up, and secured firmly in that position by an embankment of sand. Over the top of all, three oil-cloths were spread and lashed down, thus forming a complete shelter, large enough to contain the whole party. At one end of this curious house Mr Stanley made a separate apartment for his wife and child, by placing two large bales and a box as a partition; and within this little space Edith soon became very busy in arranging things, and "putting the house to rights," as she said, as long as the daylight lasted, for after it went away they had neither candles nor fire, as the former had been soaked and broken, and as for the latter no wood could be found on the island. The men's clothes were, of course, quite wet, so they cut open a bale of blankets, which had not been so much soaked as the other goods, having been among the first things that were washed ashore.

At the time they were wrecked the dashing spray and the heavy rain, together with the darkness of the day, had prevented the shipwrecked voyageurs from ascertaining the nature of the island on which they had been cast; and as the night closed in while they were yet engaged in the erection of their temporary shelter, they had to lie down to rest in ignorance on this point. After such a day of unusual fatigue and excitement, they all felt more inclined for rest than food; so, instead of taking supper, they all lay down huddled together under the canoe, and slept soundly, while the angry winds whistled round them, and the great sea roared and lashed itself into foam on the beach, as if disappointed that the little band of adventurers had escaped and were now beyond the reach of its impotent fury.



Chapter Ten.

The Sand-Bank -- Dismal Prospects -- Consultations -- Internal Arrangements Exposed And Detailed.

Of all the changes that constantly vary the face of nature, the calm that succeeds a storm is one of the most beautiful, and the most agreeable, perhaps, to the feelings of man. Few conditions of nature convey to the mind more thoroughly the idea of complete repose -- of deep rest after mortal strife, of sleep after exhausting toil; and those who have passed through the violence of the storm and done battle with its dangers are, by the physical rest which they enjoy after it is over, the more fitted to appreciate and sympathise with the repose which reigns around them.

When the sun rose, on the morning after the storm, it shone upon a scene so calm and beautiful, so utterly unconnected with anything like the sin of a fallen world, and so typical, in its deep tranquillity, of the mind of Him who created it, that it seemed almost possible for a moment to fancy that the promised land was gained at last, and that all the dark clouds, the storms and dangers, the weary journeyings and the troubles of the wilderness, were past and gone for ever. So glorious was the scene that when Edith, rising from her rude couch and stepping over the prostrate forms of her still slumbering companions, issued from the shelter of the canoe and cast her eyes abroad upon the glassy sea, she could not restrain her feelings, and uttered a thrilling shout of joy that floated over the waters and reverberated among the glittering crags of the surrounding icebergs.

The island on which the travellers had been cast was a mere knoll of sand, not more than a few hundred yards in circumference, that scarcely raised its rounded summit above the level of the water, and at full tide was reduced to a mere speck, utterly destitute of vegetation. The sea around it was now smooth and clear as glass, though undulated by a long, regular swell, which rolled, at slow, solemn intervals, in majestic waves towards the sand-bank, where they hovered for a moment in curved walls of dark-green water, then, lipping over, at their crests, fell in a roar of foam that hissed a deep sigh on the pebbles of the beach, and left the silence greater than before. Masses of ice floated here and there on the surface of the deep, the edges and fantastic points of which were tipped with light. Not far from the northern extremity of the sand-bank a large iceberg had grounded, from the sides of which several pinnacles had been hurled by the shock and now lay stranded on the beach.

The shout with which Edith had welcomed the morning roused the whole party, and in a few minutes they were all assembled outside of their little hut, some admiring the scene, others -- of a less enthusiastic and more practical turn -- examining the circumstances of their position, and considering the best course that should be pursued in their difficulty.

Mr Stanley, Dick Prince, and Massan, as was their wont, held a council upon the existing state of things, and after much gazing round at the sea and up at the sky, and considerable grunting of his deep voice and rubbing of his capacious chin, on the part of the latter, he turned to Dick Prince, as if appealing to his superior sagacity, and said -- 

"Well, ye see, my 'pinion's jist this: yonder's the mainland there" (pointing to the eastward, where, about ten miles distant, the rocks and trees were seen distorted and faintly looming through a tremulous haze), "an' there's our canoes there" (jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the large canoes, whose torn sides and damaged ribs, as they lay exposed on the sand, bore sad testimony to the violence of the previous night's storm), "and there's the little canoe yonder," (glancing towards the craft in question, which lay on the beach a hopelessly-destroyed mass of splinters and shreds of bark that projected and bristled in all directions, as in uncontrollable amazement at the suddenness and entirety of its own destruction). "Now, that bein' the case, an' the baggage all wet, an' the day parfitly beautiful, an' the sun about hot enough to bile the sea, we can't do better nor stay where we are, an' mend the canoes, dry the goods, an' start fair to-morrow mornin'."

Stanley looked at Prince, as if expecting a remark from him; but the grave countenance of the silent bowman indicated that he was absorbed in contemplation.

"'Tis quite evident, Massan," said Stanley, "that we must repair the canoes; but a few hours could do that, and I don't like the idea of staying another night on a strip of sand like this, which, I verily believe, another stiff nor'-wester would blow away altogether. -- But what say you, Prince? Do you advise our remaining?"

"Yes," replied Dick, "I do. Ye see there's no fear of another storm soon. 'Tis a good chance for dryin' the goods, so I vote for stoppin'."

"Well, then, we shall stay," replied Stanley. "To say truth, I agreed with you at first, Massan, but it's always advisable to look at both sides of a question -- "

"Yes, and 'in the multitude of counsellors there is wisdom,'" said Frank Morton, coming up at the moment, and tapping his friend on the shoulder. "If you will include me in your confabulation, you shall have the benefit of deep experience and far-sighted sagacity."

"Come, then, Master Frank," replied Stanley, "what does your sagacity advise on the point of our staying on this sandbank? Shall we spend another night on it in order to dry the goods, or shall we up and away to terra firma as soon as the canoes are seaworthy?"

"Stay, of course," said Frank. "As to the sand-bank, 'tis firm enough, to my mind, after resisting the shock of the wave that dashed me ashore last night. Then we have everything we need -- shelter and food, and even fuel." As Frank mentioned the last word, he glanced round with a rueful countenance and pointed to the bark and timbers of his broken canoe.

"True, Frank, we have wherewith to boil the kettle, and as the water-cask was full when we started yesterday morning, there will be enough at least for one or two days."

"By the way, that reminds me that Eda and your wife are particularly desirous of having breakfast," said Frank. "In fact they sent me specially to lay their melancholy case before you; and I have great fears that Eda will lay violent hands on the raw pork if her morning meal is delayed much longer. As for Chimo, he is rushing about the island in a state of ravenous despair; so pray let us be going."

"Be it so, Frank," said Stanley, taking his friend's arm, and sauntering towards the canoe, while Massan and Prince went to inform their comrades of the determination of their leader.

In an hour after the above discourse breakfast was over, and the men, under Stanley's inspection, arranged and examined the baggage, which, considering that it had been rolled about by the surf for a considerable time, was not so much soaked as might have been expected. The two kegs of gunpowder were first inspected, being the most valuable part of the cargo, as on them depended much of their future livelihood. They were found to be quite dry, except a small portion of powder at the seams of the staves, which, having caked with the moisture, had saved the rest from damage. Some of the bales, however, containing knives and other hardware, were very wet, and had to be opened out and their contents wiped and spread out to dry. Blankets, too, and other woollen garments that had suffered, were also spread out on the sand, so that in a short time the little island was quite covered with a strange assortment of miscellaneous articles, that gave to it the appearance of a crowded store. The entire wealth of the fur-traders was now exposed to view, and it may perhaps be interesting to enumerate the different articles, in order to give some idea of the outfit deemed necessary on such an expedition.

And, first, there were two kegs of gunpowder, as before mentioned, containing each thirty pounds, with four bags of ball and three of shot of various sizes -- in all, about 250 pounds of lead. Six nets of four and a half inch mesh. A large quantity of twine for making nets -- most of the men being able to construct these useful articles. A small bag of gun-flints. Sixty pounds of roll tobacco. Twelve large axes. Six augers. Seven dozen scalping-knives. Six pounds of variously-coloured beads. Two dozen fire-steels, and a pretty large assortment of awls, needles, thread, nails, and such like small articles, which, though extremely useful, were too numerous and comparatively insignificant to mention in detail. Besides these, there was a small bale containing gaudy ornaments and attractive articles, which were intended as propitiatory presents to the Esquimaux when they should be met with. Then there were two runlets of salt pork, containing about ninety pounds each, and in the centre of each runlet were two hams. A barrel of flour and a barrel of oatmeal constituted all their provision, if we except a small cask of hard biscuit, and a little tea and sugar, which were the private property of Stanley and Frank Morton. There was also a large deerskin tent, capable of holding from twenty to thirty men, which was intended to be used while they were engaged in building their winter residence at Ungava. As to arms, each man had one of the long single-barrelled fowling-pieces that are supplied by the Fur Company to the natives, and are styled Indian guns. Stanley had a double-barrelled flint fowling-piece; and Frank had a rifle, besides a single gun of a description somewhat finer than that supplied to the Indians. Of course each man carried a scalping-knife and an axe in his belt, not for the purpose of self-defence, but for carving their food and cutting their fuel.

It may be well to remark here that the goods and provisions which we have detailed above were merely intended as a supply for their immediate necessities, and to enable them to commence active operations at once on arriving at their destination, while the heavy stores and goods necessary for the year's trade were to be forwarded in a small sloop from the depot direct through Hudson's Straits to Ungava Bay.

When the work of unpacking and exposing the things to dry in the sun was accomplished, it was long past noon, and high time for dinner; so a fire was lighted by Bryan, who cut up another portion of Frank's canoe for the purpose. A rasher of pork and a flour cake were disposed of by each of the party in a surprisingly short time, and then the men bestirred themselves in mending the canoes. This was a more troublesome job than they expected, but being accustomed not only to mend but to make canoes, they worked with a degree of skill and diligence that speedily put all to rights. In Massan's canoe there was a hole large enough, as Bryan remarked, to stick his head through, though it was a "big wan, an' no mistake." Taking up a roll of bark, which was carried with them for the purpose, Massan cut from it a square patch, which he sewed over the hole, using an awl for a needle and the fibrous roots of the pine tree, called wattape, for thread. After it was firmly sewed on, the seams were covered with melted gum, and the broken spot was as tight and strong as ever. There were next found several long slits, one of them fully three feet, which were more easily managed, as they merely required to be sewed and covered with gum. Several broken ribs, however, were not so easily repaired. Had there been any wood on the island, Massan's quick knife would have soon fashioned new ribs; as it was, he had to make the best job he could, by splicing the old ones with several pieces abstracted from Frank's little canoe.

It was sunset before all was put in complete order, the goods repacked, and placed in readiness for a start at daybreak on the following morning. After all was done, the remains of the small canoe were converted into a bonfire, round which the tired and hungry travellers assembled to smoke and chat, while supper was being prepared by the indefatigable Bryan and his friend La Roche. As the day faded away the stars came out, one by one, until they glittered in millions in the sky, while the glare of the fire became every moment more and more intense as the darkness deepened. It was a strange, wild scene, -- especially when viewed from the extremity of the little sand-bank, which was so low as to be almost indiscernible in the dark night, and seemed scarce a sufficient foundation for the little busy group of human beings who stood radiant in the red light of their camp-fire, like a blazing gem cast upon the surface of the great, cold sea.



Chapter Eleven.

Start Afresh -- Superstitious Notions -- The Whirlpool -- The Interior --  Fishing In The Old Way On New Ground, And What Came Of It -- A Cold Bath --  The Rescue -- Saved -- Deeper And Deeper Into The Wilderness.

As if to make amends for its late outrageous conduct, the weather, after the night of the great storm, continued unbrokenly serene for many days, enabling our travellers to make rapid progress towards their destination: It would be both tiresome and unnecessary to follow them step by step throughout their journey, as the part of it which we have already described was, in many respects, typical of the whole voyage along the east coast of Hudson's Bay. Sometimes, indeed, a few incidents of an unusual character did occur. Once they were very nearly being crushed between masses of ice; twice the larger canoe struck on a hummock, and had to be landed and repaired; and frequently mishaps of a slighter nature befell them. Their beds, too, varied occasionally. At one time they laid them down to rest on the sand of the sea-shore; at another, on the soft turf and springy moss of the woods. Sometimes they were compelled to content themselves with a couch of pebbles, few of which were smaller than a man's fist; and, not unfrequently, they had to make the best they could of a flat rock, whose unyielding surface seemed to put the idea of anything like rest to flight, causing the thin men of the party to growl and the fat ones to chuckle. Bryan was one of the well-favoured, being round and fleshy; while his poor little friend La Roche possessed a framework of bones that were so sparingly covered with softer substance, as to render it a matter of wonder how he and the stones could compromise the matter at all, and called forth from his friend frequent impertinent allusions to "thridpapers, bags o' bones, idges o' knives, half fathoms o' pump water," and such like curious substances. But whatever the bed, it invariably turned out that the whole party slept soundly from the time they lay down till the time of rising, which was usually at the break of day.

Owing to the little Indian canoe having been wrecked on the sand-bank, Frank and his men had to embark in the smaller of the large canoes; a change which was in some respects a disadvantage to the party, as Frank could not now so readily dash away in pursuit of game. However, this did not much matter, as, in a few days afterwards, they arrived at the mouth of the river by which they intended to penetrate into the interior of the country. The name of the river is Deer River, and it flows into Richmond Gulf, which is situated on the east shore of Hudson's Bay, in latitude 56 degrees North. Richmond Gulf is twenty miles long, and about the same in breadth; but the entrance to it is so narrow that the tide pours into it like a torrent until it is full. The pent-up waters then rush out on one side of this narrow inlet while they are running in at the other, causing a whirlpool which would engulf a large boat and greatly endanger even a small vessel. Of course it was out of the question to attempt the passage of such a vortex in canoes, except at half flood or half ebb tide, at which periods the waters became quiet. On arriving at the mouth of the gulf, the travellers found the tide out and the entrance to it curling and rolling in massive volumes, as if all the evil water-spirits of the north were holding their orgies there. Oostesimow and Ma-Istequan, being by nature and education intensely superstitious, told Stanley -- after they had landed to await the flow of the tide -- that it was absolutely necessary to perform certain ceremonies in order to propitiate the deities of the place, otherwise they could not expect to pass such an awful whirlpool in safety. Their leader smiled, and told them to do as they thought fit, adding, however, that he would not join them, as he did not believe in any deities whatever, except the one true God, who did not require to be propitiated in any way, and could not be moved by any other means than by prayer in the name of Jesus Christ. The red men seemed surprised a little at this, but, with their proverbial stoicism, refrained from any further or more decided expression of feeling.

Nevertheless, the Indians sufficiently showed their faith in their own doctrines by immediately setting about a series of curious and elaborate ceremonies, which it was impossible to comprehend, and decidedly unprofitable to describe. They appeared, however, to attach much importance to their propitiatory offerings, the chief among which seemed to be a few inches of tobacco, with which it was fondly hoped the deities of the gulf would condescend to smoke the pipe of peace while their red children ventured to trespass a little on their domain; and hard indeed must have been the hearts of the said spirits had they refused so valuable an offering, for tobacco is the life and marrow, the quintessence of terrestrial felicity, the very joy and comfort of a voyageur, and the poor Indians had but little of it to spare.

While this was going on, Bryan stood with his back to the fire, a remarkably short and peculiarly black pipe in his mouth, and his head inclined sagaciously to one side, as if he designed, by dint of a combination of intense mental abstraction, partial closing of his eyes, severe knitting of his brows, and slow but exceedingly voluminous emission of smoke, to come to a conclusion in regard to the unfathomable subject of Indian superstition. La Roche, steeped in unphilosophic indifference on such matters, and keenly alive to the gross cravings of hunger, busied himself in concocting a kettle of soup; while the rest of the party rambled about the beach or among the bushes in search of eggs. In this latter search Frank and Edith were very successful, and returned with pockets laden with excellent eggs of the eider-duck, which were immediately put into the kettle, and tended not a little to increase the excellence of the soup and the impatience of the men.

Meanwhile the tide rose, the power of the current was gradually checked, and towards noon they passed the dangerous narrows in safety. From the view that was now obtained of the interior, it became evident that the worst of their journey yet lay before them. On arriving at the mouth of Deer River, the mountains were seen to rise abruptly and precipitously, while far away inland their faint blue peaks rose into the sky. Indeed from this point the really hard work of the voyage may be said to have commenced; for scarcely had they proceeded a few miles up the river, when their further progress, at least by water, was effectually interrupted by a rapid which came leaping madly down its rocky bed, as if the streams rejoiced to escape from the chasms and mountain gorges, and find rest at last on the ample bosom of the great deep.

"What think ye of that, boy?" said Stanley to Frank Morton, as they leaped from their respective canoes, and stood gazing at the rugged glen from which the rapid issued, and the wild appearance of the hills beyond. "It seems to me that report spoke truly when it said that the way to Clearwater Lake was rugged. Here is no despicable portage to begin with; and yonder cliffs, that look so soft and blue in the far distance, will prove to be dark and hard enough when we get at them, I warrant."

"When we get at them!" echoed Mrs Stanley, as she approached, leading Edith by the hand. "Get at them, George! Had any one asked me if it were possible to pass over these mountains with our canoes and cargoes, I should have answered, 'Decidedly not!'"

"And yet you were so foolish and reckless as to be the first to volunteer for this decidedly impossible expedition!" replied Stanley.

"There you are inconsistent," said Mrs Stanley, smiling. "If reckless, I cannot be foolish, according to your own showing; for I have heard you give it as your opinion that recklessness is one of the most essential elements in the leaders of a forlorn hope. But really the thing does seem to my ignorant mind impossible. -- What think you, Eda?"

Mrs Stanley bent down and looked into the face of her child, but she received no reply. The expanded eyes, indeed, spoke volumes; and the parted lips, on which played a fitful, exulting smile, the heightened colour, and thick-coming breath, told eloquently of her anticipated delight in these new regions, which seemed so utterly different from the shores of the bay: but her tongue was mute.

And well might Mrs Stanley think the passage over these mountains impossible; for, except to men accustomed to canoe travelling in the American lakes and rivers, such an attempt would have appeared as hopeless as the passage of a ship through the ice-locked polar seas in winter.

Not so thought the men. Already several of the most active of them were scrambling up the cliffs with heavy loads on their backs; and, while Stanley and his wife were yet conversing, two of them approached rapidly, bearing the large canoe on their shoulders. The exclamation that issued from the foremost of these proved him to be Bryan.

"Now, bad luck to ye, Gaspard! can't ye go stidy? It's mysilf that'll be down on me blissid nose av ye go staggerin' about in that fashion. Sure it's Losh, the spalpeen, that would carry the canoe better than you."

Gaspard made no reply. Bryan staggered on, growling as he went, and in another minute they were hid from view among the bushes.

"What do you see, Frank?" inquired Stanley; "you stare as earnestly as Bryan did at the white bear last week. What is't, man? Speak!"

"A fish," replied Frank. "I saw him rise in the pool, and I'm certain he's a very large one."

"Very likely, Frank; there ought to be a fish of some sort there. I've been told -- hist! there he's again. As I live, a salmon! a salmon, Frank! Now for your rod, my boy."

But Frank heard him not, for he was gone. In a few minutes he returned with a fishing-rod, which he was busily engaged in putting up as he hurried towards the rocks beside the pool.

Now, Frank Morton was a fisher. We do not mean to say that he was a fisher by profession; nor do we merely affirm that he was rather fond of the gentle art of angling, or generally inclined to take a cast when he happened to be near a good stream. By no means. Frank was more than that implies. He was a steady, thorough-going disciple of Izaak Walton; one who, in the days of his boyhood, used to flee to the water-side at all seasons, in all weathers, and despite all obstacles. Not only was it his wont to fish when he could, or how he could, but too often was he beguiled to fish at times and in ways that were decidedly improper; sometimes devoting those hours which were set apart expressly for the acquirement of Greek and Latin, to wandering by mountain stream or tarn, rod in hand, up to the knees in water, among the braes and woodlands of his own native country. And Frank's enthusiasm did not depend entirely on his success. It was a standing joke among his school-fellows that Frank would walk six miles any day for the chance of a nibble from the ghost of a minnow. Indeed he was often taunted by his ruder comrades with being such a keen fisher that he was quite content if he only hooked a drowned cat during a day's excursion. But Frank was good-natured; he smiled at their jests, and held on the even tenor of his way, whipping the streams more pertinaciously than his master whipped him for playing truant; content alike to bear ignominy and chastisement, so long as he was rewarded by a nibble, and overjoyed beyond expression when he could return home with the tail of a two-pounder hanging over the edge of his basket. Far be it from us to hold up to ridicule the weakness of a friend, but we cannot help adding that Master Frank made the most of his tails. His truthful and manly nature, indeed, would not stoop to actual deception, but he had been known on more than one occasion to offer to carry a friend's waterproof fishing-boots in his basket, when his doing so rendered it impossible to prevent the tails of his trout from protruding arrogantly, as if to insinuate that there were shoals within. Another of Frank's weaknesses was, upon the hooking of every fish, to assert, with overweening confidence and considerable excitement, that it was a tremendously big one. Experience had, during all his piscatorial career, contradicted him ninety-nine times out of every hundred; but Frank's firm belief in his last minnow being a big trout -- at least until it lay gasping on the bank at his feet -- was as unshaken after long years of mistaken calculation as when first he sallied forth to the babbling brook with a willow branch, a fathom of twine, and a crooked pin!

Such untiring devotion, of course, could not fail to make Frank particularly knowing in all the details and minutiae of his much-loved sport. He knew every hole and corner of the rivers and burns within fifteen miles of his father's house. He became mysteriously wise in regard to the weather; knew precisely the best fly for any given day, and, in the event of being unhappily destitute of the proper kind, could dress one to perfection in ten minutes. As he grew older and taller, and the muscles on his large and well-made limbs began to develop, Frank slung a more capacious basket on his back, shouldered a heavier rod, and, with a pair of thick shoes and a home-spun shooting suit, stretched away over the Highland hills towards the romantic shores of the west coast of Scotland. Here he first experienced the wild excitement of salmon-fishing; and here the Waltonian chains, that had been twining and thickening around him from infancy, received two or three additional coils, and were finally riveted for ever. During his sojourn in America, he had happened to dwell in places where the fishing, though good, was not of a very exciting nature; and he had not seen a salmon since the day he left home, so that it is not matter for wonder that his stride was rapid and his eye bright while he hurried towards the pool, as before mentioned.

He who has never left the beaten tracks of men, or trod the unknown wilderness, can have but a faint conception of the feelings of a true angler as he stands by the brink of a dark pool which has hitherto reflected only the antlers of the wild deer -- whose dimpling eddies and flecks of foam have been disturbed by no fisher since the world began, except the polar bear. Besides the pleasurable emotions of strong hope, there is the additional charm of uncertainty as to what will rise, and of certainty that if there be anything piscatine beneath these fascinating ripples it undoubtedly will rise -- and bite too! Then there is the peculiar satisfaction of catching now and then a drop of spray from, and hearing the thunder of, a cataract, whose free, surging bound is not yet shackled by the tourist's sentimental description; and the novelty of beholding one's image reflected in a liquid mirror whose geographical position is not yet stereotyped on the charts of man. Alas for these maps and charts! Despite the wishes of scientific geographers and the ignorance of unscientific explorers, we think them far too complete already; and we can conceive few things more dreadful or crushing to the enterprising and romantic spirits of the world than the arrival of that time (if it ever shall arrive) when it shall be said that terra incognita exists no longer -- when every one of those fairy-like isles of the southern seas, and all the hidden wonders of the polar regions, shall be put down, in cold blood, on black and white, exposed profanely on the schoolroom walls, and drummed into the thick heads of wretched little boys who don't want to learn, by the unsympathising hands of dominies who, it may be, care but little whether they do or not!

But to return. While Frank stood on the rocks, attaching to the line a salmon-fly which he had selected with much consideration from his book, he raised his eyes once or twice to take a rapid glance at his position and the capabilities of the place. About fifty yards further up the river the stream curled round the base of a large rock, and gushed into a pool which was encircled on all sides by an overhanging wall, except where the waters issued forth in a burst of foam. Their force, however, was materially broken by another curve, round which they had to sweep ere they reached this exit, so that when they rushed into the larger pool below they calmed down at once, and on reaching the point where Frank stood, assumed that oily, gurgling surface, dimpled all over with laughing eddies, that suggests irresistibly the idea of fish not only being there, as a matter of course, but being there expressly and solely for the purpose of being caught! A little further down, the river took a slight bend, and immediately after, recurring to its straight course, it dashed down, for a distance of fifty yards, in a tumultuous rapid, which swept into sudden placidity a few hundred yards below. Having taken all this in at a glance, Frank dropped the fly into the water and raised his rod to make a cast. In this act he almost broke the rod, to his amazement; for, instead of whipping the fly lightly out of the water, he dragged a trout of a pound weight violently up on the bank.

"Bravo!" cried Stanley, laughing heartily at his friend's stare of mingled wonder and amazement, -- "bravo, Frank! I'm no fisher myself, but I've always understood that fish required a little play before being landed. However, you have convinced me of my ignorance. I see that the proper way is to toss them over your head! A salmon must be rather troublesome to toss, but no doubt, with your strong arms, you'll manage it easily, hey?"

"Why, what an appetite they must have!" replied Frank, answering his friend's badinage with a smile. "If the little fellows begin thus, what will not the big ones do?"

As he spoke, he disengaged the fish and threw it down, and made the next cast so rapidly, that if another trout was waiting to play him a similar trick, it must have been grievously disappointed. The line swept lightly through the air, and the fly fell gently on the stream, where it had not quivered more than two seconds when the water gurgled around it. The next moment Frank's rod bent like a hoop, and the line flew through the rings with whirring rapidity, filling these lonely solitudes for the first time with the pleasant "music of the reel." Almost before Frank had time to take a step in a downward direction, fifty yards were run out, the waters were suddenly cleft, and a salmon sprang like a bar of burnished silver twice its own height into the air. With a sounding splash it returned to its native element; but scarcely had its fins touched the water, when it darted towards the bank. Being brought up suddenly here, it turned at a tangent, and flashed across the pool again, causing the reel to spin with renewed velocity. Here the fish paused for a second, as if to collect its thoughts, and then coming, apparently, to a summary determination as to what it meant to do, it began steadily to ascend the stream, not, indeed, so rapidly as it had descended, but sufficiently so to give Frank some trouble, by means of rapidly winding up, to keep the line tight. Having bored doggedly towards the head of the rapid, the fish stopped and began to shake its head passionately, as if indignant at being foiled in its energetic attempts to escape. After a little time, it lay sulkily down at the bottom of the pool, where it defied its persecutor to move it an inch.

"What's to be done now?" asked Stanley, who stood ready to gaff the fish when brought near to the bank.

"We must rouse him up," said Frank, as he slowly wound up the line. "Just take up a stone and throw it at him."

Stanley looked surprised, for he imagined that such a proceeding would frighten the fish and cause it to snap the line; but seeing that Frank was in earnest, he did as he was directed. No sooner had the stone sunk than the startled fish once more dashed across the river; then taking a downward course, it sped like an arrow to the brink of the rough water below. To have allowed the salmon to go down the rapid would have been to lose it, so Frank arrested the spinning of his reel and held on. For a second or two the rod bent almost in a circle, and the line became fearfully rigid.

"You'll break it, Frank," cried Stanley, in some anxiety.

"It can't be helped," said Frank, compressing his lips; "he must not go down there. The tackle is new; I think it will hold him."

Fortunately the tackle proved to be very good. The fish was arrested, and after one or two short runs, which showed that its vigour was abated, it was drawn carefully towards the rocks. As it drew near it rolled over on its side once or twice -- an evident sign of being much exhausted.

"Now, Stanley, be careful," said Frank, as his friend stepped cautiously towards the fish and extended the gaff. "I've seen many a fine salmon escape owing to careless gaffing. Don't be in a hurry. Be sure of your distance before you strike, and do it quickly. Now, then -- there -- give it him! Hurrah!" he shouted, as Stanley passed the iron hook neatly into the side of the fish, and lifted it high and dry on the rocks.

The cheer to which Frank gave vent, on this successful termination to the struggle, was re-echoed heartily by several of the men, who, on passing the spot with their loads, had paused and become deeply interested spectators of the sport.

"Powerful big fish, sir," said Bryan, throwing down his pack and taking up the salmon by the gills. "Twinty pounds at laste, av it's an ounce."

"Scarcely that, Bryan," said Stanley; "but it's not much less, I believe."

"Ah! oui, 'tis ver' pritty. Ver' superb for supper," remarked La Roche.

The little Frenchman was right in saying that it was pretty. Unlike the ordinary salmon, it was marked with spots like a trout, its head was small and its shoulders plump, while its silvery purity was exceedingly dazzling and beautiful.

"'Tis a Hearne-salmon," said Massan, approaching the group. "I've seed lots o' them on the coast to the south'ard o' this, an' I've no doubt we'll find plenty o' them at Ungava."

While the men were discussing the merits of the fish, Frank had hooked another, which, although quite as large, gave him much less trouble to land; and before the men had finished carrying the canoes and goods over the portage, he had taken three fish out of the same pool. Wishing, however, to try for a larger one nearer the sea, he proceeded to take a cast below the rapid.

Meanwhile, La Roche, whose activity had enabled him to carry over his portion of the cargo long before his comrades, came to the pool which Frank had just left, and seating himself on a large stone, drew forth his tobacco-pouch. With a comical leer at the water which had so recently been deprived of its denizens, he proceeded leisurely to fill a pipe.

It is impossible to foresee, and difficult to account for, the actions of an impulsive human being. La Roche sat down to smoke his pipe, but instead of smoking it, he started to his feet and whirled it into the river. This apparently insane action was followed by several others, which, as they were successively performed, gradually unfolded the drift of his intentions. Drawing the knife which hung at his girdle, he went into the bushes, whence he quickly returned, dragging after him a large branch. From this he stripped the leaves and twigs. Fumbling in his pocket for some time, he drew forth a piece of stout cord, about four yards long, with a cod-hook attached to the end of it. This line had been constructed some weeks before when the canoes were wind-bound at a part of the coast where La Roche, desirous of replenishing the kettle, had made an unsuccessful attempt at sea-fishing. Fastening this line to the end of his extemporised rod, La Roche proceeded to dress his hook. This he accomplished by means of the feather of a duck which Frank shot the day before, and a tag from his scarlet worsted belt; and, when finished, it had more the appearance of some hideous reptile than a gay fly. However, La Roche surveyed it for a moment or two with an expression of deep satisfaction, and then, hurrying to the brink of the water, made a violent heave.

"Oh! cent milles tonnerres!" he exclaimed angrily, as the enormous hook caught in the leg of his trousers. The large and clumsy barb was deeply imbedded, so there was no help for it but to use the knife. The second throw was more successful, and the hook alighted in the water with a splash that ought to have sent all the fish in the pool away in consternation. Instead of this, however, no sooner did the reptile trail upon the stream than a trout dashed at it in such violent haste that it nearly missed it altogether. As it was, it hooked itself very slightly, and the excitable Frenchman settled the matter by giving the line a violent tug, in his anxiety to land the fish, that pulled the hook entirely out of its mouth.

"Ah! c'est dommage, ver' great; mais try it encore, my boy," exclaimed the mortified angler. The next throw, although well accomplished, produced nothing; but at the third attempt, ere the reptile had settled on the water for a second, it was engulfed by a salmon fully six pounds weight, and La Roche's rod was almost drawn out of his grasp.

"Hilloa, Losh! what have ye got there?" exclaimed Bryan, as, with several of the men, he approached to where the Frenchman and the salmon strove in uncertain conflict.

"By the mortial, he's hucked a whale! Out with it, boy, afore it pulls ye in!" said the Irishman, running to the rescue.

Just then the salmon gave a pull of more than ordinary vigour, at the same moment La Roche slipped his foot, and, ere Bryan could lay hold of him, fell headlong into the water and disappeared. Bryan's hands hung helplessly down, his jaw dropped, and his eyes opened wide, as he gazed in mute wonderment at the spot where his friend's toes had vanished. Suddenly he wrenched off his cap and flung it down, and proceeded to tear off his coat, preparatory to leaping into the river to the rescue, when his arms were pinioned to his sides by the powerful grip of Massan.

"Come, Bryan," said he, "you know very well that you can't swim; you'd only make things worse."

"Och! murder! he can't swim neither. Let me go, ye black villain. Thunder an' turf! will ye see the poor lad drownded forenint yer two eyes?" cried the poor Irishman, as he made violent but unavailing struggles to get free. But Massan knew that to allow him to escape would only add to the number requiring to be saved, and as he himself could not swim, he saw at once that the only service he could render under the circumstances would be to hold the Irishman down. Clasping him, therefore, as in a vice, he raised his head and gave a shout for help that rolled in deep echoes among the overhanging cliffs. Another shout was uttered at the same instant. Edith, who happened to come up just as La Roche's head emerged from the water gasping for breath, uttered a wild shriek that made more than one heart among the absentees leap as they flew to the rescue.

Meanwhile La Roche rose and sank several times in the surges of the pool. His face on these occasions exhibited a mingled expression of terror and mischievous wildness; for although he could not swim a stroke, the very buoyancy of his mercurial temperament seemed partially to support him, and a feeling of desperate determination induced him to retain a death-like gripe of the rod, at the end of which the salmon still struggled. But his strength was fast going, and he sank for the fourth time with a bubbling cry, when a step was heard crashing through the adjacent bushes, and Dick Prince sprang down the slope like a deer. He did not pause when the scene burst upon his view, but a smile of satisfaction played upon his usually grave face when he saw Edith safe on the banks of the stream. Another spring and an agile bound sent him headlong into the pool about a yard from the spot where La Roche had last sunk. Scarcely had he disappeared when the dog Chimo bounded towards the scene of action, and, with what intent no one could tell, leaped also into the water. By this time Frank, Stanley, and nearly all the party had assembled on the bank of the river, ready to render assistance. In a few seconds they had the satisfaction of seeing Dick Prince rise, holding poor La Roche by the collar of his capote with his left hand, while he swam vigorously towards the shore with his right. But during the various struggles which had taken place they had been gradually sucked into the stream that flowed towards the lower rapid, and it now became apparent to Prince that his only chance of safety was in catching hold of the point of rock that formed the first obstruction to the rush of water. Abandoning all effort, therefore, to gain the bank beside him, he swam with the current, but edged towards the shore as he floated down.

"Hallo! La Roche!" he exclaimed loudly. "Do you hear? do you understand me?"

"Ah! oui, vraiment. I not dead yit."

"Then let go that rod and seize my collar, and mind, sink deep in the water. Show only enough o' your face to breathe with, or I'll drown ye."

The Frenchman obeyed to the extent of seizing Dick's collar and sinking deep in the water, so as not to overburden his friend; but nothing could induce him to quit the rod to which he had clung so long and so resolutely. Prince's arms being now free, one or two powerful strokes placed him beyond the influence of the strong current, and as he passed the rocks before mentioned, he seized an overhanging branch of a small shrub, by which he endeavoured to drag himself ashore. This, however, he found to be impossible, partly owing to the steepness of the shelving rock, and partly to the fact that Chimo, in his ill-directed attempts to share in the dangers of his friends, had seized La Roche by the skirts of the coat in order to prevent himself from going down the stream. Those on shore, on seeing Prince make for the rock, ran towards the spot; but having to make a slight detour round the bend of the river, they did not reach it until he seized the branch, and when Frank, who was the first, sprang down, the slope to the rescue, he found them streaming out and waving to and fro in the current, like some monstrous reptile -- Dick holding on to the branch with both hands, La Roche holding on to Dick, Chimo holding on by his teeth to La Roche, and the unfortunate salmon holding on to the line which its half-drowned captor scorned to let go.

A few seconds sufficed to drag them dripping from the stream; and the energetic little Frenchman no sooner found his feet on solid ground than he hauled out his fish and landed it triumphantly with his own hand.

"'Tis a pretty fish, La Roche," said Frank, laughing, as he busied himself in taking down his rod, while several of the men assisted Dick Prince to wring the water out of his clothes, and others crowded round La Roche to congratulate him on his escape -- "'tis a pretty fish, but it cost you some trouble to catch it."

"Throuble, indeed!" echoed Bryan, as he sat on a rock smoking his pipe; "troth it's more nor him came to throuble by that same fish: it guve me the throuble o' bein' more nor half choked by Massan."

"Half choked, Bryan! what mean you?" asked Frank.

"Mane? I just mane what I say; an' the raison why's best known to himself."

A loud peal of laughter greeted Massan's graphic explanation of the forcible manner in which he had prevented the Irishman from throwing himself into the river.

The party now turned earnestly to the more serious duties of the journey. Already too much time had been lost in this "playing themselves with fish," as Stanley expressed it, and it behoved them to embark as speedily as possible. About a mile above the pool which had nearly proved fatal to La Roche was the head of a series of insurmountable rapids, which extended all the way down to the waterfall. Beyond this was a pretty long reach of calm water, up which they proceeded easily; but as they advanced the current became so strong that no headway could be made with the paddles, and it was found necessary to send a party of the men ashore with a long line, by means of which the canoes were slowly dragged against the current. At length they came to shallow water, which necessitated another portage; and as it was about sunset when they reached it, Stanley ordered the tent to be pitched for the night, and the fire lighted, under the shadow of a stupendous mountain, the rocky sides of which were sprinkled with dwarf pine trees, and partially covered with brush and herbage. Here Edith and her mother discovered multitudes of berries, the most numerous being cloud and crow berries; both of which were found to be good, especially the former, and a fragrant dish of these graced the towel that evening at supper.

Thus, day by day, our adventurous travellers penetrated deeper and deeper into the heart of the wilderness, which became more savage and mountainous as they left the coast. Stanley drew forth his quadrant and compass, wherewith he guided the party towards their future home. At night, after the labour of the day was over, he and Frank would spread their charts in the blaze of the camp fire, and study the positions of the land so far as it was laid down; while Edith sat beside her mother, helping her to repair the torn and way-worn habiliments of her husband and Frank, or listening with breathless interest to the men, as they recounted their experiences of life in the different regions through which they had travelled. Many of these tales were more or less coloured by the fancy of the narrators, but most of them were founded on fact, and proved an unfailing source of deep interest to the little child. Frank's fishing-rod was frequently in requisition, and often supplied the party with more than enough of excellent fish; and at every new bend and turn of the innumerable lakes and rivers through which they passed, reindeer were seen bounding on the mountain-sides, or trotting down the ravines to quench their thirst and cool their sides in the waters; so that food was abundant, and their slender stock of provisions had not to be trenched upon, while the berries that grew luxuriantly everywhere proved a grateful addition to their store. Thus, day by day, they slowly retreated farther and farther from the world of mankind --  living in safety under the protection of the Almighty, and receiving the daily supply of all their necessities from His fatherly and bountiful hand; thus, day by day, they rose with the sun, and lay down at night to rest upon the mountain's side or by the river's bank; and thus, day by day, they penetrated deeper and deeper into the heart of the unknown wilderness.



Chapter Twelve.

A New Scene -- The Esquimau -- Deer-Slaying -- Enemies In The Bush.

Turn we now to another, a more distant, and a wilder scene. Near the bleak shores of Hudson's Straits there flows a river which forms an outlet to the superfluous waters of the almost unknown territory lying between the uninhabited parts of Labrador and that tract of desert land which borders Hudson's Bay on the east, and is known to the fur-traders by the appellation of East Main. This river is called the Caniapuscaw, and discharges itself into Ungava Bay.

The scene to which we would turn the reader's attention is upwards of twenty miles from the mouth of this river, at a particular bend, where the stream spreads itself out into a sheet of water almost worthy of being called a lake, and just below which two bold cliffs shut out the seaward view, and cause an abrupt narrowing of the river. The scene is peculiar, and surpassingly grand. On each side of the stream majestic mountains raise their bald and rugged peaks almost into the clouds. Little herbage grows on the more exposed places, and nothing, save here and there a stunted and weather-worn pine, breaks the sharp outline of the cliffs. But in the gorges and dark ravines -- for there are no valleys -- clumps of small-sized spruce -- fir and larch trees throw a softness over some of the details of a spot whose general aspect is one of sterility. The mountains rise in a succession of irregular steps or terraces, whose faces are so precipitous that they cannot be ascended. To accomplish the feat of scaling the mountain-tops it would be necessary to clamber up a ravine until the first terrace should be gained, then, walking along that, ascend the next ravine, and so on. At the upper end of the lake (as we shall hereafter call this wide part of the river) lies a low island, fringed with a scanty growth of willows; and not far from this, on the eastern bank of the river, lies a small patch of level sand. This spot is somewhat peculiar, inasmuch as it is backed by a low platform of rock, whose surface is smooth as a table. At the foot of this rock bubbles a little spring, which, meandering through a tangled spot of stunted shrubbery ere it mingles with the sand, gives unusual green-ness and vitality to the surrounding herbage. On the edge of this rocky platform sat the figure of a man.

It was evening. The declining sun shot its last few rays over the brow of the opposite mountains, and bathed him in mellow light, as he sat apparently contemplating the scene before him. The man's costume bespoke him a native of the savage region in the midst of which he seemed the only human being. But although an Esquimau, he exhibited several physical peculiarities not commonly supposed to belong to that people. To an altitude of six feet three he added a breadth of shoulder and expansion of chest seldom equalled among men of more highly-favoured climes; and his real bulk being very greatly increased by his costume, he appeared to be a very giant -- no unfitting tenant of such giant scenery. The said costume consisted of an extremely loose coat or shirt of deerskin, having the hair outside, and a capacious hood, which usually hung down behind, but covered his head at this time, in order to protect it from a sharp north-west breeze that whirled among the gullies of the mountains, and surging down their sides, darkened the surface of the water. A pair of long sealskin boots encased his limbs from foot to thigh; and a little wallet or bag of sealskin, with the hair outside, hung from his shoulders. Simple although this costume was, it had a bulky rotundity of appearance that harmonised well with the giant's frank, good-humoured countenance, which was manly, firm, and massive, besides being rosy, oily, and fat. In the latter peculiarity he partook of the well-known characteristic of his tribe; but the effeminacy in appearance that is produced by a round, fat face was done away in the case of our giant by a remarkably black though as yet downy moustache and beard, of a length suitable to twenty-three winters. His hair was long, straight, and black, besides being uncommonly glossy -- an effect attributable to the prevalence of whale-oil in these regions. On the forehead the locks were cut short, so as to afford free scope to his black eyes and sturdy-looking nose. By his side lay a long hunting spear, and a double-bladed paddle, fully fifteen feet long; which latter belonged to a kayak, or Esquimau canoe, that lay on the sand close to the water's edge. Sitting there, motionless as the rocks around him, the giant looked like a colossal statue of an Esquimau. He was no figure of stone, however, but a veritable human being, as was proved by his starting suddenly from his reverie and hastening towards the spring before mentioned, at which he stooped and drank rapidly, like one who had to make up for lost time.

After a few hurried gulps, the man strode towards his canoe; but as he went his restless eye became fixed on the branching antlers of a deer, that were tossed in the air on the summit of a neighbouring cliff. Like one who is suddenly paralysed, the Esquimau stood transfixed in the attitude in which he had been arrested. He did not even seem to breathe, as the antlers moved to and fro, clearly defined against the blue sky. At length they disappeared, and the animal to which they belonged slowly descended a ravine towards the river. Then, as if set free from a spell, the man glided into his kayak, and swept rapidly but noiselessly behind a projecting point of rock, where he waited patiently till the deer took to the water. He had not long to wait, however, for in a few minutes afterwards the deer, followed by several companions, walked out upon the patch of sand, snuffed the air once or twice, and entered the stream with the intention of crossing.

But there was an enemy near whom they little dreamed of -- not an enemy who would dash excitedly into the midst of them, or awaken the thunders of the place with his noisy gun, but a foe who could patiently bide his time, and take cool and quiet advantage of it when it came. When the deer had proceeded about a hundred yards into the river, the Esquimau dipped his paddle twice, and the narrow, sharp-pointed canoe, which, at a short distance, seemed little more than a floating plank, darted through the water and ranged alongside of the startled animals. The fattest of the herd was separated from its fellows and driven towards the shore from which it had started, while the others struggled across the river. Once or twice the separated deer endeavoured to turn to rejoin its comrades -- an attempt which was frustrated by the Esquimau, who could paddle infinitely faster over the water in his skin canoe than the deer could swim. As they neared the shore, the giant cast on it one or two glances, and having made up his mind as to the most convenient spot for landing, he urged the point of his canoe between the antlers of the deer, and steered it in this manner to the sand-bank. The deer, thus directed, had no resource but to land where its persecutor chose; but no sooner did its foot touch ground, than it sprang convulsively forward in the vain hope to escape. The same instant its captor's canoe shot beside it. Grasping the long lance before mentioned in his hand, he placed its glittering point on the deer's side, tickled it slowly to ascertain that it was between two ribs, and, with a quick thrust, stabbed it to the heart. A convulsive shudder, as the deer's head sank in the stream, proved that, though cold-blooded in appearance, the action was more effective and less cruel than many other more approved methods of killing game.

Our Esquimau thought neither of the method of slaying his deer nor of man's opinion regarding it. His sole object was to procure supper, having tasted nothing since early morning; and the manner in which he ate showed at once the strength of his appetite and his total indifference to cookery, for he ate it raw. There was a certain appearance of haste in all his actions which, however, seemed unaccountable, considering the peaceful nature of the vast solitudes around him. Scarcely had he cut off and devoured a portion of the deer than he hastened again to his canoe, and darted like an arrow from the shore. This is no exaggerated simile. The long, thin, sharp Esquimau kayak is highly suggestive of an arrow in its form, and much more so in its extraordinary speed. It consists of an extremely light framework of wood covered with sealskin parchment, which is stretched upon it all over as tight as a drum. The top of the canoe being covered as well as the bottom, it is thus, as it were, decked; and a small hole in the middle of this deck admits its occupant. The kayak can only hold one person. The paddle, as already said, is a long pole with a blade at each end. It is dipped alternately on each side, and is used not only to propel the kayak, but to prevent it from upsetting. Indeed, so liable is it to upset that nothing but the wonderful adroitness of its occupant prevents it from doing so with every swing of his body.

Quick, however, though the kayak sped over the rippling wave, it could not have escaped the messenger of death that seemed about to be dispatched after it by a dark-skinned, red-painted Indian, who, at the moment the vessel left the shore, leapt from behind a rocky point, and, levelling a long gun, took a steady aim at the unconscious Esquimau. A little puff of powder answered to the click of the lock, as the gun missed fire. With an exclamation of anger the savage seized his powder-horn to reprime, when a rude grasp was laid on his shoulder, and another Indian, who, from the eagle feather in his hair, and his general bearing, appeared to be a chief, exclaimed -- 

"Fool! you have the impatience of a woman, and you have not yet shown that you have the heart of a man. Would the scalp of yon Eater-of-raw-flesh pay us for coming so far from our hunting-grounds? If your gun had spoken among these mountains, we would have found the empty wigwams of his people, instead of fringing our belts with their scalps."

With a frown of anger the chief turned on his heel and retraced his steps into the ravine from which he had emerged, followed by his abashed and silent companion.

Meanwhile the Esquimau, ignorant of the fate from which he had just escaped, continued to ply his paddle with right good will. The little craft, obedient to the powerful impulse, combined as it was with the current of the ebb-tide, flew rather than floated toward the narrows, through which it passed, and opened up a view of the ice-encumbered waters of Ungava Bay. Directing his course along the western shores of the river, the Esquimau speedily reached the coast at a point where several low, rough-built summer huts clustered near the shore. Here he ran his kayak into a little creek, and, having lifted it beyond tide mark, betook himself to his dwelling.



Chapter Thirteen.

Savage Love -- A Wife Purchased -- The Attack -- The Flight -- The Escape -- The Wounded Man.

Scarcely had the stout Esquimau proceeded a few steps along the shore, when he was met by a young girl who laid her hand on his arm. Taking her gently by the shoulders, he drew her towards him and kissed her on both cheeks -- an action which caused her to blush deeply as, with a half smile half frown on her face, she pushed him away.

Love is the same all the world over, whether it glows beneath the broad-cloth and spotless linen of a civilised gentleman, or under the deerskin coat of a savage. And its expression, we suspect, is somewhat similar everywhere. The coy repulse of pretended displeasure came as naturally from our plump little arctic heroine as it could have done from the most civilised flirt, and was treated with well-simulated contrition by our arctic giant, as they walked slowly towards the huts. But the Esquimau had other matters than love in his head just then, and the girl's face assumed a grave and somewhat anxious look as he continued to whisper in her ear.

At the little hamlet they separated, and the maiden went to her grandfather's abode; while her lover, lifting the skin-curtain door of a rudely-constructed hut, entered his own humble dwelling. The room was empty, and its owner did not seem as if he meant to cheer it with his presence long. In one corner lay a pile of miscellaneous articles, which he removed, and, taking the tusk of a walrus which lay near his hand, began to dig with it in the sand. In a few seconds it struck a hard substance, and the Esquimau, putting his hand into the hole, drew forth a glittering axe, upon which he gazed with supreme satisfaction.

Now be it known to you, reader, that among the Esquimaux of the frozen north iron is regarded with about as much delight as gold is by ourselves. And the reason is simple enough. These poor people live entirely upon the produce of the chase. Polar bears, seals, walruses, and whales are their staff of life. To procure these animals, spears are necessary; to skin and cut them up, knives are needful. But bone and stone make sorry knives and spears; so that, when a bit of iron, no matter how poor its quality or small its size, can be obtained, it is looked on as the most valuable of possessions; and the ingenuity displayed by Esquimaux in fashioning the rudest piece of metal into the most useful of implements is truly astonishing, proving, in the most satisfactory way, that necessity is indeed the mother of invention. The precious metal is obtained in two ways: by the discovery of a wreck, which is extremely rare; and by barter with those tribes which sometimes visit the Moravian settlements of Labrador. But neither source is very productive. Even a nail is treasured as a blessing, while an axe is a fortune! When our giant, therefore, drew forth the shining implement, and gazed with delight at its keen edge, he experienced as great satisfaction as a miser does when gloating over his banker's book!

Having satisfied himself that the axe was free from all approximation to rust, he stuck it into a belt of raw hide, which he put on for the express purpose of sustaining it, as Esquimaux do not generally wear belts. He then sallied forth, and walked with the air of a man who wears the grand cross of the Legion of Honour. As he went to the hut in which lived the oldest man of the tribe, the shade of anxiety, which had clouded his brow more than once during the day, again rested on his face. On entering, he observed the old Esquimau listening with anxious countenance to the young girl whom we have already introduced to the reader.

Now this girl -- Aneetka by name -- was by no means an angel in Esquimau habiliments. Among civilised folk probably she would not have been deemed even pretty. Nevertheless, in the eyes of her lover she was most decidedly beautiful, and round, and fat, and rosy, and young, awkward, and comfortable! And the giant loved her -- never so strongly, perhaps, as when he saw her striving to allay the fears of her old grandfather. But this same grandfather was obstinate. He wanted her to become the wife of an Esquimau who lived far to the westward, and who once had dealings with the fur-traders, and from whom he expected to derive considerable advantages and gifts of bits of hoop-iron and nails. But she wanted to become the giant's wife; so there the matter stood.

"The spirits o' the wind and sea protect us, and may the god o' the mist cover us!" said the old man, as the young Esquimau sat down on a dead seal beside him. "Is it true that you saw the men of fire?"

This was, of course, said in the language of the Esquimaux, and we render it as literally as possible.

"Yes, it is true," replied the young man. "I saw them at the rapid water in Caniapuscaw, and I took kayak to bring the news."

Various exclamations of mingled surprise and anger escaped from the compressed lips of several stalwart natives, who had crowded into the tent on hearing of the arrival of their comrade.

"Yes," continued the young man, "we must go away this night. They had fire-tubes, and there were thirty men. We have only ten."

Again a murmur ran through the listeners, but no one spoke for a few seconds.

"Did they see you?" asked the old man anxiously.

"No. I came on them suddenly, when I was chasing deer, and almost ran into their camp; but I saw, and fell in the grass. I thought the chief raised his head quickly when I fell; but he looked down again, and I crawled away."

In this the young Esquimau was mistaken. He knew little of the craft and the quickness of the Red Indian, and easily fell into the snare of his savage enemy, who, having been momentarily startled by the sudden sound of the Esquimau approach, had endeavoured to throw him off his guard, by pretending that although he heard the sound he thought nothing of it. But no sooner had the Esquimau retired than he was closely followed and watched by the whole party. They could have easily shot him, but refrained from doing so, that he might unwittingly be their guide to the habitations of his people. The rapid flight of his kayak distanced his pursuers at first, but they made up for this during an hour or two in the night, when the tired Esquimau allowed himself a short season of repose to recruit his energies for the following day's journey. During this period the Indians shot far ahead of him, and when he arrived at the coast next day they were not much in the rear.

"And now, old man," said our young Esquimau, "it is time that I should have my wife. If the Allat [see note 1] come here to-night, as I know they will, I want to have a right to defend her, and carry her away when we flee. Are you willing?"

The young giant said this with a degree of roughness and decision that at any other time would have made the obstinate old grandfather refuse point blank; but as there was every probability of having to flee for his life ere the break of another day, and as his old heart trembled within him at the thought of the dreaded guns of the Indians, he merely shook his head and pondered a little.

"What will you give me?" he said, looking up.

The young man answered by drawing the axe from his belt and laying it on the ground before him. The old man's eyes glistened with pleasure as he surveyed the costly gift.

"Good; that will do. Take her and go."

A second bidding was not needed. The young man arose hastily, took his blushing bride by the hand, and led her from the tent of her grandfather towards his own. Here she set to work instantly to assist her husband in hurriedly packing up their goods and chattels; and, immediately afterwards, the little village became a perfect Babel of confusion, as the alarmed inhabitants, on learning the threatened danger, prepared for instant flight. In less than an hour the most of them were ready. The men launched their kayaks, while the women, having loaded their oomiaks with their goods, tossed their dogs and children on the top of them.

The oomiak, or women's boat, is quite a different affair from the kayak, in which the men travel singly. It is usually made large and capacious, in order to hold the entire household of the Esquimau. Like the kayak it is made of skin, but has no covering above, and is propelled by means of short single-bladed paddles, which are worked by the women, upon whom devolves the entire care and management of the oomiak. It is a clumsy affair to look at, but, like the boats of savages generally, it is uncommonly useful and a good sea-boat.

While the Esquimaux were busied in completing their arrangements, one of the dogs rushed towards the bushes that lined the shore just behind the village, and barked vociferously. Instantly it was joined by the whole pack, and the Esquimaux, who, ever since they had heard of the proximity of their Indian foes, were in a state of the utmost trepidation, made a general rush towards their canoes. Before they reached them, however, a volley of musketry was fired from the bushes, and three of their number -- a man and two women -- filled the air with their death-shriek, as they fell dead upon the beach; while the Indians sprang from their concealment, and, brandishing their knives and tomahawks, rushed with a fearful yell upon the terror-stricken Esquimaux.

Shrill and terrible though the Indian war-cry is proverbially known to be, it was excelled in appalling wildness by the shriek which arose from the Esquimaux, as they hurried tumultuously into their canoes and put off to sea. These poor creatures were naturally brave -- much more so, indeed, than their assailants; but the murderous effects of the terrible gun caused the sternest brow among them to blanch and the stoutest heart to quail. The arrow and the spear, however rapid, could be avoided, if observed in time; but this dreaded implement of destruction was so mysterious to them, and its death-dealing bullet so quick, and the smoke, the fire, and the loud report so awful, that they shuddered even when they thought of it. No wonder, then, that they uttered a despairing cry when it actually sounded in their ears.

When the dogs first gave tongue, our tall Esquimau was alone in his hut, having just sent his wife down with a bundle to the oomiak. When the volley rang in his ears, he rushed towards the beach, supposing that she was there before him. This was not the case, however. Aneetka had gone towards her grandfather's hut, and when the Indians fired she rushed in to assist him to fly. But the old man was already gone. Turning instantly, she sprang nimbly towards the shore. At that moment a single shot was fired, and she saw her husband stumble forward and fall headlong to the earth, where he lay motionless. Her first impulse was to run towards the body and throw herself upon it; but this intention was effectually checked by a strong, dark-skinned arm which encircled her waist, and, despite her cries and struggles, bore her away into the bushes. Her captor was the Indian whose gun once before on that day had been levelled at her lover's head.

When the young Esquimau fell, as already related, he was so close to the water that he stumbled into it, and, fortunately, not a yard distant from an oomiak which the women were frantically thrusting into the sea. They had no time to lift so heavy a weight on board, but, as the light craft darted from the shore, an old woman, who had often received kind attentions from the good-natured youth, leant over the stern and seized him by the hair. In this manner he was dragged through the water until they were out of gun-shot, when he was lifted inside and laid beside the dogs and children.

Meanwhile the Indians had rushed into the water up to their middle, in the hope of catching the last of the little fleet, but without success. Mad with disappointed rage, they waded back to the shore, and, standing in a line along the edge of the waves, reloaded their guns with the utmost rapidity. The poor Esquimaux knew well what would follow, and strained every nerve to increase their distance. Once more the guns belched forth their leaden shower, which went skipping over the water towards the flotilla. Only one kayak was hit by the discharge. It was that of the old grandfather already mentioned. The ball ripped up the side of the canoe, which filled and upset, and the poor old man would certainly have been drowned but for the opportune coming up of the oomiak containing his wounded grandson. The old woman who had already saved the life of the young giant of the tribe, again put forth her skinny hand and grasped the patriarch, who was soon hauled on board in safety. A few minutes more placed the whole party out of danger.

In the meantime, the Indians, furious with disappointment, scalped the three dead bodies and tossed them into the sea; after which they went into the huts in order to collect all the valuables that might have been left behind. Very little, however, was to be found, as the entire property of an Esquimau is not worth much to a red man. The most useful thing they laid hands on was the axe which the old grandfather had left behind in his hurried flight. Having taken all they could carry, the savages destroyed the rest; and then, setting fire to the village, they returned to the bush. Here a fire was made, and a council of war held.

When the Indian who had captured the Esquimau girl led her forward towards the fire, there was a general yell of indignation. Tomahawks were grasped, and more than one knife was unsheathed. But the chief commanded silence.

"What does White Heart mean to do with the Eater-of-raw-flesh?" he inquired, turning to the young man.

"He will take her to the hunting-grounds of the Crees."

"That cannot be," said the chief. "The girl must die, and White Heart must kill her."

The young man made no reply.

"If," continued the chief sarcastically, "White Heart is afraid to see blood on his knife, another warrior will show him how to do it!"

As he spoke, a dark-visaged savage drew his scalping-knife, and, with one stride, stood beside the trembling girl, who, during the consultation of the savages, had stood silently beside her captor listening intently to the words which she did not comprehend.

Seizing her by the shoulder, the savage plunged his knife at her bosom; but, ere the keen point reached it, the arm was caught by the young Indian, and the scowling savage was hurled violently back. With dilated eye and expanded nostril, the young man, not deigning to bestow a glance upon his fallen comrade, turned to his chief and said -- 

"Did not I take her? The girl is mine. I will carry her to my tent and make her my wife."

"Be it so," replied the chief abruptly. Then turning to his followers, he gave orders to start immediately.

In a few minutes all was ready. The chief led the way into the bush. The Esquimau girl and her captor followed; and the whole band, silently and in single file, commenced to retrace their steps to the far distant hunting-grounds of the Cree Indians.

 --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  -- 

Note 1. Esquimau name for Indians.



Chapter Fourteen.

The Pursuit -- Seal-Spearing -- The Giant's Despair.

When the young Esquimau began to recover from the lethargic state into which his wound had thrown him, he found himself lying at the bottom of the women's oomiak with his old grandfather by his side, and a noisy crew of children and dogs around him. Raising himself on his elbow, he brushed the clotted blood and hair from his temples, and endeavoured to recall his scattered faculties. Seeing this, the old crone who had saved his life laid down her paddle and handed him a sealskin cup of water, which he seized and drank with avidity. Fortunately the wound on his forehead, although it had stunned him severely at first, was trifling, and in a few minutes after partaking of the cool water, he recovered sufficiently to sit up and look around him.

Gradually his faculties returned, and he started up with a troubled look.

"Where are the Allat? Where is my wife?" he exclaimed vehemently, as his eye fell on the prostrate form of his still insensible grandfather.

"Gone," answered several of the women.

"Gone!" repeated the youth, gazing wildly among the faces around him in search of that of his wife. "Gone! Tell me, is she in one of the other oomiaks?"

The women trembled as they answered, "No."

"Have the Allat got her?"

There was no reply to this question, but he did not need one. Springing like a tiger to the stern of the oomiak, he seized the steering paddle, and turning the head of the boat towards the shore, paddled with all his energy. Nearly two hours had elapsed since they had commenced their flight, and as all danger of pursuit was over the moment the Indians turned their backs on the sea, the Esquimaux had gradually edged in-shore again, so that a few minutes sufficed to run the prow of the oomiak on the shingle of the beach. Without saying a word, the young man sprang over the side, drew a hunting-spear from the bottom of the boat, and hurried back in the direction of the deserted village at the top of his speed. The women knew that nothing could stop him, and feeling that he was quite able to take care of himself, they quietly put to sea again, and continued their voyage.

The limbs of the young Esquimau, as we have already said, were gigantic and powerful, enabling him to traverse the country at a pace which few of his fellows could keep up with; and although a stern-chase is proverbially a long one, and the distance between two parties travelling in opposite directions is amazingly increased in a short space of time, there is no doubt that he would have overtaken his Indian foes ere many hours had passed, but for the wound in his head, which, although not dangerous, compelled him more than once to halt and sit down, in order to prevent himself from falling into a swoon. Hunger had also something to do with this state of weakness, as he had eaten nothing for many hours. In his hasty departure from the boat, however, he had neglected to take any provisions with him, so that he had little hope of obtaining refreshment before arriving at the village, where some scraps might perhaps be picked up.

Slowly, and with a reeling brain, he staggered on; but here no relief awaited him, for every scrap of food had been either taken away or destroyed by the Indians, and it was with a heavy sigh and a feeling akin to despair that he sat down beside the blackened ruins of his late home.

But Esquimaux, more than other men, are accustomed to reverses of fortune, and the sigh with which he regarded the ruins of his hut had no reference whatever to the absence of food. He knew that about this time the mouth of the river would be full of ice, carried up by the flood-tide, and that seals would, in all probability, be found on it; so he started up, and hastening along the beach soon gained the floes, which he examined carefully. A glance or two sufficed to show him that he was right in his conjecture. On a sheet of ice not more than a couple of hundred yards from shore were two seals fast asleep. These he prepared to stalk. Between the floe and the shore ran a stream of water twenty yards broad. Over this he ferried himself on a lump of loose ice; and, on reaching the floe, he went down on his hands and knees, holding the spear in his right hand as he advanced cautiously towards his victim.

The Esquimau seal-spear is a curious weapon, and exhibits in a high degree the extraordinary ingenuity of the race. The handle is sometimes made of the horn of the narwal, but more frequently of wood. It has a movable head or barb, to which a long line of walrus hide or sealskin is attached. This barb is made of ivory tipped with iron, and is attached to the handle in such a way that it becomes detached from it the instant the animal is struck, and remains firmly imbedded in the wound with the line fastened to it, while the handle floats away on the water or falls on the ice, as the case may be.

When the Esquimau had approached to within a hundred yards, he lay down at full length and slowly worked himself forward. Meanwhile the seals raised their heads, but seeing, as they imagined, a companion coming towards them, they did not make for their holes, which were a few yards distant from them. Having drawn near enough to render the animals suspicious, the young giant now sprang up, rushed forward, and got between one seal and its hole just as its more active companion dived into the water. In another moment the deadly lance transfixed its side and killed it. This was a fortunate supply to the Esquimau, whose powers of endurance were fast failing. He immediately sat down on his victim, and cutting a large steak from its side, speedily made a meal that far exceeded the powers of any alderman whatsoever! It required but a short time to accomplish, however, and a shorter time to transfer several choice [junks] chunks to his wallet; with which replenished store he resumed his journey.

Although the man's vigour was restored for a time, so that he travelled with great speed, it did not last long, owing to the wound in his head, which produced frequent attacks of giddiness, and at last compelled him, much against his will, to halt for a couple of hours' repose. Glancing round, in order to select a suitable camping ground, he soon observed such a spot in the form of a broad, overhanging ledge of rock, beneath which there was a patch of scrubby underwood. Here he lay down with the seal blubber for a pillow, and was quickly buried in deep, untroubled slumber. In little more than two hours he awoke with a start, and, after a second application to the contents of the wallet, resumed his solitary march. The short rest seemed to have quite restored his wonted vigour, for he now stalked up the banks of the river at a rate which seemed only to accelerate as he advanced. As has been already said, these banks were both rugged and precipitous. In some places the rocks jutted out into the water, forming promontories over which it was difficult to climb; and frequently these capes terminated in abrupt precipices, necessitating a detour in order to advance. In other places the coast was indented with sandy bays, which more than doubled the distance the traveller would have had to accomplish had he possessed a kayak. Unfortunately in his hasty departure he neglected to take one with him; but he did his best to atone for this oversight by making almost superhuman exertions. He strode over the sands like an ostrich of the desert, and clambered up the cliffs and over the rocks -- looking, in his hairy garments, like a shaggy polar bear. The thought of his young and pretty bride a captive in the hands of his bitterest foes, and doomed to a life of slavery, almost maddened him, and caused his dark eye to flash and his broad bosom to heave with pent-up emotion, while it spurred him on to put forth exertions that were far beyond the powers of any member of his tribe, and could not, under less exciting circumstances, have been performed even by himself. As to what were his intentions should he overtake the Indians, he knew not. The agitation of his spirits, combined with the influence of his wound, induced him to act from impulse; and the wild tumult of his feelings prevented him from calculating the consequences or perceiving the hopelessness of an attack made by one man, armed only with knife and spear, against a body of Indians who possessed the deadly gun.

Alas! for the sorrows of the poor human race. In all lands they are much the same, whether civilised or savage -- virtue and vice alternately triumphing. Bravery, candour, heroism, in fierce contest with treachery, cowardice, and malevolence, form the salient points of the record among all nations, and in all ages. No puissant knight of old ever buckled on his panoply of mail, seized his sword and lance, mounted his charger, and sallied forth singlehanded to deliver his mistress from enchanted castle, in the face of appalling perils, with hotter haste or a more thorough contempt of danger than did our Esquimau giant pursue the Indians who had captured his bride; but, like many a daring spirit of romance, the giant failed, and that through no fault of his.

On arriving at the rocky platform beside the spring where we first introduced him to the reader, the Esquimau sat down, and, casting his spear on the ground, gazed around him with a look of despair. It was not a slight matter that caused this feeling to arise. Notwithstanding his utmost exertions, he had been unable to overtake the Indians up to this point, and beyond this point it was useless to follow them. The mountains here were divided into several distinct gorges, each of which led into the interior of the country; and it was impossible to ascertain which of these had been taken by the Indians, as the bare, rocky land retained no mark of their light, moccasined feet. Had the pursuer been an Indian, the well-known sagacity of the race in following a trail, however slight, might have enabled him to trace the route of the party; but the Esquimaux are unpractised in this stealthy, dog-like quality. Their habits and the requirements of their condition render it almost unnecessary; so that, in difficult circumstances, their sagacity in this respect is not equal to the emergency. Add to this the partial confusion created in the young giant's brain by his wound, and it will not appear strange that despair at length seized him, when, after a severe journey, he arrived at a spot where, as it were, half a dozen cross-roads met, and he had not the most distant idea which he had to follow. It is true the valley of the river seemed the most probable route; but after pursuing this for a whole day without coming upon a vestige of the party, he gave up the pursuit, and, returning to the spring beside the rock, passed the night there with a heavy heart. When the sun rose on the following morning he quitted his lair, and, taking a long draught at the bubbling spring, prepared to depart. Before setting out, he cast a melancholy glance around the amphitheatre of gloomy hills; shook his spear, in the bitterness of his heart, towards the dark recesses which had swallowed up the light of his eyes, perchance for ever; then, turning slowly towards the north, with drooping head, and with the listless tread of a heart-broken man, he retraced his steps to the sea-coast, and, rejoining his comrades, was soon far away from the banks of the Caniapuscaw River.



Chapter Fifteen.

End Of The Voyage -- Plans And Prospects -- Exploring Parties Sent Out.

Three weeks alter the departure of the Esquimaux from the neighbourhood of Ungava Bay, the echoes of these solitudes were awakened by the merry song of the Canadian voyageurs, as the two canoes of Stanley and his comrades swept down the stream and approached the spring at the foot of the flat rock.

As the large canoe ran its bow lightly on the sand, the first man who leaped ashore was La Roche. He seemed even more sprightly and active than formerly, but was a good deal darker in complexion, and much travel-stained. Indeed, the whole party bore marks of having roughed it pretty severely for some time past among the mountains. Edith's face was decidedly darker than when she left Moose, and her short frock considerably shorter in consequence of tear and wear.

"Bad luck to ye, Losh! Out o' the way, an' let yer betters land before ye," exclaimed Bryan, as he jumped into the water, and dragged the canoe towards the beach.

The only marks that rough travelling had put on Bryan were one or two additional wrinkles in his battered white hat; as for his face, it was already so thoroughly bronzed by long exposure, that a week or two more or less made no difference in its hue.

"Jump into my arms, Miss Edith," said Francois, as he stood in the water beside the canoe.

"Steady, boy; mind the gum," cried Massan, as Oolibuck strained the canoe roughly in shouldering a package.

"Look out ashore, there," cried Dick Prince, throwing the tent poles on the beach as he spoke.

Regardless of the warning, Gaspard did not "look out," and received a rap on the leg from one of the poles, whereat he growled savagely, and threw down a sack, which rested on his shoulder, so violently that it nearly knocked over Ma-istequan, who was passing at the time with the camp-kettle in his hand.

"What an ould buffalo it is!" exclaimed Bryan, pushing Gaspard rudely aside with his left shoulder, and hitching off La Roche's cap with his right, as he sprang back to the canoe for another load. "Pardonay mwa, Losh, may garson," he exclaimed, with a broad grin. "Now thin, boys, out wid the fixin's. Faix it's mysilf is plazed to git ashore anyhow, for there's nothin' gone into my intarior since brickfust this mornin'."

At this moment the bow of the other canoe grated on the sand, and Frank Morton leaped ashore.

"Capital place to camp, Frank," said Stanley, who had just finished pitching the tent on the scrimp herbage that forced its way through the sand. "There's a splendid spring of pure water below yonder rock. I've just left my wife and Eda busy with the tea-cups, and La Roche preventing them from getting things ready, by way of helping them."

"It does indeed seem a good place," replied Frank, "and might do for temporary headquarters, perhaps, while we make excursions to the coast to fix on a spot for our new home."

Stanley gazed contemplatively around him as his friend spoke. "Hand me the telescope, Frank; it strikes me we are nearer the sea than you think. The water here is brackish, and yonder opening in the mountains might reveal something beyond, if magnified by the glass."

After a lengthened survey of the surrounding hills, Frank and Stanley came to the conclusion that they could make nothing of it, at least that night; and as it was becoming gradually dark, they resolved to postpone all further consideration of the subject till the next day.

Meanwhile, the men busied themselves in preparing supper, and Chimo unexpectedly lent them some assistance by bringing into camp a ptarmigan which he had just killed. True, Chimo had, in his innocence, designed this little delicacy of the season for his own special table; but no sooner was he seen with the bird between his teeth, than it was snatched from him and transferred to the pot forthwith.

The following day was an era in the existence of the travellers. For the first time since commencing their arduous voyage, the cargoes were left behind, and the canoes paddled away, light and buoyant, on a trip of investigation. Stanley had rightly judged that they were now near the sea, and the great breadth of the river led him to believe that there might be water sufficient to float the vessel in which the goods for the station were to be forwarded. If this should turn out as he expected, there could not be a better spot for establishing a fort than that on which they had encamped, as it was situated just below the last rapids of the river; had a fine spring of fresh water in its vicinity; and was protected from the cold blasts of winter, to some extent at least, by the surrounding mountains.

"Now, Frank," added Mr Stanley, after stating his opinion on this point, "what I mean to do is this: I shall take the large canoe, with Dick Prince, Francois, Gaspard, La Roche, and Augustus -- the last to interpret should we fall in with Esquimaux, whom I am surprised not to have found hereabouts. With these I will proceed to the sea, examine the coast, observe whether there be any place suitable for building on, and, if all goes well, be back to supper before sunset. You will take the other canoe, with Bryan, Massan, Oolibuck, and Ma-istequan, and proceed down the opposite side of the river a short way. Examine the shores there, and above the island; see whether there be any place better than where we stand for a permanent residence; and at night we shall compare notes. My wife and Eda shall remain in camp under the care of Oostesimow and Moses."

"And pray who is to defend your poor wife and innocent child in the event of an attack by a band of savage natives?" inquired Mrs Stanley, as she joined her husband and Frank.

"No fear of the wife and child," replied Stanley, patting his better half on the shoulder. "If Indians should find out the camp, Oostesimow can palaver with them; and should Esquimaux pay you a visit, Moses will do the polite. Besides, had you not interrupted, I was going to have given special instructions to Frank regarding you. So, Master Frank, be pleased to take Eda off your shoulder, and give ear to my instructions. While you are examining the other side of the water, you will keep as much as possible within eye-shot, and always within ear-shot, of the camp. In a still day like this a gun-shot can be heard five or six miles off; and should you see any sign of the natives having been here recently, return instantly to the camp."

Frank promised implicit obedience to these instructions, and the whole party then set to work to pile the goods on a ledge in the steep cliffs behind the spring, so that a fortress was soon formed, which, with two such stout and courageous men as Moses and Oostesimow, armed with two guns each, a brace of pistols, two cutlasses, and an ample supply of ammunition, could have stood a prolonged siege from much more practised enemies than Indians or Esquimaux. After having completed these defensive arrangements, and provided occupation for those who remained in camp, by laying on them the duty of having the goods examined, in order to see that nothing had been damaged by wet or rough usage, the two canoes pushed from the shore, and bounded lightly away, while the men sang merrily at their easy labour; for now that the canoes were light, they might have been propelled by two men. Frank directed his course obliquely up the river, towards the island already alluded to, and Stanley proceeded with the current towards the narrows beyond which he expected to catch sight of the sea.

After passing above the island, which was found to be low and thinly covered with vegetation and a few scrubby bushes, Frank and his men pushed over to the other side and proceeded carefully to examine the coast. It was found to be much the same as that which they had just left. A narrow belt of sandy and shingly beach extended along the margin of the river, or, as it might be more appropriately termed, the lake, at least in as far as appearance went. This strip or belt was indented here and there with numerous bays and inlets, and in many places was intersected by rocky capes which jutted out from the mountains. These mountains were bare and precipitous, rising abruptly, like those on the other side, from the edge of the sand, and ascending in a succession of terraces, whose faces were so steep that it was almost impossible to scale them. They could be ascended in succession, however, by means of the ravines and numerous gullies which rose in rugged and zigzag lines from the beach to the mountain tops. In the very first of these gullies in which the exploring party landed, they found the remains of an Esquimau summer encampment. These consisted of a few stunted trees, which appeared to have been built in the form of rude huts; but they were thrown about in some confusion, and altogether bore evidence of having remained in a state of ruin for many years. Another discovery of a more satisfactory kind was made -- namely, the tracks of deer, which were so fresh as to induce Frank to take his rifle and mount the ravine in search of the animals, accompanied by Massan, whose natural temperament was exceedingly prone to enjoy the excitement of the chase. So much, indeed, was this the case, that the worthy guide had more than once been on the point of making up his mind to elope to the backwood settlements of the States, purchase a rifle and ammunition there, don a deerskin hunting-shirt, and "make tracks," as he styled it, for the prairies, there to dwell and hunt until his eye refused to draw the sight and his finger to pull the trigger of a Kentucky rifle. But Massan's sociable disposition came in the way of this plan, and the thought of leading a solitary life always induced him to forego it.

"It's my 'pinion, sir," remarked the guide, as he followed Frank up the ravine, the sheltered parts of which were covered with a few clumps of stunted pines -- "it's my 'pinion that we'll have to cut our logs a long bit up the river, for there's nothin' fit to raise a fort with hereabouts."

"True, Massan," replied Frank, glancing from side to side, hunter fashion, as he walked swiftly over the broken ground; "there's not a tree that I can see big enough to build a backwoods shanty with."

"Well, master, 'twill do for firewood, if it's fit for nothin' else, and that's a blessin' that's not always to be comed by everywhere. Let's be thankful for small matters. I see sticks growin' up them gullies that'll do for stakes for the nets, an' axe handles, an' paddles, an' spear shafts, an' -- "

The honest guide's enumeration of the various articles into which the small timber of the place might be converted was brought to a sudden pause by Frank, who laid his hand on his shoulder, and while he pointed with the butt of his rifle up the ravine, whispered, "Don't you see anything else up yonder besides trees, Massan?"

The guide looked in the direction indicated, and by an expressive grunt showed that his eye had fallen on the object referred to by his companion. It was a deer which stood on an overhanging ledge of rock, high up the cliffs -- so high that it might easily have been mistaken for a much smaller animal by less practised sportsmen. Below the shelf on which it stood was a yawning abyss, which rendered any attempt to get near the animal utterly hopeless.

"What a pity," said Frank, as he crouched behind a projecting rock, "that it's out of shot! It would take us an hour at least to get behind it, and there's little chance, I fear, of its waiting for us."

"No chance whatever," replied Massan decidedly. "But he's big enough to cover from where we stand."

"To cover! Ay, truly, I could point straight at his heart easy enough --  indeed I would think it but slight boasting to say I could cover his eye from this spot -- but the bullet would refuse to go, Massan; it's far beyond shot."

"Try, sir, try," exclaimed the guide quickly, for as they spoke the deer moved. "I've been huntin' on the Rocky Mountains afore now, an' I know that distance cheats you in sich places. It's not so far as you think -- "

He had scarcely finished speaking when Frank's rifle poured forth its contents. The loud echoes of the crags reverberated as the smoke floated away to leeward. The next instant the deer sprang with one wild bound high into the air -- over the cliff -- and descending with lightning speed through the dark space, was dashed almost in pieces on the rocks below.

Massan gave a low chuckle of satisfaction as he walked up to the mangled animal, and pointing to a small round hole just over its heart, he said, "The old spot, Mr Frank; ye always hit them there."

Having paid Frank this compliment, Massan bled the animal, which was in prime condition, with at least two inches of fat on its flanks, and having placed it on his shoulders, returned with his companion to the canoe.

While Frank was thus engaged, Stanley had descended towards the shores of Ungava Bay, which he found to be about twenty-five miles distant from the encampment beside the spring. He made a rapid survey of the coast as they descended, and sounded the river at intervals. When he reached its mouth he had made two important discoveries. The one was, that there did not seem to be a spot along the whole line of coast so well fitted in all respects for an establishment as the place whereon their tents were already pitched. The other was, that the river, from its mouth up to that point, was deep enough to float a vessel of at least three or four hundred tons burden. This was very satisfactory, and he was about to return to the camp when he came upon the deserted Esquimau village which, a few weeks before, had been the scene of a murderous attack and a hasty flight. On a careful examination of the place, the marks of a hasty departure were so apparent that Stanley and his men made a pretty near guess at the true state of affairs; and the former rightly conjectured that, having made a precipitate flight in consequence of some unexpected attack, there was little probability of their returning soon to the same locality. This was unfortunate, but in the hope that he might be mistaken in these conjectures, and that the natives might yet return before winter, he set up a pole on a conspicuous place, and tied to the top of it a bag containing two dozen knives, one dozen fire-steels, some awls and needles, several pounds of beads, and a variety of such trinkets as were most likely to prove acceptable to a savage people.

While Bryan was engaged in piling a heap of stones at the foot of this pole to prevent its being blown down by the wind, the rest of the party re-embarked, and prepared to return home; for although the camp beside the spring was scarcely one day old, the fact that it was likely to become the future residence of the little party had already invested it with a species of homelike attraction. Man is a strange animal, and whatever untravelled philosophers may say to the contrary, he speedily makes himself "at home" anywhere!

"Hallo, Bryan!" shouted Stanley from the canoe, "look sharp; we're waiting for you!"

"Ay, ay, yer honour," replied the Irishman, lifting a huge mass of rock; "jist wan more, an' it'll be stiff an' stidy as the north pole himself." Then in an undertone he added, "'Look sharp,' is it ye say? It's blunt ye are to spake that way to yer betters. Musha! but it's mysilf wouldn't give a tinpinny for all that bag houlds, twinty times doubled; an' yit thim haythens, thim pork-faced Huskimos, 'll dance round this here pole wi' delight till they're fit to dhrop. Och! but salvages is a quare lot; an', Bryan, yer a cliver boy to come this far all the way to see thim."

With this self-complimentary conclusion, Bryan resumed his place at the paddle, and the party returned to the camp.

Here they found things in a most satisfactory state. Frank and his party had returned, and the deer, now cut up into joints and steaks, was impaled on a number of stakes of wood, and stuck up to roast round a large and cheering fire. The savoury steam from these, with the refreshing odour of the tea-kettle, produced a delectable sensation in the nostrils of the hungry explorers. Stanley's tent was erected with its back towards the mountains and its open door towards the fire, which lighted up its snug interior, and revealed Mrs Stanley and Edith immersed in culinary operations, and Chimo watching them with a look of deep, grave sagacity -- his ears very erect, and his head a good deal inclined to one side, as if that position favoured the peculiar train of his cogitations. La Roche was performing feats of agility round the fire, that led one to believe he must be at least half a salamander. At a respectful distance from Stanley's tent, but within the influence of the fire, the men were employed in pitching, for the first time, the large skin tent which was to be their residence until they should build a house for themselves; and on a log, within dangerous proximity to the mercurial La Roche, sat Frank Morton, busily employed in entering in his journal the various events of the day.

There was much talk and loud laughter round the fire that night, for the different parties had much to tell and much to hear regarding the discoveries that had been made, and discussions as to the prospects of the expedition were earnest and long. It was generally admitted that first appearances were, upon the whole, favourable, although it could not be denied that the place looked dreadfully barren and rugged. Under the happy influence of this impression, and the happier influence of the savoury steaks on which they had supped, the entire party lay down to rest, and slept so profoundly that there was neither sound nor motion to indicate the presence of human beings in the vast solitudes of Ungava, save the fitful flame of the fire as it rose and fell, casting a lurid light on the base of the rugged mountains, and a sharp reflection on the dark waters.



Chapter Sixteen.

Resources Of The Country Begin To Develop -- Bryan Distinguishes Himself --  Fishing Extraordinary.

There is a calm but deep-seated and powerful pleasure which fills the heart, and seems to permeate the entire being, when one awakens to the conviction that a day of arduous toil is about to begin -- toil of an uncertain kind, perhaps connected with danger and adventure, in an unexplored region of the earth. Ignorance always paints coming events in glowing colours; and the mere fact that our adventurers knew not the nature of the country in which their tent was pitched -- knew not whether the natives would receive them as friends or repel them as foes -- knew not whether the nature and capabilities of the country were such as would be likely to convert the spot on which they lay into a comfortable home or a premature grave; -- the mere fact of being utterly ignorant on these points was, in itself, sufficient to fill the poorest spirit of the band (had there been a poor spirit among them) with a glow of pleasurable excitement, and a firm resolve to tax their powers of doing and suffering to the uttermost.

When the sun rose on the following morning the whole party was astir, the fire lighted, and an early breakfast in course of preparation. Much had to be done, and it behoved them to set about it with energy and at once, for the short autumn of these arctic regions was drawing on apace, and a winter of great length and of the utmost severity lay before them.

There was also one consideration which caused some anxiety to Stanley and Frank, although it weighed little on the reckless spirits of the men, and this was the possibility of the non-arrival of the ship with their winter supply of provisions and goods for trade. Without such a supply a winter on the shores of Ungava Bay would involve all the hardships and extreme perils that too often fall to the lot of arctic discoverers; and he who has perused the fascinating journals of those gallant men, knows that these hardships and perils are neither few nor light. The leaders of the expedition were not, indeed, men to anticipate evils, or to feel unduly anxious about possible dangers; but they would have been more or less than human had they been able to look at Mrs Stanley and little Edith without a feeling of anxiety on their account. This thought, however, did not influence them in their actions; or, if it did, it only spurred them on to more prompt and vigorous exertions in the carrying out of their undertaking.

After breakfast Stanley assembled his men, and gave each special directions what to do. One of the most important points to ascertain was whether there were many fish in the river. On this hung much of the future comfort and well-being, perhaps even the existence, of the party. Gaspard was, therefore, ordered to get out his nets and set them opposite the encampment. Oolibuck, being officially an interpreter of the Esquimau language, and, when not employed in his calling, regarded as a sort of male maid-of-all-work, was ordered to assist Gaspard. The next matter of primary importance was to ascertain what animals inhabited the region, and whether they were numerous. Dick Prince, being the recognised hunter of the party, was directed to take his gun and a large supply of ammunition, and sally forth over the mountains in search of game; and as Massan was a special friend of his, a good shot, and, moreover, a sagacious fellow, he was ordered to accompany him. They were also directed to observe particularly the state of the woods and the quality of the timber growing therein; but as this last required special attention, the style and size of the future fort being dependent on it, Francois, the carpenter, was appointed to make a journey of observation up the Caniapuscaw River, in company with Augustus the Esquimau and Ma-istequan the Indian -- it being thought probable that if natives were to be met with at all, they would be on the banks of the river rather than in the mountains. It was further arranged that Frank Morton should ascend the mountains in company with Bryan, and ascertain if there were any lakes, and whether or not they contained fish. As for Mr Stanley, he resolved to remain by the camp. On entering his tent after dispatching the several parties, he said to his wife -- 

"I'm going to stay by you to-day, Jessie. All the men, except Moses, Oostesimow, Gaspard, and La Roche, are sent off to hunt and fish in the mountains, and I have kept these four to paddle about this neighbourhood, in order to take soundings and examine the coast more carefully; because, you see, it would be an unfortunate thing if we began our establishment in a place not well suited for it."

Mrs Stanley and Edith were, of course, quite pleased with this arrangement, and while the males of the party were absent, the former employed herself in dressing the skin of the deer that had been shot the day before. She accomplished this after the Indian fashion, by scraping and rubbing it with the animal's brains. Afterwards she smoked it over a fire of green wood, and in this way produced a soft, pliant substance similar to chamois leather, but coarser and stouter. As for Edith, she rambled at will among the bushes of the nearest ravine, under the faithful guardianship of Chimo, and hurried back to the camp almost every hour, laden with cloudberries, cranberries, blaeberries, and crowberries, which grew in profusion everywhere.

Opposite to the camp the water was found to be eight fathoms deep. This was of great importance, as affording facility for unloading the ship abreast of the establishment. Higher up the river the ground was more favourable for building, both on account of its being more sheltered and better wooded with timber fit for the construction of houses; but the water was too shallow to float the ship, and the island before mentioned, which was named Cross Island, proved an effectual barrier to the upward progress of any craft larger than a boat. But as Stanley surveyed the spot on which the tent was pitched, and observed the sheltering background of mountains, with their succession of terraces; the creek or ravine to the right, with its growth of willows and stunted pines; the level parcel of greensward, with the little fountain under the rock; and the fine sandy bay in which Gaspard and Oolibuck were busily engaged in setting a couple of nets, -- when he surveyed all this, he felt that, although not the best locality in the neighbourhood, it was, nevertheless, a very good one, and well suited in many respects for the future establishment.

"Please, sir, the net him set," shouted Oolibuck from the shore to his master, who floated in the bay at the distance of a hundred yards, busily engaged with the sounding-line. On receiving this piece of information, Stanley ran the canoe on the beach, and said to his follower -- 

"Oolibuck, I have been thinking much about that river which we saw yesterday, off the mouth of this one; and I cannot help fearing that the ship will run into it, instead of into this, for the land is very deceptive."

"Me t'ink dat is true," answered the Esquimau, with a look of grave perplexity. "If de ship go into dat riv'r he t'ink we no arrive, and so he go 'way, and we all starve!"

"Nay, Oolibuck, I trust that such would not be the sad result of the ship failing to find us; but in order to prevent this, if possible, I intend to send you down to the coast, with a few days' provisions, to keep a look-out for the ship, and light a fire if you see her, so that she may be guided to the right place. So get a blanket and your gun as fast as you can, and be off. I can only afford you four days' provisions, Oolibuck, so you will have to prove yourself a good hunter, else you'll starve. Will four days' provisions do?"

Oolibuck's eyes disappeared. We do not mean to say that they flew away, or were annihilated. But Oolibuck was fat -- so fat that, when he laughed, his eyes reduced themselves into two little lines surrounded by wrinkles; a result which was caused by a physical incapacity to open the mouth and eyes at the same time. As a general rule, when Oolibuck's mouth was open his eyes were shut, and when his eyes were open his mouth was shut. Being a good-humoured fellow, and of a risible nature, the alternations were frequent. It was the idea of Stanley doubting the sufficiency of four days' provisions that closed the eyes of the Esquimau on the present occasion.

"Two days' grub more dan 'nuff," said Oolibuck. "Give me plenty powder and shot, and me no starve -- no fear."

"Very well," rejoined Stanley, laughing, "take as much ammunition as you require, but be careful of it; if the ship fails us we shall need it all. And don't be too eager after the deer, Oolibuck; keep a sharp look-out seaward, be on the hill-tops as much as you can, and keep your eyes open."

Oolibuck replied by closing the said eyes with a smile, as he hurried towards the tent to prepare for his expedition. In the meantime Stanley directed Oostesimow and La Roche to set about building a small canoe out of the birch bark which they had carried with them for the purpose, the large canoes being too cumbrous for the purpose of overhauling the nets.

The nets had been set by Gaspard in the usual way -- that is, with stones attached to the lower lines to act as sinkers, and floats attached to the upper lines to keep them spread; and it was with no little impatience that the party in the camp awaited the issue. Indeed they scarcely permitted an hour to pass without an inspection being ordered; but to their chagrin, instead of finding fish, they found the nets rolled up by the conflicting currents of the river and the tide into the form of two ropes.

"This will never do," cried Stanley, as they brought the nets ashore. "We must set stake-nets immediately. It is nearly low tide now, so if we work hard they may be ready to set up before the tide has risen much."

In pursuance of this plan, Stanley and his men went to the ravine, of which mention has been already made, and proceeded to cut stakes for the nets; while Oolibuck, having explained to Mrs Stanley and Edith that he was "going to look hout for de ship," shouldered his wallet and gun, and ascending the ravine, speedily gained the first terrace of the mountains, along which he hastened in the direction of the sea-coast.

While the party in the camp were thus engaged, Frank Morton and Bryan instituted a thorough investigation of the country that lay directly in the rear of the camp, in the course of which investigation they made sundry interesting discoveries.

After ascending the ravine in which we left Stanley and his men cutting stakes for the nets, Frank and Bryan reached the first terrace, and proceeded along it in the opposite direction from that pursued by Oolibuck. A walk of a quarter of a mile, or less, brought them to another ravine, into which they turned, and the first thing that greeted them as they pushed their way through the stunted willows that thickly covered this gorge in the mountains was a covey of ptarmigan. These birds are similar in form and size to ordinary grouse, perhaps a little smaller. In winter they are pure white -- so white that it is difficult to detect them amid the snow; but in summer their coats become brown, though there are a few of the pure white feathers left which never change their colour. Being unaccustomed to the sight of man, they stood gazing at Frank and Bryan in mute surprise, until the latter hastily threw forward his gun, when they wisely took to flight. But Frank arrested his follower's arm.

"Don't waste your powder and shot, Bryan, on such small game. There may be something more worthy of a shot among the mountains; and if you once raise the echoes among these wild cliffs, I fear the game will not wait to inquire the cause thereof."

"Maybe not, sir," replied Bryan, as he fell back a pace, and permitted Frank to lead the way; "but there's an ould proverb that says, 'A bird in the hand's worth two in the buss,' an' I've great belaif in that same."

"Very true, Bryan, there is much wisdom in old proverbs; but there are exceptions to every rule, and this is a case in point, as you will admit if you cast your eyes over yonder valley, and observe the edge of the mountain-top that cuts so clear a line against the sky."

Frank pointed, as he spoke, to the shoulder or spur of one of the mountains which rose at a considerable distance in the interior, and from which they were separated by a dark glen or gorge; for none of the ravines in this part of the country merited the name of valley, save that through which flowed the Caniapuscaw River. The ravine up which they had been toiling for some time led into this darksome glen, and it was on rounding a bold precipice, which had hitherto concealed it from view, that Frank's quick eye caught sight of the object to which he directed the attention of his companion.

"'Tis a crow," said Bryan, after a gaze of five minutes, during which he had gone through a variety of strange contortions -- screwing up his features, shading his eyes with his hand, standing on tip-toe, although there was nothing to look over, and stooping low, with a hand on each knee, though there was nothing to look under, in the vain hope to increase by these means his power of vision.

Frank regarded him with a quiet smile, as he said, "Look again, Bryan. Saw you ever a crow with antlers?"

"Anthlers!" exclaimed the Irishman, once more wrinkling up his expressive face, and peering under his palm; "anthlers, say you? Sorra a thing duv I see 'xcept a black spot on the sky. If ye see anthlers on it, ye're nothin' more nor less than a walkin' spy-glass."

"Nevertheless I see them, Bryan; and they grace the head of a noble buck. Now, you see, it is well you did not fire at the ptarmigan. Away with you, lad, down into that ravine, and clamber up the mountain through yonder gap with the fallen rock in the middle of it -- d'ye see? --  and wait there, lest the deer should turn back. In the meantime I'll run round by the way we came, and descend to the water's edge, to receive him when he arrives there. Now don't lose yourself, and take care not to fire at smaller game."

As Frank concluded these orders, which he issued in a quick low voice, he threw his gun into the hollow of his left arm and strode rapidly away, leaving his companion gazing after him with an expression of blank stupidity on his face. Gradually his cheeks and brow were overspread with a thousand wrinkles and a smile took possession of his lips.

"'Don't lose yersilf!' Faix, Master Frank, ye're free an' aisy. Arrah now, Bryan dear, don't lose yersilf; you that's crossed the salt saes, an' followed the Red Injins to the prairie, and hunted in the Rocky Mountains, and found yer way to Ungava -- not to mintion havin' comed oraginally from ould Ireland -- which ov itsilf secures ye agin mistakes of every kind whatsumdiver. Lose yersilf! Musha, but ye had better git some wan to look after ye, Bryan boy. Take care now; go softly and kape yer eyes open, for fear ye lose yersilf!"

As Bryan mumbled forth this bantering soliloquy, he lifted up a large bag which contained a couple of fishing-lines and a few hooks, and throwing it across the stock of his gun, and both across his shoulder, he took his way down the rugged but well-beaten deer-path which led to the ravine or glen. The idea of losing himself seemed to have taken such a hold of Bryan's mind, and afforded him so much amusement and such scope for the continued flow of bantering soliloquy to which he was in truth much addicted, that he failed to note the fact that he was walking along the edge of a steep declivity, at the foot of which lay a small, dark sheet of water, which was connected by a short river or strait with a larger lake, whose wavelets rippled at the base of the mountain beyond. The scene was magnificently wild and lonely, and would have riveted the attention and excited the admiration of any one less absent than Bryan. High, rugged, and to all appearance inaccessible mountains surrounded the vale on all sides; and although there were several outlets from it, these were so concealed by the peculiar formation of the wild mountains that they could not be seen until they were actually entered.

Had Bryan's eyes been more active, he would have seen that the fringe of bushes by the side of the deer-track, along which he walked, concealed a declivity so steep that it almost merited the name of a precipice. But Bryan was lost in philosophic contemplation, and the first thing that awakened him to the fact was the slipping of a stone, which caused him to trip and fall headlong over the bank! The Irishman grasped convulsively at the bushes to arrest his fall, but the impetus with which he had commenced the descent tore them from his grasp, and after one or two unpleasant bounds and a good deal of crashing through shrubs that tore his garments sadly, he found himself stretched at full length on the margin of the river that connected the two lakes. So nearly had he been hurled into this strait by the violence of his descent that his head was hanging over the bank ere he stopped! Being partially stunned by the fall, Bryan lay for a few seconds motionless. As his shaken faculties returned, however, he became aware of the fact that a fish of fully two feet long lay at the bottom of the pool over which his head hung. Starting up, and totally forgetting his bruises, he turned to look for the bag containing the fishing-lines, and observing it lying on the ground not far distant, still wrapped round the gun, he ran to pick it up.

"Oh! wow! poor thing!" he exclaimed, on lifting up his gun, which, though fortunately not broken, was sadly bent, "ye're fit for nothin' but shootin' round the corner now! It's well for you, Bryan, ye spalpeen, that your backbone is not in the same fix."

While he thus muttered to himself, Bryan drew from the bag a stout cod-line, to which he fastened a hook of deadly dimensions, and dressed it into the form of a fly, much in the same manner as was formerly done by La Roche. This line and fly he fastened to the end of a short stout pole which he cut from a neighbouring tree, and approaching cautiously to the bank of the strait -- for there was too little motion in it to entitle it to be called a stream -- he cast the fly with a violent splash into the water. The violence was unintentional -- at least the exclamations of reproach that followed the cast would lead us to suppose so. The fish here were as tame as those caught in Deer River. In a few seconds the fly was swallowed, and Bryan, applying main force to the pole, tossed a beautiful trout of about two pounds weight over his head.

"Och! ye purty crature," exclaimed the delighted Irishman, rubbing his hands with glee as he gazed at the fish after having unhooked it. "Shure ye'll make a beautiful fagure in the kittle this night. An' musha! there's wan o' yer relations to kape ye company," he added, as, exerting an enormous degree of unnecessary force, he drew another trout violently from the water. The second trout was larger than the first, and Bryan soon became so excited in the sport that he totally forgot Frank's orders, and the deer, and everything else in the world, for the time being. Having caught six or seven trout, varying from two to four pounds in weight, he changed his position a little, and made a cast over a deep pool nearer to the large lake. As heretofore, the fly was engulfed the instant it fell on the water; but Bryan did not, as heretofore, haul the fish violently out of its native element. It is true he attempted to do so, but the attempt proved utterly futile; moreover, the fish darted with such velocity and strength towards the lake, that the angler, albeit entirely ignorant of his art, experienced an inward conviction that the thick cord would snap altogether if not eased of the enormous strain. He therefore followed the fish at the top of his speed, uttering incomprehensible sounds of mingled rage and amazement as he went, and tripping over rocks and bushes in his headlong career. After a smart run of half a minute the fish stopped, turned, and darted back so rapidly that Bryan tripped in turning and fell into the water! The place was shallow, but having fallen on his back, he was thoroughly drenched from head to foot. He did not lose the grasp of his rod, however. Spluttering, and gasping, and dripping, he followed the fish in its wild career until it turned again at a tangent, and darted towards the bank on which he stood. There was a shelving bed of pebbles, where the water shoaled very gradually. Bryan saw this. Availing himself of the fish's impetus, and putting all his force to the rod, he dragged it into two inches of water, when the line broke. Instantly the fish struggled towards deep water; but it was so large, and the place to which it had been dragged so shallow, that it afforded the excited angler time to rush forward and throw himself bodily on the top of it!

The battle that now ensued was of an energetic and deadly character on the part of both man and fish. Those who have not grasped a live salmon in their arms have no conception of the strength of a fish; and perhaps it may be said with equal truth that those who have never wielded a forehammer have but a faint conception of the strength of a blacksmith's knuckles. Bryan had thrown his whole weight on the fish, and grasped it, as with a vice, in both hands; but at every struggle of its powerful frame he felt how uncertain was the hold he had of its slippery body. Once it almost escaped, and dashed the spray over its adversary's face with its tail, as it wriggled out of his grasp; but with a desperate plunge Bryan seized it by the head and succeeded in thrusting his thumb under its gill and choking it, while himself was well-nigh choked at the same moment by unintentionally swallowing a gulp of the muddy compound which they had stirred up in their struggles. Slowly and with caution Bryan rose on one knee, while he crushed the fish against the bottom with both hands; then making a last exertion, he hurled it up the bank, where it fell beyond all hope of return to its native element.

The fish thus captured was a beautiful trout of about twenty pounds weight. The lake trout of North America are, some of them, of enormous size, being not unfrequently taken of sixty pounds weight, so that as a specimen of those inhabiting these lakes this was by no means a large one. Nevertheless it was a splendid fish, and certainly the largest that had ever been captured by the worthy son of Vulcan.

The thick coat of liquid mud with which his face was covered could not entirely conceal the smile of intense satisfaction with which he regarded his prize, as he sat down on the bank before it.

"Kape quiet now, honey!" he exclaimed, as the trout made a last fluttering attempt to escape; "kape quiet. Have patience, darlint. It's o' no manner o' use to hurry natur'. Just lie still, an' it'll be soon over."

With this consolatory remark, Bryan patted the fish on the head, and proceeded to wring the water from his upper garments, after which he repaired his broken tackle, and resumed his sport with an eagerness and zest that cold and water and mud could not diminish in the smallest degree.



Chapter Seventeen.

Successes And Encouragement -- Bryan Lost And Found.

It was evening before the tide began to fall and uncover the stake-nets, which were eagerly and earnestly watched by those who had remained in the camp. Mrs Stanley and Edith were seated on an empty box by the margin of the sandy bay; Mr Stanley sat on a nail-keg beside them; La Roche and the Indian were still working at the small canoe a few yards from the tent; and Gaspard, with folded arms, and an unusual smile of good humour playing on his countenance, stood close behind Stanley.

None of the hunting and exploring parties had returned, although the sun had long since disappeared behind the mountains, and the mellow light of evening was deepening over the bay.

"There's a tail, sir," said Gaspard, as he hurried towards the net.

"So it is!" cried Stanley, leaping up. "Come along, Eda, and take the first fish."

Edith needed no second invitation, but bounded towards the edge of the water, which was now gradually leaving the nets. Gaspard had already disengaged a white fish from the mesh, and wading to the beach, gave it to the little girl, who ran with it joyously to her mother. Meanwhile, another and another fish was left by the tide, and Stanley soon after brought up a splendid salmon of about twenty-five pounds weight, and laid it at Edith's feet.

"Oh, how very beautiful!" cried the child, as she gazed in delight at the silvery scales of the fish.

"My mind is much relieved by this, Jessie," said Stanley, reseating himself on the keg, while Oostesimow and La Roche carried the fish ashore as Gaspard freed them from the nets. "I now see that there are plenty of fish in the river, and if the hunters bring in a good report to-night, our anxiety on the score of food will be quite removed."

Although none of the party had ever set a net on stakes before, they had frequently heard of this manner of fishing, and their first attempt proved eminently successful. At low tide stakes had been driven into the sand, extending from the edge of the water towards high-water mark. On these the nets had been spread, and thus the misfortune which had attended the setting of the nets with floats and sinkers was avoided. The quantity of fish taken gave promise of an ample supply for the future. There were two Hearne-salmon (that is, spotted like trout), and one large common salmon, besides thirty white-fish, averaging between two to six pounds weight each, all of which were in excellent condition. The white-fish is of the salmon species, but white in the flesh, and being less rich than the salmon, is much preferred by those who have to use it constantly as an article of food.

"This is a most fortunate supply," remarked Stanley, "and will prevent the necessity of putting the men on short allowance."

"Short allowance!" exclaimed his wife; "I thought we had more than enough of food to last us till the arrival of the ship."

"Ay, so we have. But until now I did not feel at liberty to use it; for if through any accident the ship does not come, and if there had chanced to be no fish in the river, the only course open to us would be to retrace our steps, and as that would be a long and slow process, we would require to economise our food. In fact, I had resolved to begin operations by putting the men on short allowance; but this haul of fish shows me that we shall have more than enough.

"But who comes here?" he added, on observing the figure of a man approaching the camp. "He seems to carry a burden on his back, as far as I can make out in the uncertain light."

"Did any of the men go out alone?" inquired Mrs Stanley.

"No; but I suppose that this one must have separated from his comrade. --  Hallo! who goes there?"

The man tossed the bundle from his shoulders, and hastening forward revealed the flushed countenance of Frank Morton.

"What! Frank! why, man, you seem to have had a hard day of it, if I may judge by your looks."

"Not so hard but that a good supper will put its effects to flight," replied Frank, as he rested his gun against a rock and seated himself on the keg from which Stanley had risen. "The fact is, I have slain a noble buck, and being desirous that the men should have as much of it as possible, I loaded myself rather heavily. The ground, too, is horribly bad; but pray send Gaspard for the bundle. I should have been here sooner but for the time required to dissect the animal."

"Where is Bryan, Frank?" inquired Mrs Stanley. "You went away together."

"Bryan! I know not. He and I parted in the mountains some hours ago; and as he failed to keep his appointment with me, I concluded that he must have become foot-sore and returned to camp."

"He has not returned," said Stanley; "but I have no fear for the honest blacksmith. He's too old a nor'wester to lose himself, and he's too tough to kill. But come, Frank, let us to our tent. I see that La Roche has already prepared our salmon for the kettle, and so -- "

"Salmon!" interrupted Frank.

"Ay, lad, salmon! a twenty-five pounder too! But come, change your foot-gear, and then we shall have our supper, in the course of which we shall exchange news."

As they proceeded towards the camp the voices of some of the men were heard in the distance; it was now too dark to see them. In a few minutes Francois, followed by Augustus and Ma-istequan, strode into the circle of light around the fire, and laying aside their guns proceeded to light their pipes, while they replied to the questions of Frank and Stanley.

"You do not come empty-handed," remarked the latter, as Francois and his comrades threw down several fat ducks and a few grouse, which, after the fashion of hunters, they had carried pendent by the necks from their belts.

"We only shot a few, monsieur," replied Francois, "to put in the kettle for supper. We might have loaded a canoe had we chosen."

"That is well," said Stanley; "but the kettle is full already, and supper prepared. See, Frank has shot a deer, so that we shall fare well to-night. -- Ah, Prince! come along. What! more game?" he added, as Dick and Massan entered the halo of light, and threw down the choice morsels of a fat deer which they had killed among the mountains.

"Ah! oui, monsieur," said Massan, chuckling as he laid aside his axe and gun; "we might ha' killed three o' them if we had been so minded; but we couldn't ha' brought them into camp, an', as Dick said, 'tis a pity to kill deer to feed the wolves with."

"Right!" exclaimed Frank; "but did any of you see Bryan? He gave me the slip in the mountains, and, I fear, has lost himself."

To this the men replied in the negative, and some of them smiled at the idea of the blacksmith being lost.

"No fear, vraiment! He no lost," cried La Roche with a laugh, as he lifted the huge kettle from the fire and placed it in the midst of the men, having previously abstracted the best portions for the special benefit of his master. "No fear of Bryan, certainment; he like one bad shilling -- he come up toujours. Ah! mauvais chien, him give me all de trouble ov get supper ready mylone."

"I trust it may be so," said Stanley. "We are all here except him and Oolibuck, whom I have sent to the coast for a few days to watch for the ship. But let us have supper, La Roche, and spread ours nearer the fire to-night -- it is rather cold; besides, I want to hear the reports of the men."

In compliance with this order, the lively Frenchman spread the supper for his master's family close beside that of the men, and in a few minutes more a most vigorous attack was made on the viands, during the first part of which the hungry travellers maintained unbroken silence. But as the cravings of nature began to be satisfied, their tongues found time to remark on the excellence of the fare. The salmon was superb. Even Edith, who seldom talked about what she ate, pronounced it very good. The white-fish were better than any of the party had ever eaten in their lives, although most of them had travelled over the length and breadth of the North American wilderness. The ducks were perfect. Even the ptarmigan were declared passable; and the venison, with an inch of fat on the haunches -- words were not found sufficiently expressive to describe it. Those who are philosophically inclined may suspect that some of this super-excellence lay in the keen appetites of the men. Well, perhaps it did.

While the travellers were in the midst of this, and ere yet their tongues were fairly loosened, a loud unearthly shout rang with appalling reverberations among the surrounding cliffs, causing the entire party to start up and rush for their arms. Again the cry was heard.

"Ah! bad skran to ye, Losh! -- Hould on, Moses, ye fat villain. Lave me wan mouthful, jist wan, to kape me from givin' up the ghost intirely."

A shout of laughter greeted the advent of Bryan's voice, but it was nothing to the peals that burst forth on the appearance of that individual in propria persona. To say that he was totally dishevelled would convey but half the truth. Besides being covered and clotted with mud, he was saturated with water from head to foot, his clothes rent in a most distressing manner, and his features quite undistinguishable.

"Why, Bryan, what ails you? Where have you been?" inquired Stanley, in a tone of sympathy.

"Bin, is it? Sorra wan o' me knows where I've bin. It's mysilf is glad to be sartin I'm here, anyhow."

"I'm glad you're certain of it," said Frank, "for if it were not for the sound of your voice, I should doubt it."

"Ah monsieur," said La Roche, "make your mind easy on dat. No von but Bryan ever regard de kettle dat way."

"Taizy voo, ye petit varmint," said Bryan, approaching the said kettle, and smiling rapturously through the mud that encrusted his face on beholding its contents. Without waiting to change his garments the hungry blacksmith began supper, having first, however, directed attention to the bag which he had brought in. From this bag La Roche now extracted about a dozen trout, some of which were of great size --  especially one, whose bulk exceeded that of the large salmon.

"There's plinty more where thim comed from," said Bryan, through a mouthful of venison; "but I'll tell ye ov it afther supper."

"Ah, true! don't let us interrupt him just now," said Stanley. "In the meantime, Francois, since you seem to be about done, tell us what you have seen, and let us hear what you have to say of the country."

Francois having lighted his pipe, cleared his throat and began: -- 

"Well, monsieur, after we had paddled a short bit beyond the point below the last rapid in Caniapuscaw River, we shoved the canoe ashore, and landed Prince and Massan, who set off to look for game, leavin' Augustus, Ma-istequan, and me to paddle up the river as well as we could. But we soon found that three men in a big canoe could not make much way agin the strong current of the river, so we put ashore again and took to our legs.

"After making a long tramp up the banks o' the river, we fell in with some good-sized pines; but although they are big for this part of the country, they are not big enough for building. Then we pushed into the gullies, which are sheltered from the cold winds off the bay, and here we found the trees a good deal bigger. There are pines and larch in abundance, and some of the larch are even bigger than we require."

"Are they far inland?" inquired Stanley.

"No, monsieur, they are only a few hundred yards from the banks of the river, and growin' on the edge of a small creek, which I noticed is deep enough to float them down."

"Good, very good," said Stanley, filling his pipe with a fresh charge of tobacco; "that is most fortunate, for it will save time, and take fewer men to bring them here. Go on, Francois."

"Bien, monsieur. Then I felled one or two o' the trees, to see what like they are; and I found that they are very tough and good. The pines are firmer and tougher than any I ever saw in the Indian country, owing, I suppose, to their stunted growth. While I was thus employed, Augustus shot the grouse we brought home, and we saw a great many coveys of them. In fact, we might have shot many more; but as we did not know how far we should have to walk, we thought it best not to burden ourselves too much. We also saw a great many ducks, and shot a few, as you see."

"Did you see goose?" inquired La Roche, whose mind had a natural tendency to culinary matters.

"No," replied Francois, "I saw no geese; but I did not go out of my way to look for them. I was more taken up with the timber than replenishing the kettle."

"Ah! that ver' great pity. Oui, grand dommage. De kittle toujours de most importance t'ing on de voyage. If you forget him, you goot for not'ing. Mais, Francois, did you look into the deep clear pool at de foot of de rapid?"

Francois emitted a cloud of smoke with a negative in the middle of it.

"An!" said La Roche with a sigh, "I thought not; mais it was pity. You see one goose for certain, if you have look straight down into dat pool."

"Bien," continued Francois, turning to Stanley. "I then went into one or two more gullies, and saw some more sticks fit for building; but after all it is only in the gullies they grow, and there are not very many. The trees on the banks of the river are chiefly pines, and only fit for firewood."

"And an important item is firewood, as we shall find ere long," remarked Stanley. "Your account of the timber is very satisfactory, Francois. Did you see traces of Indians or Esquimaux?"

"No; I saw none."

"Perhaps you did, Prince," continued Stanley, turning to that worthy, who was stretched, along with Massan, at full length before the blaze, and had been listening attentively to the conversation while he solaced himself with his pipe.

"Yes, sir, we seed the marks they left behind them," answered Prince, while he glanced towards Massan, as if to invite him to give the desired information.

"Ay, we saw their marks, no doubt," said the guide, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, and raising himself from his reclining posture to that of a tailor, the more conveniently to recharge that beloved implement. "Ay, we saw their marks, and they was by no means pleasant to look on. After we had landed above the p'int, as Francois told ye, Dick Prince and me went up one o' the gullies, an' then gettin' on one o' them flat places that run along the face of all the mountains hereabouts, we pushed straight up the river. We had not gone far when, on turnin' a p'int, we both clapped eyes at the same moment on the most ill-lookin' blackguard of a wolf I ever saw. Up went both our guns at once, and I believe we were very near puttin' a bullet in each of his eyes, when we noticed that these same eyes were not bookin' at us, but starin', most awful earnest like, up a gully in the mountains; so we looked up, an', sure enough, there we saw a deer on the mountain-top, tossin' its head and snuffin' round to see that the coast was clear before it came down to the water. We noticed that a regular beaten deer-track passed down this gully, and master wolf, who knowed the walk very well, was on the lookout for his dinner; so we waited quiet till the deer came down, an' Dick put a bullet in its heart, an' I put one into the wolf's head, so they both tumbled down the cliffs together. The shot made another deer, that we had not seen, start off into the river; but before it got a few yards from the shore, Dick loaded again and put a bullet into its head too, an' it was washed ashore at the p'int below us.

"Havin' fixed them off comfortably, we cut up the deer, and put all we could carry on our shoulders, for we knowed that if we left them we'd find nothin' but the bones when we came back. About an hour after this we came upon a deserted camp of Indians. It was so fresh that we think they must have passed but a few weeks ago. The whole camp was strewed with bones of deer, as if the red varmints had been havin' a feast. An' sure enough, a little farther on we came upon the dead carcasses of ninety-three deer! The rascals had taken nothin' but the tongues an' tit-bits, leavin' the rest for the wolves."

"Ay, they're a reckless, improvident set," remarked Stanley. "I've been told that the Esquimaux are quite different in this respect. They never kill what they don't require; but the redskins slaughter the deer by dozens for the sake of their tongues."

"We also found the broken head of an Esquimau seal-spear, and this little bit of sealskin." Massan handed these as he spoke to Stanley.

"I fear," said Frank, "this looks as if they had made an attack on the Esquimaux very recently."

"I fear it much," said Stanley, examining the little shred of sealskin, which had beautifully glossy hair on one side, and on the other, which was dressed, there were sundry curious marks, one of which bore a rude resemblance to an Indian wigwam, with an arrow pointing towards it.

"I found the bit o' sealskin hanging on a bush a little apart from the place where they camped, an' from what I've seen o' the ways o' redskins, it's my 'pinion that it was put there for some purpose or other."

"Very likely. -- Take care of it, Jessie," said Stanley, throwing it to his wife; "it may be explained some day. -- Well, Massan, did you see any other animals?"

"Yes, sir, lots o' them. We saw deer on the hill-tops, and might ha' shot more o' them if we could have brought them into camp. An' we saw porcupines in all the pine bluffs. An' we saw fish in the lakes among the mountains. There are lots o' them lakes -- small things some o' them -- in all the gullies, and fish in most o' them; but we had neither lines nor hooks, so we catched none."

"Faix, if ye catched none, yer betters catched plinty," said Bryan, who, having concluded supper and changed his garments, was now luxuriating in a smoke. The blacksmith pointed as he spoke to the bag of splendid trout which lay at a short distance from the fire. "'Tis mysilf's the boy to catch them. I would have brought ye two times as much, if it wasn't that I lost my hook and line. I think it must have bin a fresh-water whale, the last wan, bad luck to it! for it pulled me into the wather three times, an' wint off at last with two fathom o' cod-line trailin' behind it."

"So then, Bryan," said Frank, "it must have been the yells with which you accompanied your fishing that frightened the deer I was after and caused me to lose him. However, as I got another soon afterwards which must have been frightened towards me by the same halloos, I forgive you."

Frank now gave the party an account of what he had seen, but as his experience merely corroborated that of Dick Prince and Massan, we will not trouble the reader with the details. The evidence of the various exploring parties, when summed up, was undoubtedly most satisfactory, and while it relieved the mind of the leaders of the band, it raised and cheered the spirits of the men. Timber, although not plentiful or very large, was to be had close to the spot where they proposed to erect their fort; game of all kinds swarmed in the mountains in abundance; and the lakes and rivers were well stocked with excellent fish: so that, upon the whole, they considered that they had made an auspicious commencement to their sojourn in the land of the Esquimaux.



Chapter Eighteen.

Outpost-Building -- Fort Chimo -- An Unexpected Arrival, Which Causes Much Joy.

The band of fur-traders now set earnestly about the erection of their winter dwelling. The season was so far advanced that the men could no longer be spared from the work to hunt or fish in the mountains, so that they lived chiefly on the produce of the stake-nets in front of the camp, and a small allowance of the provisions with which they had started from Moose Fort. Occasionally Frank sallied forth and returned with the best parts of a deer on his shoulders; but these excursions were rare, as both he and Stanley worked with the men in the erection of the fort. No one was idle for a moment, from the time of rising --  shortly after daybreak -- to the time of going to rest at night. Even little Edith found full occupation in assisting her mother in the performance of a host of little household duties, too numerous to recapitulate. The dog Chimo was the only exception to the general rule. He hunted the greater part of the forenoon, for his own special benefit, and slept when not thus occupied, or received with philosophical satisfaction the caresses of his young mistress.

The future fort was begun on the centre of the level patch of green-sward at the foot of the flat rock by the spring, where the party had originally encamped. A square was traced on the ground to indicate the stockade; and within this, Stanley marked off an oblong patch, close to the back stockade, for the principal dwelling-house, facing the river. Two other spaces were on either side of this -- one for a store, the other for a dwelling for the men. When finished, the fort would thus have the form of three sides of a square surrounded by a stockade. In the centre of this, and the first thing that was erected, was a flag-staff, on which the H.B.C. -- Hudson's Bay Company -- flag was hoisted, and saluted with three cheers as its crimson folds fluttered out in the breeze for the first time. The plan on which the houses were constructed was that on which all the dwellings of the fur-traders are built -- namely, a framework of timber, the interstices of which are filled up with logs sliding into grooves cut in the main posts and beams. This manner of building is so simple that a house can be erected without any other instruments than an axe, an auger, and a large chisel; and the speed with which it is put up would surprise those whose notions of house-building are limited to stone edifices.

The axes of the wood-cutters resounded among the gullies and ravines of Ungava, and awakened the numerous echoes of the mountains. The encampment no longer presented a green spot, watered by a tiny rill, but was strewn with logs in all stages of formation, and chips innumerable. The frameworks of the dwelling-houses began to rise from the earth, presenting, in their unfinished condition, a bristling, uncomfortable appearance, suggesting thoughts in the beholder's mind highly disparaging to art, and deeply sympathetic with outraged nature. The tents still stood, and the campfire burned, but the superior proportions of the rising fort threw these entirely into the shade. A rude wharf of unbarked logs ran from the beach into the river. It had been begun and finished in a couple of days, for the convenience of Gaspard while visiting his nets, as he sometimes did before the water left them. Everything, in short, bore evidence of the most bustling activity and persevering energy; and in a few weeks from the time of their first landing, the dwelling-houses were sufficiently weather-tight to be habitable, and the other portions of the establishment in an advanced condition.

The openings between the logs of the houses were caulked with a mixture of mud and moss, and left in that condition in the meantime, until the pit-saw could be set to work to produce boards for the better protection of the walls without and within. The window and door frames were also made, and covered temporarily with parchment, until the arrival of the ship should enable them to fill the former with glass and the latter with broad panels.

The effect of the parchment-covered door, however, was found to be somewhat troublesome. Being large, and tightly covered, it sounded, when shut violently, with a noise so strongly resembling the report of a distant cannon that, during the first day after its erection, the men more than once rushed down to the beach in the expectation of seeing the long and ardently wished-for ship, which was now so much beyond the time appointed for her arrival that Stanley began to entertain serious apprehensions for her safety. This ship was to have sailed from York Fort, the principal depot of the fur-traders in Hudson's Bay, with supplies and goods for trade with the Esquimaux during the year. She was expected at Ungava in August, and it was now September. The frost was beginning, even at this early period, to remind the expedition of the long winter that was at hand, and in the course of a very few weeks Hudson's Straits would be impassable; so that the anxiety of the traders was natural.

Just before the partitions of the chief dwelling-house were completed, Stanley went to the tent in which his wife and child were busily employed in sewing.

"Can you spare Edith for a short time, wife?" said he, as his partner looked up to welcome him.

"Yes, for a short time; but she is becoming so useful to me that I cannot afford to spare her long."

"I'm afraid," said Stanley, as he took his child by the hand and led her away, "that I must begin to put in my claim to the services of this little baggage, who seems to be so useful. What say you, Eda; will you allow me to train you to shoot, and fish, and walk on snow-shoes, and so make a trader of you?"

"I would like very much, papa, to learn to walk on snowshoes, but I think the gun would hurt me -- it seems to kick so. Don't you think I am too little to shoot a gun off?"

Stanley laughed at the serious way in which the child received the proposal.

"Well, then, we won't teach you to shoot yet, Eda; but, as you say, the snow-shoe walking is worth learning, for if you cannot walk on the long shoes when the snow falls, I fear you'll not be able to leave the fort at all."

"Yes, and Francois has promised to make me a pair," said Edith gaily, "and to teach me how to use them; and mamma says I am old enough to learn now. Is it not kind of Francois? He is always very good to me."

"Indeed it is very kind of him, my pet; but all the men seem to be very good to you -- are they not?"

"Oh yes! -- all of them. Even Gaspard is kind now. He never whips Chimo, and he patted me on the head the other day when I met him alone in the ravine -- the berry ravine, you know, where I go to gather berries. I wonder if there are berries in all the other ravines? -- but I don't care much, for there are thousands and thousands of all kinds in my own ravine, and -- where are you going, papa?"

This abrupt question was caused by her father turning into the square of the new fort, in which the most of the men were at work.

"I'm going to show you our house, Eda, and to ask you to fix on the corner you like best for your own room. The partitions are going to be put up, so we must fix at once."

As he spoke they passed through the open doorway of the new dwelling, which was a long, low building; and, placing his little daughter in the centre of the principal hall, Stanley directed her to look round and choose a corner for herself.

For a few minutes Edith stood with an expression of perplexity on her bright face; then she began to examine the views from each of the corner windows. This could only be done by peeping through the bullet-hole in the parchment skins that in the meantime did duty for glass. The two windows at the back corners looked out upon the rocky platform, behind which the mountains rose like a wall, so they were rejected; but Edith lingered at one of them, for from it she saw the spring at the foot of the rock, with its soft bed of green moss and surrounding willow-bushes. From the front corner on the left hand Cross Island and the valley of the river beyond were visible; but from the window on the right the view embraced the whole sweep of the wide river and the narrow outlet to the bay, which, with its frowning precipices on either side, and its bold flanking mountains, seemed a magnificent portal to the Arctic Sea.

"I think this is the nicest corner," said Edith, turning with a smile to her father.

"Then this shall be yours," said Stanley.

"But," exclaimed Edith, as a sudden thought occurred to her, "perhaps Frank would like this corner. I would not like to have it if Frank wants it."

"Frank doesn't want it, and Frank shan't have it. There now, run to your mother, you little baggage; she can't get on without you. Off you go, quick!"

With a merry laugh Edith bounded through the doorway, and disappeared like a sunbeam from the room.

On the 25th of September, Stanley was standing on the beach, opposite the fort, watching with a smile of satisfaction the fair, happy face of his daughter, as she amused herself and Chimo by throwing a stick into the water, which the latter dutifully brought out and laid at her feet as often as it was thrown in. Frank was also watching them.

"What shall we call the fort, Frank?" said his companion. "We have a Fort Good Hope, and a Fort Resolution, and a Fort Enterprise already. It seems as if all the vigorous and hearty words in the English language were used up in naming the forts of the Hudson's Bay Company. What shall we call it?"

"Chimo! Chimo! Chimo!" shouted Edith to the dog, as the animal bounded along the beach.

Both gentlemen seemed to be struck with the same idea simultaneously.

"There's an answer to your question," said Frank; "call the fort 'Chimo.'"

"The very thing!" replied Stanley; "I wonder it did not occur to me before. Nothing could be more appropriate. I salute thee, Fort Chimo," and Stanley lifted his cap to the establishment.

In order that the peculiar appropriateness of the name may appear to the reader, it may be as well to explain that Chimo (the i and o of which are sounded long) is an Esquimau word of salutation, and is used by the natives when they meet with strangers. It signifies, Are you friendly? by those who speak first, and seems to imply, We are friendly, when returned as an answer. So well known is the word to the fur-traders who traffic with the natives of Hudson's Straits that they frequently apply it to them as a name, and speak of the Esquimaux as Chimos. It was, therefore, a peculiarly appropriate name for a fort which was established on the confines of these icy regions, for the double purpose of entering into friendly traffic with the Esquimaux, and of bringing about friendly relations between them and their old enemies, the Muskigon Indians of East Main.

After playing for some time beside the low wharf, Edith and her dog left the beach together, and rambled towards a distant eminence, whence could be obtained a commanding bird's-eye view of the new fort. She had not sat many minutes here when her eye was arrested by the appearance of an unusual object in the distance. Frank, who was yet engaged in conversation with Stanley on the beach, also noticed it. Laying his hand on the arm of his companion, he pointed towards the narrows, where a small, white, triangular object was visible against the dark cliff. As they gazed, a second object of similar form came into view; then a fore and top sail made their appearance; and, in another second, a schooner floated slowly through the opening! Ere the spectators of this silent apparition could give utterance to their joy, a puff of white smoke sprang from the vessel's bow, and a cannon-shot burst upon the mountains. Leaping on from cliff to crag, it awakened a crash of magnificent echoes, which, after prolonged repetitions, died away in low mutterings like distant thunder. It was followed by a loud cheer from the schooner's deck, and the H.B.C. flag was run up to the main, while the Union Jack floated at the peak.

"Now, Frank, give the word," cried Stanley, taking off his cap, while the men ran down to the beach en masse.

"Hip, hip, hurrah!"

"Hurrah!" echoed the men, and a cheer arose among the cliffs that moved to the very centre the hearts of those who heard and gave it.

Again and again the stirring shout arose from the fort, and was replied to from the schooner. It was no matter of form, or cheer of ceremony. There was a deep richness and a prolonged energy in the tone, which proved that the feelings and lungs of the men were roused to the uttermost in its delivery. It told of long gathering anxieties swept entirely away, and of deep joy at seeing friendly faces in a sterile land, where lurking foes might be more likely to appear.

At all times the entrance of a ship into port is a noble sight, and one which touches the heart and evokes the enthusiasm of almost every human being; but when the ship arriving is almost essential to the existence of those who watch her snowy sails swelling out as they urge her to the land -- when her keel is the first that has ever ploughed the waters of their distant bay -- and when her departure will lock them up in solitude for a long, long year -- such feelings are roused to their utmost pitch of intensity.

Cheer upon cheer rose and fell, and rose again, among the mountains of Ungava. Even Edith's tiny voice helped to swell the enthusiastic shout; and more than one cheer was choked by the rising tide of emotion that forced the tears down more than one bronzed cheek, despite the iron wills that bade them not to flow.



Chapter Nineteen.

Bustle And Business -- A Great Feast, In Which Bryan And La Roche Are Prime Movers -- New Ideas In The Art Of Cooking.

The scene at Fort Chimo was more bustling and active than ever during the week that followed the arrival of the schooner. The captain told Stanley, as they sat sipping a glass of Madeira in the hall of the new fort, that he had been delayed by ice in the straits so long, that the men were afraid of being set fast for the winter, and were almost in a state of mutiny, when they fortunately discovered the mouth of the river. As had been anticipated by Stanley, the ship entered False River by mistake, unseen by Oolibuck, notwithstanding the vigilance of his lookout. Fortunately he observed it as it came out of the river, just at the critical period when the seamen began to threaten to take the law into their own hands if the search were continued any longer. Oolibuck no sooner beheld the object of his hopes than he rushed to the top of a hill, where he made a fire and sent up a column of smoke that had the immediate effect of turning the vessel's head towards him. Soon afterwards a boat was sent ashore, and took the Esquimau on board, who explained, in his broken English, that he had been watching for them for many days, and would be happy to pilot the vessel up to the fort.

"You may be sure," continued the captain, "that I was too happy to give the ship in charge to the fellow, who seemed to understand thoroughly what he was about. He is already quite a favourite with the men, who call him Oily-buss, much to his own amusement; and he has excited their admiration and respect by his shooting, having twice on the way up shot a goose on the wing."

"Not an unusual exhibition of skill among fur-traders," said Stanley; "but I suppose your men are not much used to the gun. And now, captain, when must you start?"

"The moment the cargo is landed, sir," replied the captain, who was distinguished by that thorough self-sufficiency and prompt energy of character which seem peculiar to sea-captains in general. "We may have trouble in getting out of the straits, and, after getting to Quebec, I am bound to carry a cargo of timber to England."

"I will do my best to help you, captain. Your coming has relieved my mind from a load of anxiety, and one good turn deserves another, so I'll make my fellows work night and day till your ship is discharged."

Stanley was true to his word. Not only did the men work almost without intermission, but he and Frank Morton scarce allowed themselves an hour's repose during the time that the work was going on. Night and day "yo heave ho" of the Jack Tars rang over the water; and the party on shore ran to and fro, from the beach to the store, with bales, kegs, barrels, and boxes on their shoulders. There were blankets and guns, and axes and knives, powder and shot, and beads and awls, and nets and twine. There were kettles of every sort and size; cloth of every hue; capotes of all dimensions, and minute etceteras without end: so that, had it been possible to prevail on the spirits of the ice to carry to the Esquimaux intelligence of the riches contained in the store at Chimo, an overwhelming flood of visitors would speedily have descended on that establishment. But no such messengers could be found -- although Bryan asserted positively that more than "wan o' them" had been seen by him since his arrival; so the traders had nothing for it but to summon patience to their aid and bide their time.

When the work of discharging was completed, and while Stanley and the captain were standing on the beach watching the removal of the last boat-load to the store, the former said to the latter: "Now, captain, I have a favour to request, which is that you and your two mates will dine with me to-morrow. Your men will be the better of a day's rest after such a long spell of hard work. You could not well get away till the evening of to-morrow at any rate, on account of the tide, and it will be safer and more pleasant to start early on the day after."

"I shall be most happy," replied the captain heartily.

"That's right," said Stanley. "Dinner will be ready by four o'clock precisely; and give my compliments to your crew, and say that my men will expect them all to dinner at the same hour."

Ten minutes after this, Stanley entered his private apartment in the fort, which, under the tasteful management of his wife, was beginning to look elegant and comfortable.

"Wife," said he, "I will order La Roche to send you a box of raisins and an unlimited supply of flour, butter, etcetera, wherewith you will be so kind as to make, or cause to be made -- on pain of my utmost displeasure in the event of failure -- a plum-pudding large enough to fill the largest sized washing-tub, and another of about quarter that size; both to be ready boiled by four to-morrow afternoon."

"Sir, your commands shall be obeyed. I suppose you intend to regale the sailors before they leave. Is it not so?"

"You have guessed rightly for once; and take care that you don't let Eda drown herself in the compost before it is tied up. I must hasten to prepare the men."

Two minutes later and Stanley stood in the midst of his men, who, having finished their day's work, were now busy with supper in their new house, into which they had but recently moved.

"Lads," said Stanley, "you have stuck to your work so hard of late that I think it a pity to allow you to fall into lazy habits again. I expect you all to be up by break of day to-morrow."

"Och! musha!" sighed Bryan, as he laid down his knife and fork with a look of consternation.

"I have invited the ship's crew," continued Stanley, "to dine with you before they leave us. As the larder is low just now, you'll all have to take to the hills for a fresh supply. Make your arrangements as you please, but see that there is no lack of venison and fish. I'll guarantee the pudding and grog."

So saying, he turned and left the house, followed by a tremendous cheer.

"Oh! parbleu! vat shall I do?" said La Roche, with a look of affected despair. "I am most dead for vant of sleep already. C'est impossible to cook pour everybody demain. I vill be sure to fall 'sleep over de fire, prehaps fall into him."

"Och, Losh, Losh, when will ye larn to think nothin' o' yoursilf? Ye'll only have to cook for the bourgeois; but think o' me! All the min, an' the ship's crew to boot!"

The blacksmith concluded by knocking La Roche's pipe out of his mouth, in the excess of his glee at the prospective feast; after which he begged his pardon solemnly in bad French, and ducked his head to avoid the tin can that was hurled at it by the indignant Frenchman.

At the first streak of dawn the following morning, and long before the sun looked down into the ravines of Ungava, Massan and Dick Prince were seen to issue with noiseless steps from the fort, with their guns on their shoulders, and betake themselves to the mountains. Half an hour later Bryan staggered out of the house, with a bag on his shoulder, scarcely half awake, rubbing his eyes and muttering to himself in a low tone, as he plunged rather than walked into the ravine which led to the first terrace on the mountain.

When the sun rose over the mountain-tops and looked down upon the calm surface of the river, there was not a man remaining in the fort, with the exception of Stanley and Frank, and their active servant La Roche.

A deep calm rested on the whole scene. The sailors of the vessel, having risen to dispatch breakfast, retired to their hammocks again and went to sleep; Stanley, Frank, and their household, were busy within doors; Chimo snored in the sunshine at the front of the fort; and the schooner floated on a sheet of water so placid, that every spar and delicate rope was clearly reflected. Nothing was heard save the soft ripple on the shore, the distant murmur of mountain streams, and, once or twice through the day, the faint reverberation of a fowling-piece.

But as the day advanced, evidences of the approaching feast began to be apparent. Early in the forenoon Massan and Prince returned with heavy loads of venison on their shoulders, and an hour later Bryan staggered into the fort bending under the weight of a well-filled bag of fish. He had been at his favourite fishing quarters in the dark valley, and was dripping wet from head to foot, having fallen, as usual, into the water. Bryan had a happy facility in falling into the water that was quite unaccountable -- and rather enviable in warm weather. As the cooking operations were conducted on an extensive scale, a fire was kindled in the open air in the rear of the men's house; round which fire, in the course of the forenoon, Bryan and La Roche performed feats of agility so extravagant, and apparently so superhuman, that they seemed to involve an element of wickedness from their very intensity. Of course no large dinner ever passed through the ordeal of being cooked without some accidents or misfortunes, more or less. Even in civilised life, where the most intricate appliances are brought to bear on the operation by artistes thoroughly acquainted with their profession, infallibility is not found. It would be unjust, therefore, to expect that two backwoodsmen should be perfectly successful, especially when it is remembered that their branch of the noble science was what might be technically termed plain cookery, the present being their first attempt in the higher branches.

Their first difficulty arose from the larger of the two plum-puddings, which La Roche had compounded under the directions of Mrs Stanley and the superintendence of Edith.

"I say, Losh," cried Bryan to his companion, whose head was at the moment hid from view in a cloud of steam that ascended from a large pot over which he bent, apparently muttering incantations.

"Vell, fat you want?"

"Faix, and it's just fat that I don't want," said Bryan, pointing, as he spoke, to the large pudding, which, being much too large for the kettle, was standing on the rim thereof like the white ball of foam that caps a tankard of double X. "It's more nor twice too fat already. The kittle won't hould it, no how."

"Oh, stuff him down, dat is de way," suggested La Roche.

"Stuff it down, avic, an' what's to come o' the wather?" said Bryan.

"Ah! true, dat is perplexible, vraiment."

At this moment the large pot boiled over and a cloud of scalding steam engulfed the sympathetic Frenchman, causing him to yell with mingled pain and rage as he bounded backwards.

"Musha! but ye'll come to an early death, Losh, if ye don't be more careful o' yer dried-up body."

"Taisez vous, donc," muttered his companion, half angrily.

"Taisin' ye? avic, sorra wan o' me's taisin' ye. But since ye can't help me out o' me throubles, I'll try to help mysilf."

In pursuance of this noble resolve, Bryan went to the store and fetched from thence another large tin kettle. He then undid the covering of the unwieldy pudding, which he cut into two equal parts, and having squeezed them into two balls, tied them up in the cloth, which he divided for the purpose, and put them into the separate kettles, with the air of a man who had overcome a great difficulty by dint of unfathomable wisdom. It was found, however, that the smaller pudding, intended for Stanley's table, was also too large for its kettle; but the energetic blacksmith, whose genius was now thoroughly aroused, overcame this difficulty by cutting off several pounds of it, and transferring the pudding thus reduced to the kettle, saying in an undertone as he did so, "There's more nor enough for the six o' ye yit, av yer only raisonable in yer appetites."

But the superfluity of the pudding thus caused became now a new source of trouble to Bryan.

"What's to be done wid it, Losh? I don't like to give it to the dogs, an' it's too small intirely to make a dumplin' of."

"You better heat him raw," suggested La Roche.

"Faix, an' I've half a mind to; but it would spile my dinner. Hallo! look out for the vainison, Losh."

"Ah, oui; oh! misere!" cried La Roche, springing over the fire, and giving a turn to the splendid haunch of venison which depended from a wooden tripod in front of the blaze, and, having been neglected for a few minutes, was beginning to singe.

"What have ye in the pot there?" inquired Bryan.

"Von goose, two duck, trois plovre, et von leetle bird -- I not know de name of -- put him in pour experiment."

"Very good, Losh; out wid the goose and we'll cram the bit o' dumplin' into him for stuffin'."

"Ah! superb, excellent," cried La Roche, laughing, as he lifted out the goose, into which Bryan thrust the mass of superfluous pudding; after which the hole was tied up and the bird re-consigned to the pot.

Everything connected with this dinner was strikingly suggestive of the circumstances under which it was given. The superabundance of venison and wild-fowl; the cooking done in the open air; the absence of women, and the performance of work usually allotted to them by bronzed and stalwart voyageurs; the wild scenery in the midst of which it took place; and the mixture of Irish, English, French, Indian, Esquimau, and compound tones, that fell upon the ear as the busy work went on, -- all tended to fill the mind with a feeling of wild romance, and to suggest powerfully the idea of being, if we may so express it, far, far away! As the proceedings advanced towards completion, this feeling was rather increased than removed.

Tables and chairs were a luxury that still remained to be introduced at Fort Chimo, when the men found leisure from more urgent duties to construct them. Therefore the dining-table in Stanley's hall was composed of three large packing-cases turned bottom up. There was no cloth wherewith to cover its rough boards; but this was a matter of little importance to the company which assembled round it, punctually at the hour of four. In place of chairs there were good substantial nail-kegs, rather low, it is true, and uncommonly hard, but not to be despised under the circumstances. Owing to the unusual demand for dishes, the pewter plates and spoons and tin drinking-cups -- for they had little crockery -- were of every form and size that the store contained; and the floor on which it all stood was the beaten ground, for the intended plank flooring was still growing in the mountain glens.

But if the equipage was homely and rude, the fare was choice and abundant; and an odour that might have gladdened the heart of an epicure greeted the nostrils of the captain and his two mates when they entered the hall, dressed in blue surtouts with bright brass buttons, white duck trousers, and richly flowered vests [waistcoats]. There was a splendid salmon, of twenty pounds weight, at one end of the board; and beside it, on the same dish, a lake-trout of equal size and beauty. At the other end smoked a haunch of venison, covered with at least an inch of fat; and beside it a bowl of excellent cranberry jam, the handiwork of the hostess. A boiled goose and pease-pudding completed the catalogue. Afterwards, these gave place to the pudding which had caused Bryan so much perplexity, and several dishes of raisins and figs. Last, but not least, there was a bottle of brandy and two of port wine; which, along with the raisins and figs, formed part of the limited supply of luxuries furnished by the Hudson's Bay Company to Stanley, in common with all the gentlemen in the service, in order to enable them, now and then, on great occasions, to recall, through the medium of a feast, the remembrance of civilised life.

The display in the men's house was precisely similar to that in the hall. But the table was larger and the viands more abundant. The raisins and figs, too, were wanting; and instead of wine or brandy, there was a small supply of rum. It was necessarily small, being the gift of Stanley out of his own diminutive store, which could not, even if desired, be replenished until the return of the ship next autumn.

On the arrival of the guests a strange contrast was presented. The sailors, in white ducks, blue jackets with brass buttons, striped shirts, pumps, and straw hats, landed at the appointed hour, and in hearty good-humour swaggered towards the men's house, where they were politely received by the quiet, manly-looking voyageurs, who, in honour of the occasion, had put on their best capotes, their brightest belts, their gayest garters, and most highly-ornamented moccasins. The French Canadians and half-breeds bowed, shook hands, and addressed the tars as messieurs. The sailors laughed, slapped their entertainers on the shoulders, and called them messmates. The Indians stood, grave and silent, but with looks of good-humour, in the background; while the Esquimaux raised their fat cheeks, totally shut up their eyes, and grinned perpetually, not to say horribly, from ear to ear. But the babel that followed is beyond the powers of description, therefore we won't attempt it.

Here, however, the characteristic peculiarity of our scene ceases. The actual demolition of food is pretty much the same among all nations that are not absolutely savage; and, however much contrast might have been observed in the strange mixture of human beings assembled under the hospitable roof of Fort Chimo, there was none whatever in the manner in which they demolished their viands. As the evening advanced, a message was sent to Monsieur Stanley for the loan of his violin.

"Ay," said he, as the instrument was delivered to Bryan, who happened to be the messenger and also the performer -- "ay, I thought it would come to that ere long. Don't be too hard on the strings, lad. 'Twill be a rough ball where there are no women."

"Thrue, yer honour," replied the blacksmith, as he received the instrument, "there's a great want of faymales in thim parts; but the sailors have consinted to ripresint the purty craytures on the present occasion, which is but right, for, ye see, the most o' thim's shorter nor us, an' their wide breeches are more like the pitticoats than our leggin's."

Many were the stories that were told and retold, believed, disbelieved, and doubted, on that memorable night; and loud were the songs and long and strong the dancing that followed. But it was all achieved under the influence of pure animal spirits, for the rum supplied afforded but a thimbleful to each. The consequence was that there were no headaches the following morning, and the men were up by break of day as fresh and light as larks. A feeling of sadness, however, gradually crept over the band as the dawn advanced and the schooner prepared for her departure.

By six o'clock the flood-tide turned, and a few minutes later all the sailors were aboard, hoisting the sails and anchor, while the men stood silently on the beach where they had just parted from their guests.

"Good-bye once more, Mr Stanley; good-bye, Mr Morton," said the captain, as he stepped into his boat. "I wish you a pleasant winter and a good trade."

"Thank you, thank you, captain," replied Stanley; "and don't forget us out here, in this lonely place, when you drink the health of absent friends at Christmas time."

In a few minutes the anchor was up, and the schooner, bending round with a fair wind and tide, made for the narrows.

"Give them a cheer, lads," said Frank.

Obedient to the command, the men doffed their caps and raised their voices; but there was little vigour in the cheer. It was replied to from the schooner's deck. Just as the flying-jib passed the point a gun was fired, which once more awakened the loud echoes of the place. When the smoke cleared away, the schooner was gone.

Thus was severed the last link that bound the civilised world to the inhabitants of Fort Chimo.



Chapter Twenty.

Winter Approaches -- Esquimaux Arrive -- Effect Of A Word -- A Sucking Baby --  Prospects Of Trade.

For many days after the ship's departure the work of completing the fort went forward with the utmost rapidity, and not until the houses and stores were rendered weather-tight and warm did Stanley consider it advisable to send out hunting and fishing parties into the mountains. Now, however, the frosts continued a great part of the day as well as during the night, so it was high time to kill deer and fish, in order to freeze, and so preserve them for winter's consumption.

Up to this time no further traces of Esquimaux had been discovered, and Stanley began to express his fears to Frank that they had left the neighbourhood altogether, in consequence of the repeated attacks made upon them by Indians. Soon after this, however, the fur-traders were surprised by a sudden visit from a party of these denizens of the north.

It happened on the afternoon of a beautiful day towards the close of autumn, that charming but brief season which, in consequence of its unbroken serenity, has been styled the Indian summer. The men had all been dispatched into the mountains in various directions, some to fish, others to shoot; and none were left at the fort except its commandant with his wife and child, and Oolibuck the Esquimau. Stanley was seated on a stone at the margin of the bay, admiring the vivid alterations of light and shade, as the sun dipped behind the mountains of the opposite shore, when his eye was attracted towards one or two objects on the water near the narrows. Presently they advanced, and were followed by several others. In a few minutes he perceived that they were Esquimau canoes.

Jumping hastily up, Stanley ran to the fort, and bidding his wife and child keep out of sight, put two pair of pistols in his pockets and returned to the beach, where he found Oolibuck gazing at the approaching flotilla with intense eagerness.

"Well, Oolibuck, here come your countrymen at last," said Stanley. "Do they look friendly, think you?"

"Me no can tell; they most too quiet," replied the interpreter.

Esquimaux in general are extremely noisy and full of animated gesticulation on meeting with strangers, especially when they meet on decidedly friendly terms. The silence, therefore, maintained by the natives as they advanced was looked upon as a bad sign. The fleet consisted of nine kayaks, and three large oomiaks full of women and children; and a curious appearance they presented at a distance, for the low kayaks of the men being almost invisible, it seemed as if their occupants were actually seated on the water. The oomiaks being much higher, were clearly visible. On coming to within a quarter of a mile of the fort, the men halted to allow the women to come up; then forming in a crescent in front of the oomiaks, the whole flotilla advanced slowly towards the beach. When within a hundred yards or so, Stanley said, "Now, Oolibuck, give them a hail."

"Chimo! Chimo! Chimo-o-o!" shouted the interpreter.

The word acted like a talisman.

"Chimo!" yelled the Esquimaux in reply, and the kayaks shot like arrows upon the sand, while the women followed as fast as they could. In another minute a loud chattering and a brisk shaking of hands was taking place on shore.

The natives were dressed in the sealskin garments with which arctic travellers have made us all more or less acquainted. They were stout burly fellows, with fat, oily, and bearded faces.

"Now tell them, Oolibuck, the reason of our coming here," said Stanley.

Oolibuck instantly began, by explaining to them that they had come for the purpose of bringing about peace and friendship between them and the Indians; on hearing which the Esquimaux danced and shouted for nearly a minute with joy. But when the interpreter went on to say that they intended to remain altogether among them, for the purpose of trading, their delight knew no bounds; they danced and jumped, and whooped and yelled, tossed up their arms and legs, and lay down on the sand and rolled in ecstasy. In the midst of all this, Mrs Stanley rushed out of the house, followed by Edith, in great terror at the unearthly sounds that had reached her ears; but on seeing her husband and Oolibuck laughing in the midst of the grotesque group, her fears vanished, and she stood an amused spectator of the scene.

Meanwhile, Stanley went down and stepped into the midst of one of the oomiaks, with a few beads and trinkets in his hands; and while Oolibuck entertained the men on shore, he presented gifts to the women, who received them with the most childish demonstrations of joy. There was something irresistibly comic in the childlike simplicity of these poor natives. Instead of the stiff reserve and haughty demeanour of their Indian neighbours, they danced and sang, and leaped and roared, embraced each other and wept, with the most reckless indifference to appearances, and seemed upon all occasions to give instant vent to the feelings that happened to be uppermost in their minds. As Stanley continued to distribute his gifts, the women crowded out of the other oomiaks into the one in which he stood, until they nearly sank it; some of them extending their arms for beads, others giving a jolt to the hoods on their backs, which had the effect of bringing to light fat, greasy-faced little babies, who were pointed to as being peculiarly worthy of attention.

At length Stanley broke from them and leaped ashore, where he was soon followed by the entire band. But here new objects -- namely, Mrs Stanley and Edith -- attracted their wondering attention. Approaching towards the former, they began timidly to examine her dress, which was indeed very different from theirs, and calculated to awaken curiosity and surprise. The Esquimau women were dressed very much like the men -- namely, in long shirts of sealskin or deerskin with the hair on, short breeches of the same material, and long sealskin boots. The hoods of the women were larger than those of the men, and their boots much more capacious; and while the latter had a short stump of a tail or peak hanging from the hinder part of their shirts, the women wore their tails so long that they trailed along the ground as they walked. In some cases these tails were four and six inches broad, with a round flap at the end, and fringed with ermine. It was, therefore, with no little surprise that they found Mrs Stanley entirely destitute of a tail, and observed that she wore her upper garment so long that it reached the ground. Becoming gradually more familiar, on seeing that the strange woman permitted them to handle her pretty freely, one of them gently lifted up her gown to see whether or not she wore boots; but receiving a somewhat prompt repulse, she began to caress her, and assured her that she did not mean to give offence.

By this time Frank and some of the men had joined the group on the shore, and as it was getting late Stanley commanded silence.

"Tell them I have somewhat to say to them, Oolibuck."

The interpreter's remark instantly produced a dead silence.

"Now ask them if they are glad to hear that we are going to stay to trade with them."

A vociferous jabbering followed the question, which, by Oolibuck's interpretation, meant that their joy was utterly inexpressible.

"Have they been long on the coast?"

"No; they had just arrived, and were on their way up the river to obtain wood for building their kayaks."

"Did they see the bundle of presents we left for them at the coast?"

"Yes, they had seen it; but not knowing whom it was intended for, they had not touched it."

On being told that the presents were intended for them, the poor creatures put on a look of intense chagrin, which, however, passed away when it was suggested to them that they might take the gifts on their return to the coast.

"And now," said Stanley, in conclusion, "'tis getting late. Go down to the point below the fort and encamp there for the night. We thank you for your visit, and will return it in the morning. Good-night."

On this being translated, the Esquimaux gave a general yell of assent and immediately retired, bounding and shouting and leaping as they went, looking, in their gleesome rotundity, like the infant progeny of a race of giants.

"I like the look of these men very much," said Stanley, as he walked up to the house with Frank. "Their genuine trustfulness is a fine trait in their character."

"No doubt of it," replied Frank. "There is much truth in the proverb, 'Evil dreaders are evil doers.' Those who fear no evil intend none. Had they been Indians, now, we should have had more trouble with them."

"I doubt it not, Frank. You would have been pleased to witness the prompt alacrity with which the poor creatures answered to our cry of Chimo, and ran their kayaks fearlessly ashore, although, for all they knew to the contrary, the rocks might have concealed a hundred enemies."

"And yet," said Frank, with an air of perplexity, "the Esquimau character seems to me a difficult problem to solve. When we read the works of arctic voyagers, we find that one man's experience of the Esquimaux proves them to be inveterate thieves and liars, while another speaks of them as an honest, truthful people -- and that, too, being said of the same tribe. Nay, further, I have read of a tribe being all that is good and amiable at one time, and all that is bad and vile at another. Now the conduct of these good-natured fellows, in reference to the bundle of trinkets we left at the mouth of the river, indicates a degree of honesty that is almost too sensitive; for the merest exertion of common-sense would show that a bundle hung up in an exposed place to public view must be for the public good."

"Nevertheless they seem both honest and friendly," returned Stanley, "and I trust that our experience of them may never change. To-morrow I shall give them some good advice in regard to procuring furs, and show them the wealth of our trading store."

When the morrow came the visit of the Esquimaux was returned by the entire force of Fort Chimo, and the childish delight with which they were received was most amusing. The childishness, however, was only applicable to these natives when expressing their strong feelings. In other respects, particularly in their physical actions, they were most manly; and the thick black beards and moustaches that clothed the chins of most of the men seemed very much the reverse of infantine. The children were so exactly like to their parents in costume that they seemed miniature representations of them. In fact, were a child viewed through a magnifying glass it would become a man, and were a man viewed through a diminishing glass he would become a child -- always, of course, excepting the beard.

Bryan became a special favourite with the natives when it was discovered that he was a worker in iron, and the presents with which he was overwhelmed were of a most extraordinary, and, in some cases, perplexing nature. One man, who seemed determined to get into his good graces, offered him a choice morsel of broiled seal. "No, thankee, lad," said Bryan; "I've had my brickfust."

Supposing that the broiling had something to do with the blacksmith's objection, the Esquimau hastily cut off a slice of the raw blubber and tendered it to him.

"D'ye think I'm a haythen?" said Bryan, turning away in disgust.

"Ah, try it, Bryan," cried La Roche, turning from an Esquimau baby, in the contemplation of which he had been absorbed -- "try it; 'tis ver' goot, I 'sure you. Ver' goot for your complaint, Bryan. But come, here, vitement. -- Just regardez dat hinfant. Come here, queek!"

Thus urged, Bryan broke away from his host (who had just split open the shinbone of a deer, and offered him the raw marrow, but without success), and, going towards La Roche, regarded the baby in question. It was a remarkably fine child, seemingly about ten months old, with a round, rosy, oily face, coal-black hair, and large, round, coal-black eyes, with which it returned the stare of the two men with interest. But that which amused the visitors most was a lump of fat or blubber, with a skewer thrust through it, which its mother had given to the child to suck, and which it was endeavouring to thrust down its throat with both hands.

"Come here, Oolibuck; pourquoi is de stick?"

"Ho, ho, ho!" laughed Oolibuck. "Dat is for keep de chile quiet; and de stick is for no let him choke; him no can swallow de stick."

"Musha! but it would stick av he did swallow it," said Bryan, turning away with a laugh.

In the course of the day Stanley and Frank conducted the natives to the fort, and having given them all an excellent dinner and a few gifts of needles, scissors, and knives, led them to the store, where the goods for trade were ranged temptingly on shelves round the walls. A counter encompassed a space around the entrance-door, within which the natives stood and gazed on wealth which, to their unsophisticated minds, seemed a dream of enchantment.

Having given them time to imbibe a conception of the room and its treasures, Stanley addressed them through the interpreter; but as reference to this worthy individual is somewhat hampering, we will discard him forthwith -- retaining his style and language, however, for the benefit of his fellow-countrymen.

"Now, you see what useful things I have got here for you; but I cannot give them to you for nothing. They cost us much, and give us much trouble to bring them here. But I will give them for skins and furs and oil, and the tusks of the walrus; and when you go to your friends on the sea-coast, you can tell them to bring skins with them when they come."

"Ye vill do vat you vish. Ye most happy you come. Ye vill hunt very mush, and make your house empty of all dese t'ings if ye can."

"That's well. And now I am in need of boots for my men, and you have a good many, I see; so, if you can spare some of these, we will begin to trade at once."

On hearing this, the natives dispatched several of their number down to the camp, who soon returned laden with boots. These boots are most useful articles. They are neatly made of sealskin, the feet or soles being of walrus hide, and perfectly waterproof. They are invaluable to those who have to walk much in ice-cold water or among moist snow, as is the case in those regions during spring and autumn. In winter the frost completely does away with all moisture, so that the Indian moccasin is better at that season than the Esquimau boot.

For these boots, and a few articles of native clothing, Stanley paid the natives at the rates of the regular tariff throughout the country; and this rate was so much beyond the poor Esquimau estimate of the relative value of boots and goods, that they would gladly have given all the boots and coats they possessed for what they received as the value of one pair.

Overjoyed at their good fortune, and laden with treasure, they returned to their camp to feast, and to sing the praises of the Kublunat, as they termed the fur-traders.



Chapter Twenty One.

Silent Conversation -- Raw Food -- Female Tails -- A Terrible Battle Terminated By The Interposition Of A Giant.

Of all the people at Fort Chimo no one was more interested in the Esquimaux than little Edith. She not only went fearlessly among them, and bestowed upon them every trinket she possessed, but, in her childlike desire for the companionship and sympathy of human beings of her own age and sex, she took forcible possession of two little girls who happened to be cleaner, and, therefore, prettier than the others, and led them away to her own ravine, where she introduced them to her favourite berries and to her dog Chimo. At first the dog did not seem to relish the intrusion of these new favourites, but seeing that they did not induce his mistress to caress him less than before, he considerately tolerated them. Besides, the Esquimaux had brought their dogs along with them; and Chimo, being of an amicable disposition, had entered into social fellowship with his own kind. We have said that Chimo was sagacious, and it is quite possible he may have felt the propriety of granting to Edith that liberty which he undoubtedly claimed for himself.

But Edith's intercourse with her little Esquimau protegees was necessarily confined to looks -- the language of the eye making up for the absence of that of the tongue. There were many things, however, in which language was not required as a medium of communication between the children. When the berries were good, the brightening eyes and smacking lips spoke a language common to all the human race. So, also, when the berries were sour or bitter, the expression of their faces was peculiarly emphatic. The joyous shout, too, as they discovered a new scene that pleased their eyes, while they roved hand in hand through the ravines, or the shrinking glance of fear as they found themselves unexpectedly on the edge of a precipice, was sufficiently intelligible to the trio. The little friends presented a striking and grotesque contrast. It would have been difficult to say whether the little Esquimaux were boys or girls. If anything, the costume seemed more to indicate the former than the latter. Like their mothers, they wore loose deerskin shirts with the hair on the outside, which gave them a round, soft, burly appearance -- an appearance which was increased by their little boots, which were outrageously wide, and quite as long as their legs. The frocks or shirts had hoods and tails, which latter, according to fashion, were so long that they trailed on the ground. The inconvenience of the tail is so great that the women, while travelling on a journey, get rid of it by drawing it between their legs, and, lifting up the end, fastening it in front to a button sewed to their frock for the purpose. In travelling, therefore, Esquimau women seem to be destitute of this appendage; but, on arriving at camp, they undo the fastening, and walk about with flowing tails behind them!

Edith's costume consisted of a short frock made of dark blue cloth, and a head-dress peculiar to the Indian women among the Crees. It was preferred by the little wearer to all other styles of bonnet, on account of the ease with which it could be thrown off and on. She also wore ornamented leggings and moccasins. Altogether, with her graceful figure, flaxen curls, and picturesque costume, she presented a strong contrast to the fat, dark, hairy little creatures who followed her by brook and bush and precipice the livelong day.

One morning, about two weeks after the arrival of the Esquimaux, Edith went down to the camp after breakfast, and found her two companions engaged in concluding their morning meal. The elder, whose name was Arnalooa, was peering with earnest scrutiny into the depths of a marrowbone, from which she had already extracted a large proportion of the raw material. The younger, Okatook, seized a lump of raw seal's flesh, as Edith entered their hut, and, cutting therefrom a savoury morsel, put it into her mouth as she rose to welcome her visitor.

"Oh! how can you?" said Edith, with a look of disgust at this ravenous conduct on the part of her friend. But Edith had said, "Oh! how can you?" and "Oh! shocking!" and "Oh! why don't you give up eating it raw?" and "Oh! why won't you have it cooked?" nearly every day for the last two weeks, without producing any other effect than a gleeful laugh from the little Esquimaux; for, although they did not comprehend her words, they clearly understood her looks of disapproval. But although they would not give up the habit of eating raw flesh, which they had been accustomed to from their infancy, they were prevailed on so far to break through the habits of their people as to wash their hands and faces before going out to play. This they did because Edith positively refused to go with them unless they did so.

Lifting up the end of her tail and wiping her mouth therewith, Arnalooa smiled at Edith's look of reproach, and ran laughing towards the shore, where she and Okatook washed their hands, after which they followed Edith and Chimo to their favourite ravine. Although she knew that they did not understand a word of what she said, Edith invariably kept up a running fire of small talk, in reference chiefly to the objects of nature by which they were surrounded. To this the little hairy creatures listened intently with smiling faces, and sometimes they laughed prodigiously, as though they understood what was said, so that their companion felt as if she were really conversing with them, although she was sadly perplexed at the utter impossibility of obtaining an intelligible reply to a question when she chanced to put one.

"Oh, what a lovely glen!" cried Edith, her eyes beaming with delight, as, on turning the point of a projecting crag, she and her companions found themselves in a spot which they had not before seen during their rambles. It was a wild, savage gorge, full of fallen rocks, hemmed in with high cliffs, fringed here and there with willows and mosses, among which were a few brilliant wild-flowers. The lights and shadows of the spot were thrown into powerful contrast by a gleam of sunshine which flashed down among the rugged masses, lighting up peaks and sharp edges in some spots, while in others they were thrown into the profoundest gloom.

"Oh! is it not a delightful place?" cried Edith, as she bounded up the rugged path, followed by Chimo, while the two Esquimau girls buttoned up their tails, and followed her as fast as their more cumbrous habiliments would permit.

For a quarter of an hour the party toiled up the steep ascent, pausing now and then to pluck a flower, or to look back on the wild path by which they had come, until they reached a ridge of rock, beyond which lay a small lake or pool. So dark and still did it lie within the shadow of the overhanging cliffs that it resembled a pool of ink. Here the adventurous explorers sat down to recover breath, and to gaze in childish delight, not unmixed with awe, at the wild scene around them.

The peculiar wildness of the spot seemed to exercise an unusual influence over the dog; for, instead of lying down, as it was wont to do, at the feet of its young mistress, it moved about uneasily, and once or twice uttered a low growl.

"Come here, Chimo," said Edith, when these symptoms of restlessness had attracted her attention; "what is the matter with you, my dear dog? Surely you are not frightened at the appearance of this wild place! Speak, dog; see, Arnalooa is laughing at you."

Edith might have said with more propriety that Arnalooa was laughing at herself, for the little Esquimau was much amused at the serious manner in which her Kublunat friend spoke to her dog. But Chimo refused to be comforted. He raised his snout, snuffed the air once or twice, and then, descending the gorge a short distance, put his nose close to the ground and trotted away.

"That is very odd of Chimo," said Edith, looking into Arnalooa's face with an expression of perplexity.

As she spoke Okatook pointed, with an eager glance, up the ravine. Turning her eyes hastily in the direction indicated, Edith beheld a deer bounding towards them. It was closely followed by a savage wolf. The deer seemed to be in the last stage of exhaustion. Its flanks were wet with moisture, its eyes starting from their sockets, and its breath issued forth in deep sobs, as it bounded onwards, seemingly more by the force of its impetus than by any voluntary exertion. More intent on the danger behind than on that which lay before it, the deer made straight for the pass in which the three girls stood, and scarcely had they time to spring to the sides of the cliff, when it swept by like an arrow. Instantly after, and ere it had taken two bounds past them, the wolf sprang forward; caught it by the throat, and dragged it to the ground, where in a few seconds it worried the noble animal to death. It is probable that the chase now terminated had begun at early dawn that day, for deer being fleeter than wolves they prolong the chase until overcome by the superior strength and dogged perseverance of their ravenous enemies. Over mountain and hill they had bounded along together, through glen and gorge, across river and lake, bursting headlong through bush and brake, or under the shadow of frowning cliffs, and toiling, at a foot pace and with panting sides, up the steep hills, in the fierce blaze of the sun, the one impelled by hunger, the other by fear, until at length the scene closed in the wild pass, almost at the feet of the three children.

But retribution was in store for the savage destroyer. Ere yet the life's blood had teased to flow from the throat of the dying deer, and while the wolf's fangs were still dripping with its gore, a fierce bark, followed by a terrific growl, rang among the cliffs, and Chimo, with his ears laid back and his formidable row of teeth exposed, rushed up the gorge and seized the wolf by the neck! Thus assailed, the wolf returned the bite with interest, and immediately a fight of the most energetic character ensued.

The wolf was much larger and more powerful than Chimo, but was greatly exhausted by its long chase, while the dog was fresh and vigorous. Once or twice Chimo tossed his huge adversary by main strength, but as often he was overturned and dreadfully shaken, while the long fangs of the wolf met in his neck, and mingled the blood of the deer, which bespattered his black muzzle, with the life's blood that began to flow copiously from Chimo's veins. At this moment a shout was heard farther up the ravine. The three girls turned hastily, and saw, on a point of rock which projected from the mountain side and overhung the dark pool, the figure of a man, of such immense proportions that they instinctively shrank back with terror. The position in which he stood made him appear larger than he really was. The scattered gleams and slant rays of sunshine that played around the spot invested him as with a supernatural halo, while a bright glow of light on the cliff behind detached him prominently from the surrounding shadows. He poised a spear in his right hand, and, while Edith gazed at him in terror, the weapon flew whistling through the air and was buried in the side of the wolf. But so close did the spear pass, that Edith involuntarily stepped back as she heard it whiz. In doing so she lost her balance and fell over the cliff. Fortunately, Arnalooa caught her by the dress and partially broke her fall, but the descent was sufficiently steep and rugged to render the child insensible.

When Edith recovered consciousness, her first emotion was that of terror, on beholding a large, dark-bearded face bending over her; but a second glance showed her that the eyes of the stranger gazed upon her with a look of tenderness, and that Arnalooa and Okatook were kneeling beside her with an expression of anxiety. Had anything further been wanting to allay her fears, the sight of Chimo would have done it. It is true the sturdy dog panted heavily, and occasionally licked his wounds, as he sat on his haunches at her feet; but he was wonderfully calm and collected after his recent mortal conflict, and regarded his young mistress from time to time with an air of patronising assurance.

As Edith opened her eyes, the stranger muttered some unintelligible words, and, rising hastily, went to a neighbouring spring, at which he filled a rude cup with water. In doing this, he revealed the huge proportions of the gigantic Esquimau whom we introduced to our reader in a former chapter. He was dressed in the same manner as when we first saw him, but his face was somewhat altered, and his black eyebrows were marked by that peculiar curve which is expressive of deep melancholy. Returning quickly from the spring, he kneeled beside the little girl, and, raising her head on his broad hand, held the goblet to her lips.

"Thank you," said Edith faintly, as she swallowed a few drops; "I think I had better go home. Is Chimo safe? Chimo!" She started up as the recollection of the fight with the wolf flashed upon her; but the fall had stunned her rather severely, and scarcely had she risen to her feet when she staggered and fell back into the arms of the Esquimau.

Seeing that she was quite unable to walk, he raised her in his powerful arm as if she had been a young lamb. Catching the dead wolf by the neck as he passed, and springing from rock to rock with catlike agility, he bore his burden down the ravine, and strode towards the fort under the guidance of Okatook and Arnalooa.



Chapter Twenty Two.

Maximus -- Deer Spearing -- A Surprisingly Bad Shot -- Character Of The Natives.

"Hallo! what have we here?" exclaimed Stanley, starting from his seat in amazement, as the giant entered the hall of Fort Chimo -- his left hand grasping a blood-stained wolf by the throat, and Edith resting in his right arm.

At first the startled father imagined his child must have been wounded, if not killed, by the savage animal; but his mind was immediately relieved on this point by Edith herself, who was no sooner laid on her bed than she recovered sufficiently to narrate the circumstances attending her fall.

"Well, Maximus," said Stanley, returning to the hall and applying to the bulky savage the term that seemed most appropriate to him, "shake hands with me, my good fellow. You've saved Chimo's life, it seems; and that's a good turn I'll not forget. But a -- . I see you don't understand a word I say. Hallo! Moses, Moses! you deaf rascal, come here!" he shouted, as that worthy passed the window.

"Yis, mossue," said Moses, entering the hall. "Oh, me! what a walrus am dis! Me do b'lieve him most high as a tree an' more broader nor iveryt'ing!"

"Hold thy tongue, Moses, and ask the fellow where he came from; but tell him first that I'm obliged to him for saving Chimo from that villainous wolf."

While Moses interpreted, Arnalooa and Okatook, being privileged members of the tribe, crossed over to Edith's room.

"Well, what says he?" inquired Stanley, at the end of a long address which the giant had delivered to Moses.

"Him say he heered we have come to trade, from Eskeemo to west'ard, and so him come for to see us."

"A most excellent reason," said Stanley. "Has he brought any furs?"

"Yis; him brought one two fox, and two t'ree deer. No have much furs in dis country, him say."

"Sorry to hear that. Perhaps his opinion may change when he sees the inside of our store. But I would like him to stay about the fort as a hunter, Moses; he seems a first-rate man. Ask him if he will consent to stay for a time."

"P'raps he fuss-rate, p'raps not," muttered Moses in a disparaging tone, as he turned to put the question.

"Him say yis."

"Very good; then take him to your house, Moses, and give him some food and a pipe, and teach him English as fast as you can, and see that it is grammatical. D'ye hear?"

"Yis, mossue, me quite sure for to teach him dat."

As Moses turned to quit the hall, Stanley called him back. "Ask Maximus, by-the-bye, if he knows anything of a party of Esquimaux who seem to have been attacked, not long ago, by Indians in this neighbourhood."

No sooner was this question put than the face of Maximus, which had worn a placid, smiling expression during the foregoing conversation, totally changed. His brows lowered, and his lips were tightly compressed, as he regarded Stanley for a few moments ere he ventured to reply. Then, in a deep, earnest tone, he related the attack, the slaughter of his people, their subsequent escape, and the loss of his bride. Even Moses was agitated as he went on, and showed his teeth like an enraged mastiff when the Esquimau came to speak of his irreparable loss.

"Stay one moment," said Stanley, when Maximus concluded. "I have something to show you;" and hastening into his room, he quickly returned with the little piece of sealskin that had been found at the deserted Indian camp. "Do you know anything of this, Maximus? Do you understand these marks?"

The Esquimau uttered a cry of surprise when his eye fell on the piece of skin, and he seemed much agitated while he put several quick, earnest questions to Moses, who replied as earnestly and quickly; then turning rapidly on his heel, he sprang through the doorway, and was soon lost to view in the stunted woods of the ravine above the fort.

"That fellow seems in a hurry," exclaimed Frank Morton, entering the room just as the savage made his exit. "Who is he, and wherefore in so great haste?"

"As to who he is," answered Stanley, "I'll tell you that after Moses has explained the cause of his sudden flight."

"He say that him's wife make dat skin, and de arrow on him skin show dat de Injuns take her to deir tents."

"But did you not tell him that we found the skin long ago, and that the Indians must be far, far away by this time -- nobody knows where?" demanded Frank.

"Yis, me tell him. But he go for to see de spot. T'ink him find more t'ings, p'raps."

"Oh, messieurs, voila!" shouted La Roche, pointing towards the river, as he rushed, breathless with haste, into the hall; "les Esquimaux, dem kill all de deer dans le kontry. Oui, voila! dans les kayak. Two dozen at vonce -- vraiment!" Without waiting a reply, the excited Frenchman turned round and rushed out of the house, followed by Stanley and Frank, who seized their guns, which always hung ready loaded on the walls of the apartment.

On reaching the water's edge, the scene that met their eye was indeed sufficient to account for the excitement of La Roche. A herd of perhaps fifty or sixty deer, on their way to the coast, and ignorant of the foes who had so recently invaded their solitudes, had descended the ravine opposite the fort, with the intention of crossing the river. The Esquimaux had perceived this, and keeping themselves and their kayaks concealed until most of the animals were in the water, and the leaders of the herd more than two-thirds over, they then gave chase, and getting between the deer and the opposite shore, cut off their retreat, and drove them towards their encampment.

Here the slaughter commenced, and Stanley and Frank arrived at the scene of action while they were in the midst of the wholesale destruction. In all directions the kayaks, with their solitary occupants, were darting about hither and thither like arrows in the midst of the affrighted animals; none of which, however, were speared until they were driven quite close to the shore. In their terror, the deer endeavoured to escape by swimming in different directions; but the long double-bladed paddles of the Esquimaux sent the light kayaks after them like lightning, and a sharp prick on their flanks turned them in the right direction. There were so many deer, however, that a few succeeded in gaining the land; but here the guns of the traders awaited them. In the midst of this wild scene, Frank's attention was arrested by the cool proceedings of an Esquimau, whose name was Chacooto. He had several times exhibited a degree of shrewdness beyond his fellows during his residence near the fort, and was evidently a man of importance in the tribe. Chacooto had collected together a band of the herd, amounting to fifteen, and, by dint of cool decision and quick movements, had driven them to within a few yards of the shore, exactly opposite the spot whereon his tent stood. One young buck, of about two years old, darted away from the rest more than once, but, with a sweep of the paddle and a prick of the lance, Chacooto turned it back again, while a quiet sarcastic smile played on his countenance. Having driven the herd close enough in for his purpose, the Esquimau ended the career of the refractory buck with a single thrust of his lance, and then proceeded coolly to stab them all one after another.

"Och, the spalpeen!" said a voice at Frank's ear. "'Tis himsilf knows how to do it, an' no mistake. Musha! his lance goes out and in like a thailor's needle; an' he niver strikes more nor wance, the haythen!"

"He certainly does know how to do it, Bryan," replied Frank; "and it's a comfort to know that every thrust kills in a moment. I like to see as little of the appearance of cruelty as possible in work of this kind."

"Arrah! there's wan that'll chate 'im, anyhow," cried Bryan, throwing forward his gun in nervous haste, as one of the deer gained the land, despite Chacooto's rapidity, and bounded towards the hills.

Frank smiled at the eager haste of his companion, who was one of the poor shots of the party, and, consequently, always in a hurry. "Now, Bryan, there's a chance. Take your time. Just behind the shoulder; a little low, for that gun kicks horribly."

"Murder and blazes, she won't go off!" cried the exasperated Irishman, as, after a wavering effort to take aim, he essayed unsuccessfully to pull the trigger.

"Half-cock, man! Cock it!" said Frank quickly.

"So 'tis, be the mortial! Och, Bryan, yer too cliver, ye are!" he exclaimed, rectifying his error with a force that nearly tore off the dog-head. At that instant there was a sharp crack, and the deer, bounding into the air, fell dead on the sand at the edge of the willows.

"Forgive me, Bryan," said Massan, chuckling and reloading his piece as he walked up to his comrade. "I would not ha' taken't out o' yer teeth, lad, if ye had been ready; but one bound more would ha' put the beast beyond the reach o' a bullet."

"Faix, Massan, ye desarve to be hanged for murther. Shure I was waitin' till the poor crayture got into the bushes, to give it a chance o' its life, before I fired. That's the way that gintlemen from the ould country does when we're out sportin'. We always put up the birds first, and fire afterwards; but you salvages murther a poor brute on the sand, whin it's only two fathoms from ye. Shame on ye, Massan."

"See, Massan," cried Frank, pointing to another deer, which, having escaped its pursuers, had gained the heights above. "That fellow is beyond us both, I fear. Be ready when it comes into view beyond the cliff there."

But Massan did not move; and when Frank threw forward his gun, he felt his arm arrested.

"Pardon me, monsieur," said Massan respectfully; "there's a sure bullet about to start for that deer."

As he spoke, he pointed to Dick Prince, who, ignorant of the fact that the deer had been seen by Frank, was watching its reappearance from behind a neighbouring rock, at some distance from where they stood. In a second it came into view -- the bullet sped -- and the deer bounded lightly into the bushes, evidently unhurt!

It is difficult to say whether Dick Prince or his comrades exhibited most amazement in their looks at this result. That the crack shot of the party -- the man who could hit a button in the centre at a hundred yards, and cut the head off a partridge at a hundred and fifty -- should miss a deer at ninety yards, was utterly incomprehensible.

"Is it yer own gun ye've got?" inquired Bryan, as the discomfited marksman walked up.

"No; it's yours," replied Prince.

A smile, which resolved itself into a myriad of wrinkles, flitted over the blacksmith's face as he said -- 

"Ah, Prince! ye'll requare long practice to come to the parfect use o' that wipon. I've always fired three yards, at laste, to the left, iver since we fell over the hill togither. If it's a very long shot, it requares four to take the baste in the flank, or four an' a half if ye want to hit the shoulder, besides an allowance o' two feet above its head, to make up for the twist I gave it the other day in the forge, in tryin' to put it right!"

This explanation was satisfactory to all parties, especially so to Prince, who felt that his credit was saved; and if Prince had a weakness at all, it was upon this point.

The deer were now all killed, with the exception of those of the band that had been last in entering the river. These, with a few stragglers, had returned to the shore from which they started. The remainder of the evening was devoted to skinning and cutting up the carcasses -- an operation requiring considerable time, skill, and labour.

While the people at the fort were thus employed, Maximus (who adopted at once the name given to him by Stanley) returned from his fruitless journey to the Indian camp, and assisted the men at their work. He made no allusion whatever to his visit to the deserted Indian camp; but, from the settled expression of deep sadness that clouded his countenance, it was inferred that what he had seen there had not tended to raise his hopes.

The supply of deer obtained at this time was very seasonable, for the frost had now begun to set in so steadily that the meat could be hung up to freeze, and thus be kept fresh for winter's consumption. Some of it, however, was dried and stored away in bales; while a small quantity was pounded after being dried, made into pemmican, and reserved for future journeys.

As for the Esquimaux, they gave themselves up, during the first night, to feasting and rejoicing. During the short time that they had been at the fort, they had converted the promontory on which they were encamped into a scene of the utmost confusion and filth. A regard for truth constrains us to say, that although these poor creatures turned out to be honest, and simple, and kind-hearted, they did not by any means turn out to be cleanly; quite the reverse.

They had erected four summer tents on the beach, which were composed of skins sewed together, and supported on poles in such a way as to afford ample room for the accommodation of their families. The entrance to each tent was through a passage, which was also made of skins, hung over a line fastened to a pole at the distance of twelve or fifteen feet from the tent. Each side of this entrance was lined with piles of provisions -- seals, fish, ducks, and venison, in various stages of decay, which rendered the passage into the interior a trying operation. True, it was intended that the frost should prevent this decay; but, unfortunately, the frost did not always do its duty. The manner in which they cut up their deer and prepared them for future use was curious. After cutting the animals into two, without skinning them, they pinned up the front half with the heart and liver in the cavity. The other half they treated in a similar way, minus the heart and liver, and then put them out to freeze until required. When frozen, they were frequently used in their tents as seats, until the gradual diminution of the larder demanded that they should be appropriated to their proper use.

The tribe of Esquimaux who resided near Fort Chimo at this time were possessed of an enormous stone kettle, in which they boiled an entire deer at one time; and while the good people luxuriated on the flesh of the animal in their tents, the dogs assembled round the boiler to await the cooling of the soup -- thus verifying the assertion formerly made by Massan on that head.

The dogs resembled those of the Newfoundland breed in some respects, but were scarcely so large or good-looking, and had erect instead of pendent ears. There were about a dozen of them; and it was wonderful to observe the patience with which they sat in a circle round the kettle, gazing earnestly at the soup, licking their chaps the while, in anticipation of the feast.

The successful hunt was regarded as worthy of being specially celebrated by the distribution of a glass of grog to the men, and also to the Esquimaux; for at the time we write of, the Hudson's Bay Company had not yet instituted the wise and humane regulation which has since become a standing order throughout all parts of the country, except where there is opposition -- namely, that ardent spirits shall not be given to the natives. However, Stanley's natural disposition led him to be very circumspect in giving spirits to the men and natives, and the supply now issued was very small.

In the men it produced a desire for the violin, and created a tendency to sing and tell stories. In the Esquimaux it produced at first dislike, and afterwards wild excitement, which, in the case of Chacooto, ended in a desire to fight. But his comrades, assisted by his wives, overpowered him, tied him in a sack made of sealskin, and left him to roar and kick till he fell asleep!

The honesty of these natives was exhibited very strikingly in all their dealings with the fur-traders. Although iron tools of every description were scattered about the fort, while the men were engaged in erecting the several buildings, not one was missed; and even the useless nails and scraps of metal that were thrown away, when they were found by chance by the Esquimaux, were always brought to the house, and the question asked, "Were they of any use?" before being appropriated. They were great beggars, however; which was not surprising, considering the value of the articles possessed by the traders, and their own limited means of purchasing them. Their chief wealth at this time lay in boots and deerskins, which the women were constantly employed in preparing; but Stanley urged them to go into the interior and hunt, as, although deerskins and boots were useful, furs were infinitely more valuable. But the Esquimaux had much too lively a dread of the Indians to venture away from the coast, and seemed inclined to hang about the place in comparative idleness much longer than was desirable.



Chapter Twenty Three.

More Arrivals -- Honesty -- Indians Come Upon The Scene -- The Tribes Reconciled -- Disease And Death Change The Aspect Of Things -- Philosophic Discourse.

A day or two after the successful deer-hunt above related, several bands of Esquimaux arrived at Fort Chimo, and encamped beside their comrades. This unusual influx of visitors soon exhausted the venison that had been procured; but hunting parties were constantly on the alert, and as game of all kinds was plentiful, they lived in the midst of abundance. To all of these Stanley made small presents of beads and tobacco, and recommended them strongly to go and hunt for furs. But they seemed to like their quarters, and refused to move. The new arrivals, along with those who had first come, formed a band of about three hundred, and were found, almost without exception, to be a quiet, inoffensive, and honest people.

As a proof of this latter quality, we may mention a circumstance that occurred a few days after the arrival of the last band. Being desirous of taking some additional soundings, Stanley launched his boat by the help of the Esquimaux, for his own men were all absent hunting and fishing. The boat referred to had been sent to the fort in the ship, and was a most useful and acceptable gift from the Governor of the Fur Company to the gentleman in charge of Ungava. Stanley hoisted his sails, and prepared to run down the river; but ere he had advanced a hundred yards, he was startled by a burst of loud cries from the shore, and, looking back, he observed the whole band of natives pouring like a torrent into the fort! His heart leaped within him as he thought of his unprotected wife and child. Turning the boat towards the shore, he ran it on the beach, and, leaving it with all the sails standing, he rushed into the square of the fort, forcing his way through the crush of natives, whose vociferous talking rendered what they said, for a time, unintelligible. At length Moses forced his way through the crowd, followed by one of the natives, who led a large dog by a line fastened round its neck.

"What's the matter, Moses? what's wrong?" cried Stanley.

"Oh, not'ing at all," replied Moses, casting a look of pity at his countrymen. "Dem are great gooses. Die man here wid de dog, him say dat de child'n was play in de square of dis fort, an' one o' dem trow stone and broke a window. It was de son ob dis man what do it, an' him say he most awful sorry -- an' all de people sorry, so dey bring de dog to pay for de broken window."

"I'm glad it's nothing worse," cried Stanley, much relieved. "Tell them I'm happy to find they are sorry, and I hope they will keep the children out of the square in future; but I don't want the dog. It was an accident, and not worth making such a noise about."

The Esquimaux, however, would not agree to look upon this accident as a light matter. They said truly, that glass was not to be got so easily as the ice-blocks with which they formed windows to their own winter houses, so they insisted on the dog being accepted; and at length Stanley gave in, but took care that the native who gave it should not be a loser in consequence of his honesty. Moreover, Stanley begged of them to send up several of their best dogs, saying that he would purchase them, as he was in want of a team for hauling the winter firewood.

Next day, while Stanley was engaged in the trading store with a party of Esquimaux, he was surprised by hearing a volley of musketry fired at the back of the fort. Snatching up a loaded gun as he ran hastily out, he found that the shots had been fired by a band of Indians as a salute to the fort on their arrival.

This was the first time that Indians had made their appearance since the arrival of the fur-traders; and their advent at the present time was most fortunate, as it afforded Stanley an opportunity of commencing his negotiations as peacemaker in the presence of a considerable band of both parties. The Indians, fifteen in number, were all clothed, with the exception of their chief, in deerskin hunting shirts, ornamented moccasins of the same material, and cloth leggings. They wore no head-dress, but their long, straight, black hair was decorated with feathers and small metallic ornaments, among which were several silver thimbles. Their powder-horns and shot-pouches were gaily ornamented with bead and quill work; and they were all armed with long guns, on which they leaned as they stood silently, in a picturesque group, on the flat, rocky platform above the spring, which has been more than once alluded to.

This platform overlooked the fort, and was a favourite promenade of the traders. At present it formed a sort of neutral ground, on which the Indians took their stand. The red men were overawed by the very superior number of the Esquimaux, and felt that they were safe only so long as they stood on the flat rock, which was the only path leading to the ravine, through which, if need be, they could easily escape into the mountains.

The chief of the Indians, unlike his fellows, was dressed in a costume of the most grotesque and brilliant character, and, certainly, one which, however much it might raise the admiration of his savage companions, did not add to his dignity in the eyes of the traders. He wore a long, bright scarlet coat, richly embroidered with gold lace, with large cuffs, and gilt buttons; a pair of blue cloth trousers, and a vest of the same material; a broad worsted sash, and a hat in the form of the ordinary beaver or silk hat of Europe. The material, however, was very coarse; but this was made up for by the silver, and gilt cords, and tassels with which it was profusely decorated. He evidently felt his own importance, and stood with a calm, dignified gaze, waiting to be addressed.

Hailing Ma-istequan, who leaned on the axe with which he had been cutting firewood when the volley of the Indians arrested him, Stanley bade him invite them to enter the fort.

"We cannot come down," replied the chief, after Ma-istequan had given the invitation. "The Eskimos are in numbers like the stars; we are few. If the pale-faces are our friends, let them come up here and take us by the hand and bring us down."

"Very reasonable," said Stanley to Frank, who stood beside him; "we must take care that the Esquimaux do not take advantage of their numbers to avenge their ancient wrongs."

Then, turning to the natives, who had now crowded in large numbers into the fort, Stanley addressed them in a serious tone; told them that the time had now come when he hoped to reconcile the Innuit and the Allat [Esquimau name for Indians] together; and that he expected they would show their gratitude for his many kindnesses to them by treating the Indians, who were his friends, with hospitality. The Esquimaux promised obedience, after which Stanley ascended to the promenade, and taking the Indian chief by the hand, led him towards the fort, followed by the whole band in single file.

It is not necessary to detail the speeches that followed on both sides on this occasion, and the eloquence that was expended that evening in the cause of peace. Suffice it to say that the Indians and Esquimaux shook hands and exchanged gifts in the presence of the assembled garrison of Fort Chimo. But although the traders had reason to congratulate themselves on having so far succeeded in the establishment of peace, they could not conceal from themselves the fact that while, on the one hand, the Esquimaux appeared to be perfectly sincere and cordial in their professions, on the other hand the Indians evinced a good deal of taciturnity at first, and even after their reserve was overcome, seemed to act as men do who are constrained to the performance of a distasteful action.

In general character, the Indians of Labrador do not contrast well with the Esquimaux -- at least this may with truth be said of those who afterwards became attached to the district of Ungava. The Indian is reserved and taciturn, while the Esquimau is candid, frank, and communicative. Of course there are exceptions on both sides.

On the evening of the same day, Stanley had much difficulty in overcoming the reserve of the Indians, so as to procure information regarding the interior; and it was not until their hearts were opened by the influence of tobacco, that they condescended to give the required information. This was to the effect that there were not many fur-bearing animals in the immediate vicinity of Ungava, but that there were a good many in the wooded country lying to the southward and eastward. Here, however, the Indians do not care to hunt, preferring rather to keep to the heights of land, and near the coast, where the deer are numerous. In fact, Stanley afterwards found that the facility with which the Indians procured deer in this part of the country was a serious drawback to the fur trade, as they contented themselves with trapping just enough of otters, foxes, etcetera, to enable them to procure a supply of ammunition with which to hunt the deer.

The Indians had brought a few beaver and other furs to trade, and, after receiving a good meal and a few presents, they took up their quarters on a plot of ground close to the fort. Here they lived a short time in perfect friendship with the Esquimaux, visiting them, and hunting in company; but more than once they exhibited their natural disposition by stealing the goods of their neighbours. On one occasion, two Esquimau children were missed from the camp, and in the course of the day they returned to their parents clothed in Indian costume! This was a very polite piece of attention on the part of the Indians, but the effect of it was much marred, the same day, by the abstraction of a knife from an Esquimau tent. Stanley insisted on the article being restored, and severely reprimanded the offender. But, although the general harmony of the camp was sometimes broken by such events, the friendship between the two parties seemed to be gradually increasing, and Stanley saw with satisfaction that the Allat and the Innuit bade fair to become fast friends for the future.

But an event occurred at this time which put an end to their intercourse, and very much altered the aspect of affairs. For some time past the men at the fort had been subject to rather severe attacks of cold, or a species of influenza. This they unfortunately communicated to the Esquimaux, who seemed to be peculiarly susceptible of the disease. Being very fat and full-blooded, it had the most dreadful effect on the poor creatures, and at a certain stage almost choked them. At last one night it was reported that ten of their number had died from absolute suffocation. All of these had been strong and robust, and they died after two days' illness.

One of those who were attacked was Edith's little friend, Arnalooa, and just before the ten Esquimaux died, Edith had gone down to the camp with a present of beads to console her. She found her much better, and, after talking to her for some time, she took her leave, promising to pay her another visit next day. True to her promise, Edith sallied forth after breakfast with a little native basket on her arm. About half an hour afterwards, while Stanley was sitting in the hall with his wife and Frank, they were startled by the sudden appearance of Edith, out of breath from the speed with which she had run home, and her face overspread with a deadly paleness.

"What is the matter, my darling?" cried her mother, starting up in alarm.

"Oh! the Esquimaux are lying dead on the sand," gasped Edith, as she laid her head on her mother's breast, "and the rest are all gone."

Without waiting to hear more, Frank and Stanley took down their guns and hastened to the camp. Here a scene of the most horrible kind presented itself. The whole camp exhibited evidences of a hasty flight, and eight of the people who had died during the night were lying exposed on the rocks, with their white faces and ghastly eyeballs turned towards the sky. The other two had been buried on the rocks under a heap of stones, which did not conceal them entirely from view.

"No wonder poor Edith was alarmed," said Stanley sadly, as he leaned on his fowling-piece and surveyed the scene of desolation and death.

"I have been told," remarked Frank, "that the Esquimaux have a superstitious dread of this river. Oolibuck mentioned to me this morning that he has had a good deal of conversation with the natives about this disease, and they told him that it invariably attacks them when they enter this river, and carries them off by dozens; so that they never come into it except when they require wood, and always stay as short a time as possible."

"Ah! that's bad," said Stanley; "I fear that it will go much against the success of the establishment. But we must hope better things; and, truly, with this exception, all has gone well hitherto. Said they anything more, Frank?"

"Yes; they hinted, it seems, their intention of flying away from this fatal spot, and taking up their abode for the winter at the mouth of False River, where they can obtain a livelihood by seal-fishing; but Oolibuck thought they did not mean to put the threat in execution, and did not imagine that they were in such alarm that they would go off without burying their dead."

"We must do that for them, Frank," said Stanley, turning to retrace his steps to the fort; "send down as many of the men as you can spare to-day, and get it done at once."

"By the way," said Frank, as they walked along the beach, "it seems that many years ago the Moravian missionaries came to the mouth of this river, and talked of setting up a trading-fort here; but, from some cause unknown, they gave up their design and went away. Maximus has been telling me all he knows about the matter; but his reports are vague, and the event must have occurred, if it occurred at all, when he was a child."

"Very possibly, Frank. You know the Moravians have settlements along the coasts of Labrador, to the eastward of this. They may have made an attempt long ago to push as far as this. I have always had a high opinion of the energy and perseverance of these missionaries, but I cannot get over the incongruity of their strange way of mingling trade with religion. It seems to me an unnatural sort of thing for missionaries to be fur-traders. I do not mean by this to object to their system, however; I daresay it works well, but I've had no means of judging."

"It is strange," replied Frank; "yet it seems a good plan. The missionaries trade there in order that they may live and preach. 'Twould be a good thing for the Indian country if the same principles and practice actuated the traders; with this difference, that instead of missionaries becoming fur-traders, the fur-traders would become missionaries. It does seem a species of infatuation," continued Frank, energetically, as he warmed with the subject, "that men, calling themselves Christians, should live for years and years among the poor Indians of America and never once name to them the great and saving name of Christ. Of course I do not wonder at those who make little or no profession of Christianity; but there are men in the fur-trade who seem to be deeply impressed with the truths of God's Word -- who are alive to the fact that there is no name under heaven given among men whereby we can be saved except the name of Christ -- who know and feel that the Indians around them are living without God, and therefore without hope in the world -- who feel that Christ is all in all, and that the Christian religion, however perfect and beautiful as a code of morals, is utterly worthless as to salvation unless there be in the heart the special love of Jesus Christ; -- men who admit and profess to believe all this, yet never speak of Christ to the natives -- never mention the name that can alone save them from eternal destruction."

"Be not hasty, Frank," replied Stanley. "I agree with you, that it is strange indeed we do not see and hear more of this missionary spirit among the traders, and I, for one, take your words as a deserved rebuke to myself; but if there are, as you say, many among us who are deeply impressed with the truths of God's Word, how know you that we never mention our Saviour's name to the Indians? Although fur-traders do not mount the pulpit, they may, in private, make mention of that name, and do an amount of good that will only be fully known when the trader, the trapper, and the Indian shall stand side by side before the judgment-seat of Christ. Observe, I do not say that this is actually the case; I only suggest that it is possible -- may I not add, probable?"

"It may be so," returned Frank, "it may be so, and God forgive me if I have judged the men of the fur-trade unjustly; but I certainly know one who has made somewhat of a profession of Christianity in his day, and yet has done next to nothing, and that one is Frank Morton."

"I'll not gainsay that, Frank," said Stanley, with a quiet smile; "and I think we are not likely to err much when we apply censure to ourselves. It is curious that you and I should have been thinking of the very same subject. A few days ago, while my wife and I were conversing together about the Esquimaux, we agreed to devote a good deal of our leisure time next winter to reading and explaining the Bible to our Esquimau interpreters, in the hope that they may afterwards be the means of much good among their poor countrymen."

Whether or not the good resolutions made at this time were ever put in practice we cannot say. Let us hope that they were.

Not long after the sudden flight of the Esquimaux, the Indians struck their tents and took their departure for the interior, with the intention, as they said, of hunting for furs, but more probably, as Ma-istequan suggested, to hunt the deer. During all the time of their residence at the fort, Maximus had kept out of their way as much as possible. He seldom met them without a frown of hatred, for he regarded them as the representatives of a race which had robbed him of his bride; and there were times when the giant's spirit chafed so fearfully at the sight of the red men, that nothing but the remembrance of his promise to Stanley, to offer them no injury, prevented him from stirring up his tribe to overwhelm and destroy them. It was, therefore, with a feeling of relief that Maximus beheld them march single file over the rocky platform, and disappear in the ravine that led into the mountains.

The traders of Ungava were once more left in solitude, and from this time forward, until the winter set in, they devoted all their energies to laying up a stock of provisions sufficient to last till spring.

Dick Prince and Massan were sent after the deer in company. Augustus and Bryan were dispatched to a small lake to establish a fishery; in which they were very successful, and soon caught a large supply of excellent white-fish, trout, and carp, which they gutted and hung up by their tails to dry and freeze. Frank and Moses went to another small lake, about ten miles down the river, and built a hut of willows, in which they dwelt while engaged at the fishery. As there was still much to be done in the way of completing the fort, and making furniture, Stanley retained La Roche, Oolibuck, and the two Indians to assist him in this, as well as in the performance of the miscellaneous minor duties about the station, such as cutting up firewood, covering the roofs of the stores with tarpaulin, shooting such birds and animals as came near the fort, constructing rude chairs and tables, cooking, etcetera, etcetera; while Francois and Gaspard were sent up the river to fell trees, for the purposes both of building and firewood. Edith and her mother found ample occupation -- the latter in the use of her needle and the cares of the household; the former in learning her lessons, visiting her berry-ravine, dressing her doll (for she had a doll, as a matter of course), and in holding long and frequent converse with Chimo.

Thus they spent their time; too busily occupied to take much note of its rapid flight, and scarce noticing the lengthening nights and shortening days, until needles of ice began with slow and silent progress to shoot across and solidify the waters of the bay.



Chapter Twenty Four.

Effect Of Snow On The Feelings, Not To Mention The Landscape -- A Wonderful Dome Of Ice.

There are times and seasons, in this peculiar world of ours, when the heart of man rejoices. The rejoicing to which we refer is not of the ordinary kind. It is peculiar; and, whether its duration be long or short, its effect powerful or slight, it is quite distinct and emphatic. We do not intend to enter into a detail of the occasions that call forth this feeling of exultation. Far be it from us to venture into such perilous depths of philosophy. Our sole reason for making these preliminary observations is, that we may, with proper emphasis, introduce the statement, that one of these occasions of rejoicing is, when man arises from his couch, on a brilliant, sunny, sparkling morning, gazes forth from his window, and beholds the landscape -- which yesterday was green, and red, and brown, and blue -- clad in a soft mantle of whitest snow!

What! you don't agree with us? You shudder at the preposterous idea of such a sight being fitted to rejoice the heart of man in any degree whatever? Well, well; do not sneer at our weakness. If we cannot sympathise with each other on this subject, perchance there are other things in which we can. But whatever be our opinion in regard to this, the point that we have to deal with at present is, the opinion of Edith Stanley, who, on rising hastily one morning, and looking forth from her little window, evinced the rejoicing of her heart most emphatically, by her loud exclamation of delight and the sparkling of her bright blue eyes.

Independently of the cheerful lightness and the virgin purity of the mantle, which in itself tended to awaken emotions of gladness in Edith's heart, there was something in its sudden appearance that carried her back violently and vividly to bygone days. The winter garb had no associations, yet, with Ungava; but it had with Moose Fort, and the dear companions she used to play with there. It recalled the time when she and her little friends sallied forth, each with her small wooden sledge drawn after her by a line, to slide thereon down the banks of the frozen river with headlong speed, and upset at the bottom amid shouts of laughter. It recalled the time when she made the first attempt to walk in snow-shoes, upon which occasion she tripped and fell into the snow, as a matter of course, and was advised to wait till she was older. It recalled the memory of her father's team of dogs, and the delightful drives she used to have over the frozen river; which drives often resulted in an upset, perhaps several, and always resulted in fun. It recalled the house in the old fort that used to be her home; the row of houses belonging to the men, to which she often went, and was always welcomed as a great favourite; the water-hole on the river from which the old Canadian drew his daily supply; and the snow-house in the yard which she built in company with Frank Morton, and which stood the whole winter through, but gave way at last before the blazing sun of spring, and fell -- as ill luck would have it -- when she and Chimo were sitting there, so that she and the dog together had a hard struggle ere they got free. All these, and many more thick-coming memories of other days, were aroused by the vision of snow that met Edith's gaze that morning, and caused her heart with peculiar fervour to rejoice.

Winter had now descended with iron grasp upon Ungava. For some weeks the frost had been so intense that every lake and pool was frozen many inches thick, and the salt bay itself was fringed with a thick and ever-accumulating mass of ice. The snow which now fell was but the ceremonial coronation of a king whose reign had commenced in reality long before.

But the sunshine did not last long. The rolling fogs and vapours of the open and ice-laden sea beyond ascended over the wild mountains, obscured the bright sky, and revealed the winter of the north in all its stern, cold reality. Every cliff and crag and jagged peak had its crown of snow, and every corrie, glen, and gorge its drifted shroud. In places where the precipices were perpendicular, the grey rocks of the mountains formed dark blotches in the picture; but, dark although they were, they did not equal in blackness the river, on which floated hundreds of masses of ice and several ponderous icebergs, which had been carried up from the sea by the flood-tide. Over this inky expanse the frost-smoke hung like a leaden pall -- an evil spirit, as it were, which never left the spot till protracted and intense frost closed the waters of the river altogether, and banished it farther out to sea. But this entire closing of the river very seldom happened, and never lasted long.

Fort Chimo itself, at least as much of it as remained unburied, was a mere speck on the edge of the white plain at the mountain's foot, scarce distinguishable, at a short distance, from the straggling black pines and willow bushes that seemed thrust out into the waste from the ravines above and below the fort. But on a nearer approach, the fort assumed an air of greater importance; the influences, too, of the cold, cheerless scene we have described, were broken and dissipated by the sights of comfort and sounds of cheerfulness within. The shout of the water-drawer, as he roused the dogs and went forth with his empty cask, hauled on a little sledge, to draw from the bubbling spring behind the fort; the sounds of the hammer, the chisel, and the axe, in the carpenter's shop; the merry clank of Bryan's hammer, and the bright flame that gleamed from the window of the forge, -- all bore evidence of the fact, that however powerful the influence of winter might be without, it had little power within the wooden walls of Fort Chimo, and could not check the life, or heart, or industry of man.

The only other human being visible in the open air, besides the water-drawer, was La Roche, who, with a fur cap covering his head and ears, and leathern mittens on his hands, hewed and hacked the billets with which he purposed to replenish the fire for cooking the mid-day meal.

Pausing in his labour, and dusting off the hoar-frost that covered his eyebrows and whiskers, he looked at the edge of his hatchet for a few seconds with an expression of contempt. Then, throwing the implement on his shoulder, he crossed the yard and entered the blacksmith's shop.

"Bryan," said he, seating himself on the edge of the forge and filling his pipe, while Vulcan's votary scattered a shower of gems from a white-hot bar of iron at every blow of his hammer -- "Bryan, you no fit for not'ing. Dat axe is blont encore. Oui, c'est vrai. Now dat is tres mal. How you not can temper him edge better?"

"Timper it better, is it?" answered Bryan, putting the iron bar in the fire, and regarding his companion earnestly while he blew the bellows. "Faix, 'tis mysilf I'd need to timper better, in order to put up wi' the likes o' you, ye wretched crature. How can ye expict it to kape its idge when ye lave it for iver lyin' among yer pots and kittles?"

"Dat is not it," replied La Roche, applying a glowing coal to his pipe. "'Tis de mauvais steel. But I not com for to fight wid you. Your tongue trop long pour dat. I com for ax you to give me turn ov de grindstone, s'il vous plait."

"Ye don't desarve it, Losh; but wait till I've finished this job and I'll lind ye a hand."

"Be-the-bye," resumed Bryan, when the metal was cooled, "has Francois finished that sled for Miss Edith?"

"Oui," replied La Roche, seating himself at the grindstone. "(Ah! pas si vite, a leet more slow, Bryan.) Oui, him make it all ready; only want de ring-bolts."

"Thin it won't want thim long. Ye can take thim over to the shop when ye go across. There they are on the binch."

Bryan continued to turn the handle of the stone for some time in silence.

"D'ye know, Losh," he resumed, "whin Mister Frank is goin' to the fishery?"

"He go demain, I b'lieve, and Mademoiselle Edith go too."

"None o' the min goin'?" inquired the blacksmith.

"Non. Monsieur Frank just go for to try if dere be any fish to be cotch by de hook; and I t'ink he go more for to give Edith one drive dan dat."

"Very likely, Losh. The poor purty little crature. She's very fond o' sledgin' and walkin' in snow-shoes. 'Tis well for her, bekase there's a want o' companions for her here intirely."

"Ah! mercy, dat is superb, magnifique!" said the Frenchman, feeling the edge of the axe with his thumb. "It sharp 'nuff to shave de hair off your ogly face, Bryan."

"Thin be off wid ye, an' don't kape me longer from my work. An' shut the door quick behind ye; there's cowld enough in the place already."

So saying, Bryan resumed his hammer, and La Roche, following the snow-track across the yard, recommenced his labour of chopping firewood.

Next day, Frank and Edith made preparations for the excursion alluded to in the foregoing conversation.

The object for which this excursion was undertaken was twofold -- first, to ascertain if there were any fish in a large lake about ten miles distant from the fort; and, secondly, to give little Edith a drive for the good of her health. Not that her health was bad, but several weeks of bad weather had confined her much to the house, and her mother thought the change would be beneficial and agreeable; and tenderly did that mother's heart yearn over her little child, for she felt that, although she was all to Edith that a mother could be, nature had implanted in her daughter's mind a longing desire for the companionship of little ones of her own age, which could not be satisfied by any substitute -- not even that of a tender mother, who sought, by all the means in her power, to become a child again for Edith's sake.

Immediately after breakfast that day Frank took Edith by the hand, and led her round by the back of the fort, towards the kennel where the dogs were kept, intending to release Chimo, who was to have the honour of hauling the sledge of his young mistress. In passing the spring, Edith paused, as she had often done before during the winter, to gaze with wonder on the transformation that had taken place in the appearance of the once green and fertile spot. Not only was it covered with deep snow, but over the spring there was formed a singular dome of ice. This dome was a subject of continual astonishment to every one at Ungava. It had commenced to rise soon after the first hard frosts had sealed up the little fountain from the open air. As time passed by, the covering became thick ice, and was bulged gradually up above the surrounding waste, until it reached an elevation of not much less than twelve or thirteen feet. Inside of this the spring bubbled up as of yore.

"What think you, Edith?" said Frank, as a sudden thought occurred to him; "shall I cut a doorway into that crystal house, and see if the spirit of the spring dwells there?"

Edith clapped her hands with delight at the idea, and urged her companion to begin at once. Then, checking him as he was about to commence the work with his hatchet, she said earnestly -- 

"Do spirits really dwell in the springs, Frank?"

"Why, Eda, we must send to England for a lot of fairy tales to teach you what I mean. I do but jest when I speak of spirits living there. But many books, have been written about pretended spirits and fairies, which tell us of their wonderful adventures, and what they said and did long ago. I shall tell you some of these stories one of these days. But I daresay there are no spirits in this spring."

"Faix, an' it would be a rale misfortune if there was, sir," remarked Bryan, who came up at this moment, and touched his cap; "for it would be only sperits and wather, which wouldn't kape in this cowld climate. I've finished the ring-bolts for the sled, sir, an' came to see when ye would have them fixed."

"Put them in your pocket, Bryan, for a few minutes, and lend a hand here to cut a hole through this dome."

As Frank spoke, he drew a small axe from his belt, and began to lay about him so vigorously that the icy splinters flew in all directions like a shower of broken crystal. Bryan seconded his efforts, and in less than half an hour a block of solid ice, about four feet high and two broad, was cut out and detached from the side of the dome.

"That'll do, Bryan," said Frank, when their work was nearly completed; "I'll finish it myself now. Go to the carpenter's house, and Francois will show you what to do with the sled."

As Bryan walked away, Frank dealt the mass of ice a blow that split it into several pieces, which he quickly removed, revealing to the astonished and eager gaze of his young companion a cavern of a most beautiful light blue colour. Taking Edith by the hand, he led her into this icy cave. Its walls were quite luminous and delicately blue, except in places where the green moss and earth around the spring had been torn from the ground and lifted up along with the dome. Icicles hung in various places from the roof, and the floor was hard and dry, except in the centre, where the spring bubbled up through it, and cut a channel across towards one side of the icy wall, where it disappeared under the snow.

"Oh, what a beautiful palace!" cried Edith, with delight, after she had gazed around her for a few minutes in silent wonder and admiration. "I shall come and live here, Frank. Oh! do come, and let us get chairs and a small table, and make it our sitting-room. We can come every day when the sun shines and read, or you can tell me the tales about spirits and fairies you spoke of!"

"A good idea, Eda; but I fear we would need a stove to keep us warm. It strikes me it will make a capital ice-house in spring to keep our fresh meat in. It will last long after the snow is melted."

"Then we shall make a palace of it in winter and a meat-store in spring," cried Edith, laughing, as she walked round this newly-discovered house, examining its blue walls and peeping into the cold black spring. Meanwhile Frank examined it with a view to the utilitarian purpose, and, after both of them had gone round it several times, they continued on their way towards the dog-kennel.

The sledge which Francois had constructed for Edith was made after the model of those used by the Esquimaux. There were two stout runners, or skates, made of wood, for sliding over the snow. These were slightly turned up, or rather rounded up, in front, and attached to each other by means of cross bars and thin planks of wood; all of which were fastened, not by nails (for iron-work snaps like glass in such a cold climate as that of Ungava), but by thongs of undressed sealskin, which, although they held the fabric very loosely together in appearance, were, nevertheless, remarkably strong, and served their purpose very well. Two short upright bars behind served as a back to lean against. But the most curious part of the machine was the substance with which the runners were shod, in order to preserve them. This was a preparation of mud and water, which was plastered smoothly on in a soft condition, and then allowed to freeze. This it did in a few minutes after being exposed to the open air, and thus became a smooth, hard sheathing, which was much more durable and less liable to break than iron, or indeed any other sheathing that could be devised. This substance is, of course, easily repaired, and is always used by the Esquimaux in winter.

Esquimau sledges being heavy, and meant for carrying a number of people, require large teams of dogs. But Edith's sledge -- or sled, as the men called it -- was little. Moreover, Edith herself was little and light, therefore Chimo was deemed sufficiently powerful to draw it. So thoroughly correct were they in this supposition, that when Edith was seated in her sledge for a trial trip, and Chimo harnessed, he ran away with her and gave Frank a chase of half a mile over the river ere he condescended to stop in his wild career.

But the intended excursion was suddenly interrupted and postponed, by an event which we shall relate in the next chapter.



Chapter Twenty Five.

Buried Alive -- But Not Killed -- The Giant In The Snow-Storm.

The event which prevented the excursion referred to in the last chapter was neither more nor less than a snowstorm. "Was that all?" say you, reader? Nay, that was not all. Independently of the fact that it was a snowstorm the like of which you have never seen, unless you have travelled in northern climes, it was a snow-storm that produced results. Of these, more hereafter.

The storm began with a sigh -- a mysterious sigh, that swept over the mountains of Ungava with a soft, mournful wail, and died slowly away in the distant glen of the Caniapuscaw, as if the spirit of the north wind grieved to think of the withering desolation it was about to launch upon the land.

The gathering clouds that preceded and accompanied this sigh induced Frank Morton to countermand his orders for the intended journey. In order to console Edith for the disappointment, he went with her into the hall, and, drawing a low stool towards the blazing stove, placed a draught-board upon it. Then he placed another and a lower stool beside the first, on which he seated Edith. Spreading a deerskin robe upon the ground, he stretched himself thereon at full length, and began to arrange the men.

The hall, which was formerly such a comfortless apartment, was now invested with that degree of comfort which always gathers, more or less, round a place that is continually occupied. The ceiling was composed of a carpet of deerskin stretched tightly upon the beams. The walls were hung all round with the thick heavy coats and robes of leather and fur belonging to the inmates, and without which they never ventured abroad. The iron stove in the centre of the apartment, with its pipe to conduct away the smoke, and its radiant fire of logs, emitted a cheerful glow in its immediate vicinity; which glow, however, was not intense enough to melt the thick ice, or rather hoar-frost, an inch deep, with which the two windows were encrusted, to the almost total exclusion of the view and the serious diminution of the light. The door was padded all round its edges with fur, which tended to check the bitter wind that often blew against it, and tempered the slight draught that did force its way through. Altogether the hall at Fort Chimo was curious and comfortable -- rather shaggy in its general appearance, but sound and trustworthy at bottom.

A small rough table, the work of Frank Morton, stood close to the stove; and beside it was seated Mrs Stanley, with a soft yellow deerskin before her, which she was carefully transforming into a hunting coat for her husband. On another and a larger table was spread the tea equipage. Those who would understand this aright must for tea read supper. Among fur-traders the two are combined. Candles -- dips made at the fort -- had been brought some time ago by La Roche, who entered the hall by a back door which communicated with a passage leading to the kitchen behind.

"What can have become of papa, I wonder?" Mrs Stanley designated her husband by this epithet, in consequence of her desire to keep up the fiction of her being Edith's little sister or playfellow.

Frank looked up from the board. "I know not," said he. "I left him giving some orders to the men. We have been getting things made snug about the fort, for we expect a pretty stiff breeze to-night. -- Take care, Eda; your crown's in danger."

"Oh! so it is," cried Edith, snatching back her piece, and looking with intense earnestness at the board.

Frank might have observed, had he not been too deeply engaged with his game, that the expected stiff breeze had already come, and was whistling round the fort with considerable vigour.

"You'll beat me, Eda, if you play so boldly," said Frank, with a smile. "There, give me another crown."

"And me too," said Edith, pushing up her piece. As she spoke, the door burst open, and Stanley sprang into the room.

"Whew! what a night!" he cried, shutting the door with a forcible bang, in order to keep out the snow-drift that sought to enter along with him.

Two moves would have made Frank the conqueror, but the gust of wind upset the board, and scattered the men upon the floor.

Stanley looked like a man of white marble, but the removal of his cap, coat, and leggings produced a speedy and entire metamorphosis.

"Ho! La Roche!"

"Oui, monsieur."

"Here, take my coat and shake the snow off it, and let's have supper as speedily as may be. The draughts without, Frank, are a little too powerful for the draughts within, I fear. -- What, wife, making another coat? One would think you had vowed to show your affection for me by the number of coats you made. How many have you perpetrated since we were married?"

"Never mind; go and put on one now, and come to supper while it is hot."

"I'm glad it is hot," cried Stanley from his bedroom. "One needs unusual heat within to make up for the cold without. The thermometer is thirty below."

While the party in the hall were enjoying their evening meal, the men were similarly employed beside the stove in their own habitation. There was not much difference in the two apartments, save that the confusion in that of the men was much greater, in consequence of the miscellaneous mass of capotes, caps, belts, discarded moccasins, axes, guns, and seal-spears, with which they saw fit to garnish the walls. The fumes of tobacco were also more dense, and the conversation more uproarious.

"'Tis a howlin' night," observed Massan, as a gust of more than usual violence shook the door on its hinges.

"Me t'ink de snow-drift am as t'ick in de sky as on de ground," said Oolibuck, drawing a live coal from the fire and lighting his pipe therewith.

"Hould on, boys!" cried Bryan, seizing his chair with both hands, half in jest and half in earnest, as another blast shook the building to its foundation.

The two Indians sat like statues of bronze, smoking their calumets in silence, while Gaspard and Prince rose and went to the window. But the frozen moisture on the panes effectually prevented their seeing out.

It was indeed an awful night -- such a night as had not, until now, visited the precincts of Fort Chimo. Viewed from the rocky platform on the hill, the raging of the storm was absolutely sublime. The wind came sometimes in short, angry gusts, sometimes in prolonged roars, through the narrows, sweeping up clouds of snow so dense that it seemed as though the entire mass had been uplifted from the earth, hurling it upwards and downwards and in circling eddies, past the ravines, and round the fort, and launching it with a fierce yell into the valley of the Caniapuscaw. The sky was not altogether covered with clouds, and the broken masses, as they rolled along, permitted a stray moonbeam to dart down upon the turmoil beneath, and render darkness visible. Sometimes the wind lulled for a second or two, as if to breathe; then it burst forth again, splitting through the mountain gorges with a shriek of intensity; the columns of snow sprang in thousands from every hollow, cliff and glen, mingled in wild confusion, swayed, now hither, now thither, in mad uncertainty, and then, caught by the steady gale, pelted on, like the charging troops of ice-land, and swept across the frozen plain.

Could human beings face so wild a storm as this? Ay, they could -- at least they could dare to try!

There was one traveller out upon the hills on that tremendous night. The giant was in the midst of it; but weak as the bulrush were the mighty limbs of Maximus before the rushing gale. Several days previous to this the Esquimau had been sent down to his brethren at False River, to procure some seal-meat for the dogs, and to ascertain the condition of the natives and their success in fishing. On arriving, he found that they had been so far successful, that starvation (their too frequent guest) had not yet visited their dwellings of snow. But Maximus found the old woman who had formerly saved his life very ill, and apparently about to die. Having learned from experience the efficacy of Stanley's medicines, he resolved to procure some for the old woman, whom he had tenderly watched over and hunted for ever since the eventful day of the attack. His dogs were exhausted, and could not return. But the bold Esquimau was in the prime of life, and animated by the fire of vigorous youth. The storm was beginning to mutter in the distance. What then? --  Had he not faced the blasts of the frozen regions many a time before? --  Without saying a word, he threw a junk of seal-flesh into his wallet, and, striding back upon his track at the mountain's base, he disappeared in the driving snow.

Before reaching the fort, however, the full fury of the storm had burst upon him. It cast him headlong into the snow; but he rose and staggered on. Again it burst forth, and again he fell before it like a stately pine. Rising to his knees, Maximus draw the hood of his hairy garment close round his head and face, and tried to peer through the driving snow; but he could not see until a slight lull came; then he observed a hummock of ice at a short distance, and, rising, made towards it. The lulls were short-lived, however. The storm threw him down again; instantly he was drifted over with snow; another blast came, lifted the drift into the air, and left the Esquimau exposed to all its fury. But Maximus was not conquered. He rose again, panting, it is true, but sturdy as ever, and ready to take advantage of the next lull. It came soon; and he saw a rock, or, it might be, the base of a cliff close at hand. With a quick run he reached it; and, going down on his knees, began with his gloved hands to scrape a hollow in the snow. Having made a hole big enough to contain his body, he lay down in it, and, pulling the superincumbent snow down upon him, was almost buried in the ruin. Scarcely had he drawn the hood of his coat well over his face, when another burst of the storm dashed a column of curling drift upon the rock, and the place where he lay was covered up; not a wrinkle in the drift remained to mark the spot where he was buried!

All that night the storm roared among mountains with bitter fury; but next day the wind was subdued, and the sun shone brightly on the grey rocks and on the white wreaths of snow. It shone in all the lustre of an unclouded winter sky. Not only did the sun smile upon the scene, but two mock suns or parhelia, almost as bright as himself, shone on either side of him. Yet no ray of light illuminated the dwellings of the fur-traders. All was darkness there, until Stanley rose from his couch and lighted a candle, for the purpose of examining his watch.

"Hallo! Frank, Frank!" he cried, entering the hall, while he hastily threw on his garments; "turn out, man; there's something wrong here. 'Tis past noon, and dark as midnight. Bring your watch; perhaps I'm wrong."

Frank yawned vociferously, and sprang from his bed. In two seconds more he made his appearance in his trousers and shirt.

"Past twelve, no doubt of -- yea-o-ow! That accounts for my waking three times and going off again; but -- "

"Hey! what have we here?" cried Stanley, as he opened the front door, and disclosed to view a solid wall of snow.

"Snowed up; dear me! eh! that's odd," said Frank, beginning to comprehend the state of matters.

Snowed up they were, undoubtedly; so thoroughly snowed up that there was not a ray of daylight within their dwelling. Had Frank been above the snow, instead of below it, he would have seen that the whole fort was so completely buried that nothing was visible above the surface except the chimneys and the flagstaff. After the first few moments of surprise had passed, it occurred to Stanley that they might ascend to the regions above by the chimney, which was wide enough, he thought, to admit a man; but on looking up, he found that it also was full of drifted snow. This, however, could have been easily removed; but there was a bar of iron stretching across, and built into the clay walls, which rendered escape by that passage impossible.

"There's nothing for it, Frank, but to dig ourselves out, so the sooner we begin the better."

By this time they were joined by Edith and her mother, who, although much surprised, were not at all alarmed; for rough travelling in a wild land had taught them to regard nothing as being dangerous until it was proved to be so. Besides, Stanley had assured them that they had nothing to fear, as the only evil he anticipated would be the trouble they were sure to have in getting rid of the superabundant snow. While they were talking, the back door was opened violently, and La Roche, in a state of dishabille, burst into the room.

"O messieurs, c'est fini! Oui, le world him shut up tout togedder. Oh, misere! Fat shall ye to do?"

"Hold your tongue, La Roche," said Frank, "and bring the kitchen shovel."

The cook instantly turned to obey, and as he rushed towards the kitchen his voice was heard exclaiming in the passage -- 

"Ah, c'est terrible! Mais I ver' moshe fear de shovel be out in de neige. Ah, non; here it is. C'est bien."

Returning in haste to the hall, he handed a much dilapidated iron shovel to Frank, who threw off his coat and set to work with vigour. The tables and chairs, and all the furniture, were removed into the inner apartments, in order to afford room for the snow which Frank dug from the open doorway and shovelled into the centre of the room. As only one at a time could work in the narrow doorway, the three men wrought with the shovel by turns; and while one was digging the tunnel, the other two piled the debris in a compact mound beside the stove. As no fire had yet been kindled, the snow, of course, did not melt, but remained crisp and dry upon the floor. Meanwhile Edith looked on with deep interest, and occasionally assisted in piling the snow; while her mother, seeing that her presence was unnecessary, retired to her own room.

"There," cried Frank, pausing and surveying an immense cavern which he had dug into the drift, "that's a good spell. Take a turn now, La Roche, and dig upwards; we should see daylight soon."

"Ah, vraiment, it be time, for it am von o'clock," replied La Roche, as he plied the shovel.

The tunnel was cut in such a way as that, while it ran outwards, it also sloped upwards; and, from the angle at which it lay, Stanley calculated that thirty feet or thereabouts would bring them to the surface. In this he was correct, for when La Roche had worked for half an hour, the snow above became slightly luminous. But the labour of conveying it from the end of the tunnel into the hall became, of course, greater as the work advanced. At length the light penetrated so clearly that La Roche was induced to thrust his shovel upwards, in the expectation of penetrating the mass. The effect of this action was striking and unexpected. Instantly the roof fell in, and a flood of sunshine poured into the tunnel, revealing the luckless Frenchman struggling amid the ruins.

"Oh, pull me hout!" he spluttered, as Frank and Stanley stood laughing heartily at his misfortune. One of his legs happened to protrude from the mass as he made this earnest request; so Frank seized it, and dragged the poor man by main force from his uncomfortable position. Immediately afterwards they all three scrambled through the aperture, and stood in open day.

The sight that met their eyes was a curious though not a satisfactory one. All that remained visible of Fort Chimo were, as we have said, the chimneys and the flagstaff. In regard to the general aspect of the neighbourhood, however, there was little alteration; for the change of position in the drifts among the mountain gorges, and the addition to their bulk, made no striking alteration in the rugged landscape. In some places the gale had cleared the sides of the mountains and left their cliffs exposed to view; in other spots the gorges and ravines were choked up, and the pine tops nearly covered; and the open water in the lake was more encumbered than usual with icebergs.

"Now, La Roche," said Stanley, after they had surveyed the desolate scene for a few minutes in silence, "go fetch the shovel and we'll dig out the men. I daresay, poor fellows, they're beginning to wonder at the length of the night by this time."

La Roche prepared to descend into the tunnel, when their attention was arrested by a strange sound beneath the snow. In a few minutes the crust began to crack at a spot not more than two yards from where they stood; then there was a sudden rupture, accompanied by a growl, and followed by the appearance of the dishevelled head and arms of a man.

"Musha, boys, but I'm out!" Bryan coughed the snow from around his mouth, and winked it from his eyes, as he spoke. The first sight that met his bewildered gaze was three pair of expanded eyeballs and three double rows of grinning teeth, a few feet from his face. Uttering a cry of terror, he fell back into the hole, the snow closed over him, and he was gone!

It need scarcely be added that Frank and Stanley commenced to dig into this hole with as much vigour as their frequent explosions of laughter would allow. In a few minutes it was re-opened, and the men issued one by one from durance vile.

"Och, sirs, ye gave me a mortial start!" exclaimed Bryan, as he rose to view the second time. "I thought for sartin ye were all polar bears. Faix we've had a job o't down there. I'll be bound to say there's twinty ton o' snow -- bad luck to it -- in the middle o' the floor."

"There's work for us here that'll last two weeks, I guess," said Massan, as he and several of the others stooped down and gazed into the tunnel leading to the hall, at the end of which Edith's laughing face met their view.

"When did you awake, and begin to suspect that something was wrong?" inquired Stanley of Dick Prince.

"Awake!" cried Bryan, answering the question; "we awoke at laste a dozen times. I suppose it must have bin the time for brikfust; for, ye see, although we could ha' slept on long enough; our intariors couldn't, be no manes, forgit their needcessities."

"We shall have to work a bit yet ere these necessities are attended to, I fear," said Stanley. "Go, Francois, and one or two of you, and open up the dog-kennel. The rest of you get all the shovels you can lay hands on, and clear out the houses as fast as you can."

"Clear out de chimbleys fust, mes garcons," cried La Roche, looking up from the tunnel. "Den ve vill git dejeuner ready toute suite."

"That will we, lad," said Bryan, shouldering a spade and proceeding towards the chimney of the hall; while the rest of the party, breaking up into several groups, set to work, with spades, shovels, and such implements as were suitable, to cut passages through the square of the fort towards the doors of the several buildings. As Massan had said, it proved to be no light work. The north-west gale had launched the snow upon the exposed buildings of Fort Chimo until the drift was fifteen or sixteen feet deep, so that the mere cutting of passages was a matter of considerable time and severe labour.

Meanwhile, Maximus awoke, and sought to raise himself from his lair at the foot of the rock. But his first effort failed. The drift above him was too heavy. Abandoning, therefore, the idea of freeing himself by main force, he turned round on his side and began to scrape away the snow that was directly above his head. The masses that accumulated in the course of this process he forced down past his chest; and, as his motions tended to compress and crush the drift around him in all directions, he soon made room enough to work with ease. In ten minutes he approached so near to the surface as to be able, with a powerful effort, to burst it upwards, and step out of his strange dormitory into the sunshine.

This method of spending the night has been resorted to more than once by arctic travellers who had lost their way; and it is sad to think that many who have perished might have saved their lives had they known that burrowing could be practised with safety. The Esquimaux frequently spend the night in this manner, but they prefer building a snow-house to burrowing, if circumstances will permit.

Cutting a slice of seal-meat, and eating as he went, Maximus resumed his journey, and soon afterwards arrived at the fort, where he found the men busied in excavating their buried dwellings.

Here he stated the case of the old woman, and received such medicines as Stanley, in his amateur medical wisdom, saw fit to bestow. With these he started immediately to retrace his steps, having been directed to proceed, after administering them, to the lake where Frank meant to try the fishing under the ice. A family of Esquimaux had been established on another lake not so far distant from the fort; and having been taught by the fur-traders how to set nets under the ice, they succeeded in procuring more than enough for their subsistence. It was hoped, therefore, that the larger lake would afford a good supply; and, the weather having become decidedly fine, Frank prepared to set out on the following day.



Chapter Twenty Six.

An Excursion -- Igloo Building, And Fishing Under The Ice -- A Snow-Table And A Good Feast -- Edith Spends The Night Under A Snow-Roof For The First But Not The Last Time.

"Now then, Edith," cried Frank, looking in at the door of the hall, "your carriage waits, and Chimo is very restive."

"Coming, coming," exclaimed a treble voice within; "I'm getting new lines put to my snow-shoes, and will be ready in two minutes."

Two minutes, translated into female language, means ten, sometimes twenty. Frank knew this, and proceeded to re-adjust the sash that secured his leathern capote, as he walked towards the little sledge in front of the fort. He then tied down the ear-pieces of his fur cap more carefully, for it was very cold, though clear and sunny. The frost had set fast the lake opposite the fort, and, by thus removing the frost-cloud that overhung the open water farther out to sea, relieved the fort from the mists in which it was usually enveloped. By this time fifteen out of the "two" minutes having elapsed, he re-examined the lock of his gun, and adjusted the warm deerskin robe on Edith's little sledge, patted Chimo on the head, looked up at the clouds, and began to whistle.

"Now, Frank, here I am," cried Edith, running towards him with her snow-shoes in her hand, followed by her father and mother.

"Quiet, Chimo -- down, sir!" said Frank, restraining the dog as it sought to bound towards its mistress. Being harnessed to the sledge, this was a very improper proceeding and was rebuked accordingly; so Chimo was fain to crouch on the snow and look back at Edith as Frank placed her in the sledge, and arranged the deerskin robes round her.

Edith wore a long fur cloak and cloth leggings. Her feet were protected from the cold by two pair of blanket socks, besides very thick moccasins of deerskin. The usual head-dress of civilised females in these regions is a round fur cap; but Edith had a peculiar affection for the Cree Indian headdress, and, upon the present occasion, wore one which was lined with fur and accommodated with ear-pieces, to defy the winter cold. The child's general appearance was somewhat rotund. Painters would probably have said there was a little too much breadth, perhaps, in the picture. Her pointed cap, however, with the little bow of ribbon on the top, gave her a piquant air, and did away with the heavy appearance of her costume to some extent; in fact, Edith looked like a fat little witch. But if she looked fat before being wrapped up in the sledge furs, she looked infinitely fatter when thus placed, and nothing of her visible except her two twinkling eyes. So grotesque was she that the whole party burst into a loud laugh as they surveyed her. The laugh made Chimo start off at full gallop, which caused Frank to grasp the line of the sledge that trailed behind, and hurry over the snow at a most undignified pace.

"Take care of her," cried Mr Stanley.

"Ay, ay," shouted Frank. -- "Softly, Chimo -- softly, you rascal!"

In ten minutes the travellers were round the point and fairly out of sight; but the shouts of Frank, and an occasional howl from Chimo, floated back on the breeze as Stanley and his wife returned leisurely to the hall.

The road, or rather the ground, over which Frank Morton drove Edith that day was exceedingly rough and rugged -- so rough that we will not try the endurance of the reader by dragging him over it. We will merely indicate its general features. First of all, they drove about three miles along the level snow at the foot of the mountains. So far the road was good; and Chimo went along merrily to the music of the little thimble-like brass bells with which his harness was garnished. Then they came to a ravine, and Edith had to get out, put on her snow-shoes, and clamber up, holding by Frank's hand; while Chimo followed, dragging the sledge as he best could. Having gained one of the terraces, Edith slipped her feet out of the snow-shoe lines, jumped into the sledge, and was swept along to the next ravine, where she got out again, resumed her snow-shoes, and ascended as before. Thus they went up the ravines and along the terraces until the summit of the first mountain range was reached. Having rested here a few minutes, Edith once more got into the sledge, and Chimo set off. But as there was now a long piece of level ground over which for some miles they could travel in the direction of the coast, Frank took the sled-line in his hand, and held the dog at a quick walking pace. Afterwards they turned a little farther inland, and came into a more broken country, where they had sometimes to mount and sometimes to descend the hills. There were many gorges and narrow fissures in the ground here, some of which were covered over and so concealed with snow that the travellers ran some risk of falling into them. Indeed, at one place, so narrow was their escape that Chimo fell through the crust of snow, and disappeared into a fissure which descended a hundred feet sheer down; and the sledge would certainly have followed had not Frank held it back by the line; and Chimo was not hauled up again without great difficulty. After this, Frank went in front with a pole, and sounded the snow in dangerous-looking places as he went along.

Towards the afternoon they arrived at the lake where they intended to encamp, and, to their great delight, found Maximus there already. He had only arrived a few minutes before them, and was just going to commence the erection of a snow-house.

"Glad to see you, Maximus," cried Frank, as he drove up. "How's the old woman, eh?"

"She small better," replied Maximus, assisting Edith to alight. "Dis goot for fish."

Maximus was a remarkably intelligent man, and, although his residence at the fort had been of short duration as yet, he had picked up a few words of English.

"A good lake, I have no doubt," replied Frank, looking round. "But we need not search for camping ground. There seems to be very little wood, so you may as well build our hut on the ice. We shall need all our time, as the sun has not long to run."

The lake, on the edge of which they stood, was about a mile in circumferenee, and lay in a sort of natural basin formed by savage-looking hills, in which the ravines were little more than narrow fissures, entirely devoid of trees. Snow encompassed and buried everything, so that nothing was to be seen except, here and there, crags and cliffs of gray rock, which were too precipitous for the snow to rest on.

"Now, Eda, I will take a look among these rocks for a ptarmigan for supper; so you can amuse yourself watching Maximus build our house till I return."

"Very well, Frank," said Edith; "but don't be long. Come back before dark; Chimo and I will weary for you."

In a few minutes Frank disappeared among the rocks upon the shore; and Maximus, taking Edith by the hand, and dragging her sledge after him, led her a couple of hundred yards out on to the ice, or, more properly speaking, the hard beaten snow with which the ice was covered. Chimo had been turned loose, and, being rather tired after his journey, had coiled himself up on a mound of snow and fallen fast asleep.

"Dis place for house," said Maximus, pausing near a smooth, level part of the lake. "You stop look to me," he added, turning to the little girl, who gazed up in his large face with an expression half of wonder and half of fun. "When you cold, run; when you hot, sit in sled and look at me."

In compliance with this request, Edith sat down in her sledge, and from this comfortable point of view watched the Esquimau while he built a snow-hut before her.

First of all, he drew out a long iron knife, which had been constructed specially far him by Bryan, who looked upon the giant with special favour. With the point of this he drew a circle of about seven feet in diameter; and so well accustomed was he to this operation that his circle, we believe, could not have been mended even by a pair of compasses. Two feet to one side of this circle he drew a smaller one, of about four feet in diameter. Next, he cut out of the snow a number of hard blocks, which were so tough that they could not be broken without a severe blow, but were as easily cut as you might have sliced a soft cheese with a sharp knife. These blocks he arranged round the large circle, and built them above each other, fashioning them, as he proceeded, in such a manner that they gradually rose into the form of a dome. The chinks between them he filled compactly with soft snow, and the last block, introduced into the top of the structure, was formed exactly on the principle of the key-stone of an arch. When the large dome was finished, he commenced the smaller; and in the course of two hours both the houses -- or, as the Esquimaux call them, igloos -- were completed.

Long before this, however, Frank had returned, from an unsuccessful hunt, to assist him; and Edith had wondered and wearied, grown cold and taken to running with Chimo, and grown warm and returned to her sledge, several times. Two holes were left in the igloos to serve as doors; and, after they were finished, the Esquimau cut a square hole in the top of each, not far from the key-stones, and above the entrances. Into these he fitted slabs of clear ice, which formed windows as beautiful and useful as if they had been made of glass. There were two doorways in the large igloo, one of which faced the doorway of the smaller. Between these he built an arched passage, so that the two were thus connected, and the small hut formed a sort of inner chamber to the larger.

"Now, dem done," said Maximus, surveying his work with a satisfied smile.

"And very well done they are," said Frank. "See here, Eda, our snow-fort is finished. The big one is to be the grand hall and banqueting-room, and yonder little hut is your private boudoir."

"Mine!" exclaimed Edith, running away from Chimo, with whom she had been playing, and approaching the new houses that had been so speedily put up. "Oh, how nice! what fun! only think! -- a snow bedroom! But won't it be cold, Frank? And is the bed to be of snow too?"

The black moustache of the giant curled with a smile at the energy with which this was said.

"We will make the bedsteads of snow, Eda," replied Frank, "but I think we shall manage to find blankets of a warmer material. -- Now, Maximus, get the things put inside, and the lamp lighted, for we're all tired and very hungry."

The lamp to which Frank referred was one which Maximus had brought, along with a few other articles, from the Esquimau camp. It was made of soft stone, somewhat in the form of a half moon, about eight inches long and three broad, and hollowed out in the inside. Esquimaux burn seal-fat in it, and in winter have no other means of warming their houses or cooking their food. But for both purposes it is quite sufficient. The heat created by these lamps, combined with the natural warmth of the inhabitants, is frequently so great in the igloos of the Esquimaux that they are fain to throw off a great portion of their upper garments, and sit in a state of partial nudity; yet the snow-walls do not melt, owing to the counteracting influence of the intense cold without.

Maximus had brought some seal-fat, or blubber, along with him. A portion of this he now put into the lamp, and, placing the latter on a snow-shelf prepared expressly for it, he set it on fire. The flame, although not very steady, was bright enough to illuminate the large igloo, and to throw a strong gleam into the smaller one. Over this lamp Frank placed a small tin kettle, filled with snow, which was speedily converted into water; and while this was being boiled, he assisted Edith in spreading out the bedding. As we have already said, the floor of this snow-house was of the same material as the walls. But one-half of it was raised about a foot above the other half, according to Esquimau rules of architecture. This elevated half was intended for the bed, which consisted of a large deer-skin robe, spread entirely over it, with the soft hair upwards. Another large robe was placed above this for a blanket, and a smaller one either for a pillow or an additional covering if required; but both of these were tossed down in a heap at the present time, to form a luxuriant seat for Frank and Edith. As their legs hung over the edge of the elevated couch, they were thus seated, as it were, on an ottoman. A mat of interlaced willows covered the floor, and on this sat Maximus, towering in his hairy garments like a huge bear, while his black shadow was cast on the pure white wall behind him. In the midst stood a small table, extemporised by Frank out of a block of snow, and covered with the ample skirt of his leathern topcoat, which the increasing temperature of the air inside the igloo rendered too warm.

Beside Edith, on the most comfortable portion of the ottoman, sat Chimo, with an air of majestic solemnity, looking, as privileged dogs always do look under like circumstances, as if the chief seat belonged to him as a matter not of favour but of right. On the table was spread a solid lump of excellent pemmican -- excellent, because made by the fair hands of Mrs Stanley. It stood vis-a-vis to a tin plate whereon lay three large steaming cuts of boiled fresh salmon -- fresh, because, although caught some months before, it had been frozen solid ever since. There was a large tin kettle of hot tea in the centre of the board -- if under the circumstances we may use the term -- and three tin cups out of which to drink it; besides a plate containing broken pieces of ship-biscuit and a small quantity of sugar wrapped up in a morsel of paper. Also a little salt in a tin box.

All these things, and tempting delicacies, had up till now been contained within the compass of a small, compact, insignificant-looking parcel, which during the journey had occupied a retiring position in the hinder part of Edith's sledge -- so true is it that the really great and the useful court concealment until duty calls them forth and reveals their worth and their importance to an admiring world. The admiring world on the present occasion, however, consisted only of Frank, Edith, Maximus, and Chimo; unless, indeed, we may include the moon, who at that moment poured her bright beams through the ice-window of the hut and flooded the centre of the snow-table with light.

"Aren't we snug, Eda?" cried Frank, as he filled her tin with tea. "What a charming house! and so cheap, too! There's sugar beside you. Take care you don't use salt by mistake. -- Maximus, hold out your pannikin. That's the true beverage to warm your heart, if you take it hot enough."

"Tankee, sur," said the giant, extending his cup with one hand, while with the other he forced into his capacious mouth as much pemmican as it could hold.

"Frank," said Edith, "we must build an igloo at the fort when we return."

"So we will, now that I know how to do it. Hand me the salt, please, and poke Chimo's nose away from the salmon. Yes, and we'll invite papa and mamma to come and take supper at our house. -- Maximus, is this the exact way your friends build their winter houses?"

"Yis, sur," answered the Esquimau, looking up from the cut of salmon which he lifted with his fingers in preference to a fork or knife. "Dey always buil' um so. But not dis t'ing," he added, touching the snow-table.

"No, I suppose not," said Frank. "I flatter myself that that is a recent improvement."

"We do great many igloo sometime," continued Maximus, "vid two, t'ree, four -- plenty pass'ges goin' into von a-doder."

"What does he mean by that?" inquired Edith, laughing.

"I suppose he means that they connect a number of their igloos together by means of passages. -- And do they keep them as clean and snug as this, Maximus?"

The Esquimau replied by a loud chuckle, and a full display of his magnificent teeth, which Frank understood to signify a decided negative.

When supper was ended Chimo was permitted to devour the scraps, while Frank assisted Edith to arrange her little dormitory. It was much the same in its arrangements as the larger apartment, and was really as comfortable and warm as one could desire. Returning to the large apartment, Frank spread out the couch on which he and Maximus were to repose; and then, sitting down beside the stone lamp, he drew forth his Bible, as was his wont, and began to read.

Soon after lying down Edith heard the deep voices of her companions engaged in earnest conversation; but these sounds gradually died away, and she fell asleep, to dream of her berry-ravine at Fort Chimo. As the night wore on, the deep breathing of the men told that they, too, had sought and found repose. The lamp burned slowly down and went out, and, when the moon threw her parting rays over the scene, there was nothing to tell of the presence of human beings in that cold, wild spot, save two little white mounds on the frozen lake below.



Chapter Twenty Seven.

Frank Morton Gets Into Difficulties.

Chimo's loud bark and the angry snarl of a large wolf, as it darted away to seek the shelter of the kills, were the sounds that awoke our travellers in the grey dawn of the following morning.

Frank started up, seized his gun, and darted through the doorway of the igloo; in doing which he dashed the door of snow to atoms. He had only the satisfaction, however, of seeing the wolf's tail flourish in the air, as the animal bounded over a snow-drift and disappeared in a ravine.

"Ha! how cold it is!" he exclaimed, re-entering the igloo hastily; far having issued forth without his coat or cap, the two minutes during which he stood exposed to the open air cooled him down nearly to the freezing point. "Hallo, Maximus! jump up; light the lamp while I fill the kettle. Heyday! it solidifies the very marrow in one's bones. Ho, Edith! up with you, lazy thing; there has been a wolf to bid you good-morrow."

While Frank rattled on thus he belted his leathern coat round him, put on his fur cap, and prepared breakfast; while Edith rose and resumed the cap and cloak which she had put off on lying down to rest.

"Maximus," said Frank, after the first duties of the day were concluded, "we must now go and set the hooks; but as cutting holes in the ice will occupy you some time, I'll take a short walk along the margin of the lake with my gun. Be careful of Edith till I return."

So saying, Frank went off, taking Chimo along with him; while Maximus seized the axe and ice-chisel, and began the laborious process of digging through to the water. The ice on the lake was five feet thick, but by dint of great perseverance the Esquimau succeeded in making several holes through it ere Frank returned. Each hole was large enough to contain the body of a man, but a little wider above than below. In these holes were set stout cod-lines, with hooks of about half an inch or more in diameter. They were made of white metal, and clumsy enough to look at; but fish in the lakes of Ungava are not particular. These hooks were baited with lumps of seal-fat, and ere half an hour elapsed the success of the anglers was very decided and satisfactory.

Frank hauled up a white-fish of about six pounds weight at the first dip, and scarcely had he thrown it on the ice when Maximus gave a galvanic start, hauled up his line a few yards with laughable eagerness, then stopped suddenly, under the impression, apparently, that it was a false alarm; but another tug set him again in motion, and in three seconds he pulled a fine lake-trout of about ten pounds weight out of the hole. Edith, also, who had a line under her care, began to show symptoms of expectation.

"Capital!" cried Frank, beating his hands violently against his shoulders; for handling wet line, with the thermometer at twenty below zero is decidedly cold work -- "capital! we must set up a regular fishery here, I think; the fish are swarming. There's another, -- eh? no -- he's off -- "

"Oh! oh!! oh!!!" shrieked Edith in mingled fear and excitement, as, at each successive "oh!" she received a jerk that well-nigh pulled her into the ice-hole.

"Hold hard!" cried Frank; "now then, haul away." Edith pulled, and so did the fish; but as it was not more than five pounds weight or so, she overcame it after a severe struggle, and landed a white-fish on the ice.

The next shout that Edith gave was of so very decided and thrilling a character that Frank and Maximus darted to her side in alarm, and the latter caught the line as it was torn violently from her grasp. For a few minutes the Esquimau had to allow the line to run out, being unable to hold the fish -- at least without the risk of breaking his tackle; but in a few seconds the motion of the line became less rapid, and Maximus held on, while his huge body was jerked violently, notwithstanding his weight and strength. Soon the line relaxed a little, and Maximus ran away from the hole as fast as he could, drawing the line after him. When the fish reached the hole it offered decided resistance to such treatment; and being influenced, apparently, by the well-known proverb, "Time about's fair play," it darted away in its turn, causing the Esquimau to give it line again very rapidly.

"He must be an enormously big fellow," said Frank, as he and Edith stood close to the hole watching the struggle with intense interest.

The Esquimau gave a broad grin.

"Yis, he most very biggest -- hie!"

The cause of this exclamation of surprise was the slacking of the line so suddenly that Maximus was induced to believe the fish had escaped.

"Him go be-off. Ho yis!"

But he was wrong. Another violent tug convinced him that the fish was still captive -- though an unwilling one -- and the struggle was renewed. In about a quarter of an hour Maximus dragged this refractory fish slowly into the hole, and its snout appeared above water.

"Oh! what a fish!" exclaimed Edith.

"Put in de spear," cried the Esquimau.

Frank caught up a native spear which Maximus had provided, and just as the fish was about to recommence the struggle for its life, he transfixed it through the gills, and pinned it to the side of the ice-hole. The battle was over; a few seconds sufficed to drag the fish from its native element and lay it at full length on the ice.

And few anglers have ever had the pleasure of beholding such a prize. It was a trout of fully sixty pounds weight, and although such fish are seldom if ever found in other parts of the world, they are by no means uncommon in the lakes of North America.

Having secured this noble fish, Maximus cut it open and cleaned it, after which it was left to freeze. The other fish were then similarly treated; and while the Esquimau was thus engaged, Frank and Edith continued their sport. But daylight in these far northern regions is very short-lived in winter, and they were soon compelled unwillingly to leave off.

"Now, Maximus," said Frank, as they rolled up their lines, "I don't intend to keep you longer with us. Edith and I can manage the fishing very well, so you may return to your friends at False River, and take the seal-flesh for the dogs up to the fort. Get the loan of some of their dogs and a sled to haul it; and come round this way in passing, so as to pick up any fish we may have ready for you. The moon will be up in a little, so be off as fast as you can."

In obedience to these orders, Maximus packed up a small quantity of provisions, and bidding good-bye to his two friends, set off to make the best of his way to the coast.

That night Frank and his little charge sat down to sup together in the igloo at the head of their snow-table, and Chimo acted the part of croupier in the room of the Esquimau. And a pleasant evening they spent, chatting, and laughing, and telling stories, by the light of the stone lamp, the mellow flame of which shed a warm influence over the sparkling dome of snow. Before retiring to rest, Frank said that they must be up with the first light, for he meant to have a hard day's fishing; but man little knows what a day may bring forth. Neither Frank nor Edith dreamed that night of the events that were to happen on the morrow.

On awaking in the morning they were again roused by the voice of the wolf which had visited them the day before. In order to catch this wolf, Maximus had, just before starting, constructed a trap peculiar to the Esquimaux. It was simply a hole dug down through the ice at the edge of the lake, not far from the igloo. This hole was just wide enough to admit the body of a wolf, and the depth sufficient to render it absolutely impossible for the animal to thrust his snout to the bottom, however long his neck might be. At the bottom a tempting piece of blubber, in very high condition, was placed. The result of this ingenious arrangement was most successful, and, we may add, inevitable. Attracted by the smell of the meat, our friend the wolf came trotting down to the lake just about daybreak, and sneaked suspiciously up to the trap. He peeped in and licked his lips with satisfaction at the charming breakfast below. One would have thought, as he showed his formidable white teeth, that he was laughing with delight. Then, spreading out his fore legs so as to place his breast on the ice, he thrust his head down into the hole and snapped at the coveted blubber. But he had mistaken the depth, and blaming himself, no doubt, for his stupidity, he slid a little further forward, and pushed his head deeper down. What! not at it yet? Oh! this is preposterous! Under this impression he rose, shook himself, and advancing his shoulders as far as prudence would allow, again thrust down his head and stretched his neck until the very sinews cracked. Then it was, but not till then, that the conviction was forced on him that that precious morsel was totally and absolutely beyond his reach altogether. Drawing himself back he sat down on his haunches and uttered a snarling bark of dissatisfaction. But the odour that ascended from that hole was too much for the powers of wolfish nature to resist. Showing his teeth with an expression of mingled disappointment and ferocity, he plunged his head into the hole once more. Deeper and deeper still it went, but the blubber was yet three inches from his eager nose. Another shove -- no! dislocation alone could accomplish the object. His shoulders slid very imperceptibly into the hole. His nose was within an inch of the prize, and he could actually touch it with his tongue. Away with cowardly prudence! what recked he of the consequences? Up went his hind legs, down went his head, and the tempting bait was gained at last!

Alas for wolfish misfortunes! His fore legs were jammed immovably against his ribs. A touch of his hind foot on the ice would remedy this mishap, but he was too far in for that. Vigorously he struggled, but in vain. The blood rushed to his head, and the keen frost quickly put an end to his pains. In a few minutes he was dead, and in half an hour he was frozen, solid as a block of wood, with his hind legs and tail pointing to the sky.

It was at the consummation of this event that another wolf, likewise attracted by the blubber, trotted down the wild ravine and uttered a howl of delighted surprise as it rushed forward to devour its dead companion -- for such is the custom among wolves. And this was the howl that called Frank forth in time to balk its purpose.

Frank happened to be completely dressed at the time, and as he saw the wolf bound away up the mountain gorge, he seized his gun and snow-shoes, and hastily slung on his powder-horn and shot-belt.

"Edith," he cried, as he was about to start, "I must give chase to that wolf. I won't be gone long. Light the lamp and prepare breakfast, dear -- at least as much of it as you can; I'll be back to complete it. --  Hallo, Chimo! here, Chimo!" he shouted, whistling to the dog, which bounded forth from the door of the hut and followed his master up the ravine.

Edith was so well accustomed to solitary wanderings among the rugged glens in the neighbourhood of Fort Chimo that she felt no alarm on finding herself left alone in this wild spot. She knew that Frank was not far off, and expected him back in a few minutes. She knew, also, that wild animals are not usually so daring as to show themselves in open ground after the break of day, particularly after the shouts of human beings have scared them to their dens; so, instead of giving a thought to any possible dangers that might threaten her, she applied herself cheerfully and busily to the preparation of their morning meal. First she lighted the lamp, which instantly removed the gloom of the interior of the igloo, whose little ice-window as yet admitted only the faint light of the grey dawn. Then she melted a little snow, and cleaned out the kettle, in which she placed two cuts of fresh trout; and having advanced thus far in her work, thought it time to throw on her hood and peep out to see if Frank was coming. But there was no sign of Frank, so she re-entered the igloo and began to set things to rights. She folded up the deerskins on which she had reposed, and piled them at the head of the willow matting that formed her somewhat rough and unyielding mattress, after which she arranged the ottoman, and laid out the breakfast things on the snow-table. Having accomplished all this to her entire satisfaction, Edith now discovered that the cuts of salmon were sufficiently well boiled, and began to hope that Frank would be quick, lest the breakfast should be spoiled. Under the influence of this feeling she threw on her hood a second time, and going out upon the lake, surveyed the shore with a scrutinising gaze. The sun was now so far above the natural horizon that the daylight was pretty clear, but the high mountains prevented any of his direct rays from penetrating the gloom of the valley of the lake. Still there was light enough to enable the solitary child to distinguish the objects on shore; but Frank's tall form was not visible anywhere.

Heaving a slight sigh, Edith returned to the hut, soliloquising thus as she went -- "Dear me! it is very strange that Frank should stay away so long. I fear that the trout will be quite spoiled. Perhaps it would be very good cold. No doubt of it. We shall have it cold, and then I can get the tea ready."

In pursuance of this plan, the anxious little housekeeper removed the trout from the kettle, which she cleaned out and refilled with snow. When this was melted and boiled, she put in the tea. In due time this also was ready, and she sallied forth once more, with a feeling approaching to anxiety, to look for Frank. Still her companion did not make his appearance, and for the first time a feeling of dread touched her heart. She strove to avert it, however, by considering that Frank might have been obliged to follow the wolf farther than he expected or intended. Then a thrill of fear passed through her breast as the thought occurred, "What if the wolf has attacked and killed him?" As time wore on, and no sound of voice or gun or bark of dog broke the dreary stillness of that gloomy place, a feeling of intense horror took possession of the child's mind, and she pictured to herself all kinds of possible evils that might have befallen her companion; while at the same time she could not but feel how awful was her unprotected and helpless condition. One thought, however, comforted her, and this was that Maximus would certainly come to the hut on his return to the fort. This relieved her mind in regard to herself; but the very relief on that point enabled her all the more to realise the dangers to which Frank might be exposed without any one to render him assistance.

The morning passed away, the sun rose above the hills, and the short-lived day drew towards its close; still Frank did not return, and the poor child who watched so anxiously for him, after many short and timid wanderings towards the margin of the lake, returned to the igloo with a heart fluttering from mingled anxiety and terror. Throwing herself on the deerskin couch, she burst into a flood of tears. As she lay there, sobbing bitterly, she was startled by a noise outside the hut, and ere she could spring from her recumbent position, Chimo darted through the open doorway, with a cry between a whine and a bark, and laid his head on Edith's lap.

"Oh! what is it, my dog? Dear Chimo, where is Frank?" cried the child passionately, while she embraced her favourite with feelings of mingled delight and apprehension. "Is he coming, Chimo?" she said, addressing the dumb animal, as if she believed he understood her. Then, rising hastily, she darted out once more, to cast a longing, expectant gaze towards the place where she had seen her companion disappear in the morning. But she was again doomed to disappointment. Meanwhile Chimo's conduct struck her as being very strange. Instead of receiving with his usual quiet satisfaction the caresses she heaped upon him, he kept up a continual whine, and ran about hither and thither without any apparent object in view. Once or twice he darted off with a long melancholy howl towards the hills; then stopping short suddenly, stood still and looked round towards his young mistress. At first Edith thought that the dog must have lost his master, and had come back to the hut expecting to find him there. Then she called him to her and examined his mouth, expecting and dreading to find blood upon it. But there were no signs of his having been engaged in fighting with wolves; so Edith felt sure that Frank must be safe from them at least, as she knew that Chimo was too brave to have left his master to perish alone. The dog submitted with much impatience to this examination, and at last broke away from Edith and ran yelping towards the hills again, stopping as before, and looking back.

The resolute manner with which Chimo did this, and the frequency of its recurrence, at length induced Edith to believe that the animal wished her to follow him. Instantly it occurred that he might conduct her to Frank; so without bestowing a thought on the danger of her forsaking the igloo, she ran in for her snow-shoes, and putting on her hood and thick mittens, followed the dog to the margin of the lake. Chime's impatience seemed to subside immediately, and he trotted rapidly towards the ravine into which Frank had entered in pursuit of the wolf that morning. The dog paused ever and anon as they proceeded, in order to give the child time to come up with him; and so eager was Edith in her adventure, and so hopeful was she that it would terminate in her finding Frank, that she pressed forward at a rate which would have been utterly impossible under less exciting circumstances.

At the foot of the ravine she found the remains of the wolf which had been caught in the snow-trap that morning. Frank had merely pulled it out and cast it on the snow in passing, and the torn fragments and scattered bones of the animal showed that its comrades had breakfasted off its carcass after Frank had passed. Here Edith paused to put on her snow-shoes, for the snow in the ravine was soft, being less exposed to the hardening action of the wind; and the dog sat down to wait patiently until she was ready.

"Now, Chimo, go forward, my good dog. I will follow you without fear," she said, when the lines were properly fastened to her feet.

Chimo waited no second command, but threaded his way rapidly up the ravine among the stunted willow bushes. In doing so he had frequent occasion to wait for his young mistress, whose strength was rapidly failing under the unwonted exertion she forced herself to make. At times she had to pause for breath, and as she cast her eyes upwards and around at the dreary desolation of the rugged precipices which everywhere met her view, she could with difficulty refrain from shedding tears. But Edith's heart was warm and brave. The thought of Frank being in some mysterious, unknown danger, infused new energy into her soul and strengthened her slight frame. Having now recovered somewhat from the nervous haste which urged her to travel at a rate much beyond her capacity, she advanced into the ravines of the mountains with more of that steady, regular tramp which practice in the use of her snow-shoes had taught her to assume; so that, being of a robust constitution naturally, she became stronger and more able for her undertaking as she advanced.

For nearly two hours Chimo led Edith into the midst of the mountains. The scenery became, if possible, more savage as they proceeded, and at length grew so rugged and full of precipices and dark gorges, or rather splits in the hills, that Edith had much difficulty in avoiding the danger of falling over many of the latter, which were partially concealed by, and in some places entirely covered over with, a crust of snow. Fortunately, as daylight waned, a brilliant galaxy of stars shone forth, enabling her to pick her steps.

Hitherto they had followed Frank's snow-shoe track undeviatingly, but near the top of a cliff Chimo suddenly diverged to the left, and led his mistress by a steep and tortuous natural path to the bottom. Here he ran quickly forward, uttering a low whine or whimper, and disappeared round the corner of the precipice. Hastening after the dog with a beating heart, Edith speedily gained the projection of the cliff, on turning which she was startled and terrified by hearing a loud snarling bark mingled with a fierce growl. In another moment she beheld Chimo bounding towards a gaunt savage-looking wolf, which stood close beside the body of a man extended at full length upon the snow.

At first the wolf did not seem inclined to retreat, but the shriek which Edith uttered on suddenly beholding the scene before her induced him to turn tail and fly. In another moment the terrified child sank exhausted on the snow beside the insensible form of Frank Morton.



Chapter Twenty Eight.

Edith Becomes A Heroine Indeed.

The shock which Edith received on beholding the bloodstained countenance of her companion completely paralysed her at first, but only for a few minutes.

The feeling of certainty that Frank would perish if assistance were not rendered tended to restore her scattered faculties, and nerve her heart for the duties now required of her; and she rose with a feeling of determination to save her companion or die beside him. Pour child! she little knew the extent of her own feebleness at that moment; but she breathed an inward prayer to Him who can, and often does, achieve the mightiest results by the feeblest means.

Raising Frank's head from the snow, she placed it in her lap, and with her handkerchief removed the blood from his forehead. In doing this she observed, to her inexpressible relief, that he breathed freely, and seemed rather to be in a state of stupor than insensibility. The place where he lay was a dark rent or split in the mountain, the precipices of which rose on either side to a height of between thirty and forty feet. The top of this chasm was entirely covered over with a crust of snow, through which there was a large gap immediately above the spot where Frank lay, revealing at once the cause of his present sad condition. He had evidently been crossing the ravine by means of the deceptive platform of snow, unaware of the danger of his position, and had been suddenly precipitated to the bottom. In descending, his head had struck the side of the cliff, which cut it severely; but the softness of the snow into which he fell saved him from further injury, except the stunning effect of the fall. How long he had lain in this state Edith had no means of knowing, but it must have been a considerable time, as Chimo could not have left him until after his fall. Fortunately the wolf had not touched him, and the wound in his head did not appear to be very deep. Observing that parts of his face were slightly frostbitten, Edith commenced to rub them vigorously, at the same time calling upon him in the most earnest tones to speak to her. The effect of this roused him a little. In a few minutes he opened his eyes, and gazed languidly into the child's face.

"Where am I, Eda?" he said faintly, while a gentle smile played about his lips.

"You are in the mountains, Frank. Dear Frank! do open your eyes again. I'm so glad to hear your voice! Are you better now?"

The sound of his voice attracted Chimo, who had long ago abandoned the pursuit of the wolf, and was seated beside his master. Rising, he placed his cold nose on Frank's cheek. The action seemed to rouse him to the recollection of recent events. Starting up on his knees, with an angry shout, Frank seized the gun that lay beside him and raised it as if to strike the dog; but he instantly let the weapon fall, and exclaiming, "Ah, Chimo, is it you, good dog?" he fell back again into the arms of his companion.

Edith wept bitterly for a few minutes, while she tried in vain to awaken her companion from his state of lethargy. At length she dried her tears hastily, and, rising, placed Frank's head on her warm cloak, which she wrapped round his face and shoulders. Then she felt his hands, which, though covered with thick leather mittens, were very cold. Making Chimo couch at his feet, so as to imbue them with some of his own warmth, she proceeded to rub his hands, and to squeeze and, as it were, shampoo his body all over, as vigorously as her strength enabled her. In a few minutes the effect of this was apparent. Frank raised himself on his elbow and gazed wildly round him.

"Surely I must have fallen. Where am I, Edith?" Gradually his faculties returned. "Edith, Edith!" he exclaimed, in a low, anxious voice, "I must get back to the igloo. I shall freeze here. Fasten the lines of my snowshoes, dear, and I will rise."

Edith did as she was desired, and immediately Frank made a violent effort and stood upright; but he swayed to and fro like a drunken man.

"Let me lean on your shoulder, dear Eda," he said in a faint voice. "My head is terribly confused. Lead me; I cannot see well."

The child placed his hand on her shoulder, and they went forward a few paces together -- Edith bending beneath the heavy weight of her companion.

"Do I lean heavily?" said Frank, drawing his hand across his forehead. "Poor child!"

As he spoke he removed his hand from her shoulder; but the instant he did so, he staggered and fell with a deep groan.

"O Frank! dear Frank! why did you do that?" said Edith, anxiously. "You do not hurt me. I don't mind it. Do try to rise again."

Frank tried, and succeeded in walking in a sort of half-sleeping, half-waking condition for about a mile -- stumbling as he went, and often unwittingly crushing his little guide to the ground. After this he fell once more, and could not again recover his upright position. Poor Edith now began to lose heart. The utter hopelessness of getting the wounded man to advance more than a few yards at a time, and her own gradually increasing weakness, induced the tears once more to start to her eyes. She observed, too, that Frank was sinking into that state of lethargy which is so dangerous in cold climates, and she had much difficulty in preventing him from falling into that sleep which, if indulged in, is indeed the sleep of death. By persevering, however, she succeeded in rousing him so far as to creep a short distance, now and then, on his hands and knees -- sometimes to stagger a few paces forward; and at length, long after the cold moon had arisen on the scene, they reached the margin of the lake.

Here Frank became utterly powerless, and no exertion on the part of his companion could avail to rouse him. In this dilemma, Edith once more wrapped him in her warm cloak, and causing Chimo to lie at his feet, hastened over the ice towards the igloo. On arriving she lighted the lamp and heated the tea which she had made in the morning. This took at least a quarter of an hour to do, and during the interval she endeavoured to allay her impatience by packing up a few mouthfuls of pemmican and biscuit. Then she spread the deerskins out on the couch; and when this was done, the tea was thoroughly heated. The snow on the river being quite hard, she needed not to encumber herself with snow-shoes; but she fastened the traces of her own little sledge over her shoulders, and, with the kettle in her hand, ran as fast as her feet could carry her to the place where she had left Frank and Chimo, and found them lying exactly as they lay when she left them.

"Frank! Frank! here is some hot tea for you. Do try to take some."

But Frank did not move, so she had recourse to rubbing him again, and had soon the satisfaction of seeing him open his eyes. The instant he did so, she repeated her earnest entreaties that he would take some tea. In a few minutes he revived sufficiently to sit up and sip a little of the warm beverage. The effect was almost magical. The blood began to course more rapidly through his benumbed limbs, and in five minutes more he was able to sit up and talk to his companion.

"Now, Frank," said Edith, with an amount of decision that in other circumstances would have seemed quite laughable, "try to get on to my sled, and I'll help you. The igloo is near at hand now."

Frank obeyed almost mechanically, and creeping upon the sled with difficulty, he fell instantly into a profound sleep. Edith's chief anxiety was past now. Harnessing Chimo to the sled as well as she could, she ran on before, and a very few minutes brought them to the snow-hut. Here the work of rousing Frank had again to be accomplished; but the vigour which the warm tea had infused into his frame rendered it less difficult than heretofore, and soon afterwards Edith had the satisfaction of seeing her companion extended on his deerskin couch, under the sheltering roof of the igloo. Replenishing the lamp and closing the doorway with a slab of snow, she sat down to watch by his side. Chimo coiled himself quietly up at his feet; while Frank, under the influence of the grateful warmth, fell again into a deep slumber. As the night wore on, Edith's eyes became heavy, and she too, resting her head on the deerskins, slept till the lamp on the snow-shelf expired and left the hut and its inmates in total darkness.

Contrary to Edith's expectations, Frank was very little better when he awoke next day; but he was able to talk to her in a faint voice, and to relate how he had fallen over the cliff, and how afterwards he had to exert his failing powers in order to defend himself from a wolf. In all these conversations his mind seemed to wander a little, and it was evident that he had not recovered from the effects of the blow received on his head in the fall. For two days the child tended him with the affectionate tenderness of a sister, but as he seemed to grow worse instead of better, she became very uneasy, and pondered much in her mind what she should do. At last she formed a strange resolution. Supposing that Maximus must still be at the Esquimau village at the mouth of False River, and concluding hastily that this village could not be very far away, she determined to set out in search of it, believing that, if she found it, the Esquimau would convey her back to the igloo on the lake, and take Frank up to Fort Chimo, where he could be properly tended and receive medicine.

Freaks and fancies are peculiar to children, but the carrying of their freaks and fancies into effect is peculiar only to those who are precocious and daring in character. Such was Edith, and no sooner had she conceived the idea of attempting to find the Esquimau camp than she proceeded to put it in execution. Frank was in so depressed a condition that she thought it better not to disturb or annoy him by arousing him so as to get him to comprehend what she was about to do; so she was obliged to commune with herself, sometimes even in an audible tone, in default of any better counsellor. It is due to her to say that, in remembrance of her mother's advice, she sought the guidance of her heavenly Father.

Long and earnest was the thought bestowed by this little child on the subject ere she ventured to leave her companion alone in the snow-hut. Frank was able to sit up and to assist himself to the articles of food and drink which his little nurse placed within his reach, so that she had no fear of his being in want of anything during the day -- or two at most -- that she expected to be absent; for in her childlike simplicity she concluded that if Maximus could travel thither in a few hours, she could not take much longer, especially with such a good servant as Chimo to lead the way. Besides this, she had observed the way in which the Esquimau had set out, and Frank had often pointed out to her the direction in which the camp lay. She knew also that there was no danger from wild animals, but determined, nevertheless, to build up the door of the igloo very firmly, lest they should venture to draw near. She also put Frank's loaded gun in the spot where he was wont to place it, so as to be ready to his hand.

Having made all her arrangements, Edith glided noiselessly from the hut, harnessed her dog, closed the door of the snow-hut, and jumping into the furs of her sledge, was soon far away from the mountain lake. At first the dog followed what she thought must be the track that Maximus had taken, and her spirits rose when, after an hour's drive, she emerged upon a boundless plain, which she imagined must be the shores of the frozen sea where the Esquimaux lived. Encouraging Chimo with her voice, she flew over the level surface of the hard frozen snow, and looked round eagerly in all directions for the expected signs of natives.

But no such signs appeared, and she began to fear that the distance was greater than she had anticipated. Towards the afternoon it began to snow heavily. There was no wind, and the snow fell in large flakes, alighting softly and without any sound. This prevented her seeing any great distance, and, what was worse, rendered the ground heavy for travelling.

At length she came to a ridge of rocks, and supposing that she might see to a greater distance from its summit, she got out of the sledge and clambered up, for the ground was too rough for the sledge to pass. Here the view was dreary enough -- nothing but plains and hummocks of ice and snow met her view, except in one direction, where she saw, or fancied that she saw, a clump of willows and what appeared to be a hut in the midst of them. Running down the rugged declivity, she crossed the plain and reached the spot; but although the willows were there, she found no hut. Overcome with fatigue, fear, and disappointment, she sat down on a wreath of snow and wept. But she felt that her situation was much too serious to permit of her wasting time in vain regrets, so she started up and endeavoured to retrace her steps. This, however, was now a matter of difficulty. The snow fell so thickly that her footsteps were almost obliterated, and she could not see ten yards before her. After wandering about for a few minutes in uncertainty, she called aloud to Chimo, hoping to hear his bark in reply. But all was silent.

Chimo was not, indeed, unfaithful. He heard the cry and responded to it in the usual way, by bounding in the direction whence it came. His progress, however, was suddenly arrested by the sledge, which caught upon and was jammed amongst the rocks. Fiercely did Chimo strain and bound, but the harness was tough and the sledge immovable. Meanwhile the wind arose, and although it blew gently, it was sufficient to prevent Edith overhearing the whining cries of her dog. For a time the child lost all self-command, and rushed about she knew not whither, in the anxious desire to find her sledge; then she stopped, and restrained the pantings of her breath, while with both hands pressed tightly over her heart, as if she would fain stop the rapid throbbing there, she listened long and intently. But no sound fell upon her ear except the sighing of the cold breeze as it swept by, and no sight met her anxious gaze save the thickly falling snow-flakes.

Sinking on her knees, Edith buried her face in her hands and gave full vent to the pent-up emotions of her soul, as the conviction was at length forced upon her mind that she was a lost wanderer in the midst of that cold and dreary waste of snow.



Chapter Twenty Nine.

A Dark Cloud Of Sorrow Envelops Fort Chimo.

Three days after the events narrated in the last chapter the fort of the fur-traders became a place of weeping; for on the morning of that day Maximus arrived with the prostrate form of Frank Morton, whom he had discovered alone in the igloo on the lake, and with the dreadful news that little Edith Stanley was nowhere to be found!

It may be more easily imagined than described the state of mind into which the parents of the child were thrown; but after the first burst of emotion was past, Stanley felt that a thorough and immediate search was the only hope that remained to him of finding his little one alive. Still, when he considered the intensity of the cold to which she must have been exposed, and the length of time which had already elapsed since she was missed, his heart sank, and he could scarcely frame words of comfort to his prostrated partner. Maximus had examined the immediate neighbourhood of the lake, in the hope of finding the tracks of the lost one; but a heavy fall of snow had totally obliterated these, and he wisely judged that it would be better to convey the sick man to the fort as quickly as possible and give the alarm, so that parties might be sent out to scour the country in all directions.

Frank was immediately put to bed on his arrival, and everything done in order to restore him. In this attempt they succeeded so far as to obtain all the information he could give concerning his fall; but he remembered nothing further than that Edith had been the means of bringing him to the snow-hut, where he lay in a deep, torpid slumber, until the voice and hand of Maximus awakened him. When Frank was told that Edith was lost, he sprang from his bed as if he had received an electric shock. The confusion of his faculties seemed swept away, and he began to put on his garments with as much vigour as if he were well and strong; but ere he belted on his leather coat his cheek grew pale, his hand trembled, and he fell in a swoon upon the bed. This convinced him of the impossibility of doing anything in the search, and he was prevailed on, after two or three similar failures, to leave the work to others.

Meanwhile the mountains and valleys of Ungava were traversed far and near by the agonised father and his men. The neighbourhood of the lake was the first place searched, and they had not sought long ere they discovered the little sledge sticking fast among the rocks of the sea-coast, and Chimo lying in the traces almost dead with cold and hunger. The dog had kept himself alive by gnawing the deerskin of which the traces were made. Around this spot the search was concentrated, and the Esquimaux of the neighbouring camp were employed in traversing the country in all directions; but, although scarce a foot of ground escaped the eager scrutiny of one or other of the party, not a vestige of Edith was to be seen -- not so much as a footprint in the snow.

Days and nights flew by, and still the search was continued. Frank quickly recovered under the affectionate care of the almost heartbroken mother, who found some relief from her crushing sorrow in ministering to his wants. But the instant he could walk without support, and long before it was prudent to do so, Frank joined in the search. At first he could do little, but as day after day passed by his strength returned so rapidly that the only symptoms that remained to tell of his late accident were his pale cheek and the haggard expression of his countenance. But the mysterious disappearance of Edith had more to do with the latter than illness.

Weeks passed away, but still the dark cloud of sorrow hung over Fort Chimo, for the merry young voice that was wont to awake the surrounding echoes was gone. The systematic search had now been given up, for every nook, every glen, and gorge, and corrie within fifteen miles of the spot where they had found the little sledge, had been searched again and again without success. But hope clung with singular tenacity to the parents' hearts long after it had fled from those of the men of the fort and of the Esquimaux. Every alternate day Stanley and Frank sallied forth with heavy steps and furrowed brows to explore more carefully those places where the child was most likely to have strayed, expecting, yet fearing, to find her dead body. But they always returned to the bereaved mother with silent lips and downcast looks.

They frequently conversed together about her, and always in a hopeful tone, each endeavouring to conceal from the other the real state of his own mind. Indeed, except when necessity required it, they seldom spoke on any other subject.

One day Stanley and Frank were seated by the blazing stove in the hall conversing as usual about the plan of the search for that day. Mrs Stanley was busied in preparing breakfast.

"'Tis going to blow hard from the north, Frank," said Stanley, rising and looking out of the window; "I see the icebergs coming into the river with the tide. You will have a cold march, I fear."

Frank made no reply, but rose and approached the window. The view from it was a strange one. During the night a more than usually severe frost had congealed the water of the lake in the centre, and the icebergs that sailed towards the Caniapuscaw River in stately grandeur went crashing through this young ice as if it had been paper, their slow but steady progress receiving no perceptible check from its opposition. Some of these bergs were of great size, and in proceeding onwards they passed so close to the fort that the inhabitants feared more than once that a falling pinnacle might descend on the stores, which were built near to the water's edge, and crush them. As the tide gradually rose it rushed with violence into the cavities beneath the solid ice on the opposite shore, and finding no escape save through a few rents and fissures, sent up columns or spouts of white spray in all directions, which roared and shrieked as they flew upwards, as if the great ocean were maddened with anger at finding a power strong enough to restrain and curb its might. At intervals the main ice rent with a crash like the firing of artillery; and as if nature had designed to carry on and deepen this simile, the shore was lined with heaps of little blocks of ice which the constantly recurring action of the tide had moulded into the shape and size of cannon balls.

But such sights were common to the inhabitants of Fort Chimo, and had long ago ceased to call forth more than a passing remark.

"May it not be possible," murmured Stanley, while he leant his brow on his hand, "that she may have gone up False River?"

"I think not," said Frank. "I know not how it is, but I have a strange conviction that she is yet alive. If she had perished in the snow, we should certainly have found her long ago. I cannot explain my feelings, or give a reason for them, but I feel convinced that darling Eda is alive."

"Oh, God grant it!" whispered Stanley in a deep voice, while his wife hastened from the room to conceal the tears which she could not restrain.

While Frank continued to gaze in silence on the bleak scene without, a faint sound of sleigh-bells broke upon his ear.

"Hark!" he cried, starting, and opening the door.

The regular and familiar sound of the bells came floating sweetly on the breeze. They grew louder and louder, and in a few seconds a team of dogs galloped into the fort, dragging a small sled behind them. They were followed by two stalwart Indians, whose costume and manner told that they were in the habit of associating more with the fur-traders than with their own kindred. The dogs ran the sled briskly into the centre of the fort, and lay down panting on the snow, while the two men approached the hall.

"'Tis a packet," cried Stanley, forgetting for the moment his sorrow in the excitement of this unexpected arrival.

In a moment all the men at the fort were assembled in the square.

"A packet! Where come you from?"

"From Moose Fort," replied the elder Indian, while his comrade unfastened from the sled a little bundle containing letters.

"Any news? Are all well?" chorused the men.

"Ay, all well. It is many day since we left. The way is very rough, and we did not find much deer. We saw one camp of Indian, but they 'fraid to come. I not know why. But I see with them one fair flower which grow in the fields of the Esquimaux. I suppose the Indian pluck her, and dare not come back here."

Stanley started, and his cheek grew pale.

"A fair flower, say you? Speak literally, man: was it a little white girl that you saw?"

"No," replied the Indian, "it was no white girl we saw. It was one young Esquimau woman."

Stanley heaved a deep sigh and turned away, muttering, "Ah! I might have known that she could not have fallen into the hands of Indians so far to the south."

"Well, lads, take care of these fellows," he cried, crushing down the feelings that had been for a brief moment awakened in his heart by the Indian's words, "and give them plenty to eat and smoke." So saying he went off with the packet, followed by Frank.

"Niver fear ye; come along, honey," said Bryan, grasping the elder Indian by the arm, while the younger was carried off by Massan, and the dogs taken care of by Ma-istequan and Gaspard.

On perusing the letters, Stanley found that it would be absolutely necessary to send a packet of dispatches to headquarters. The difficulties of his position required to be more thoroughly explained, and erroneous notions corrected.

"What shall I do, Frank?" said he, with a perplexed look. "These Indians cannot return to Moose, having received orders, I find, to journey in a different direction. Our own men know the way, but I cannot spare the good ones among them, and the second-rate cannot be depended on without a leader."

Frank did not give an immediate reply. He seemed to be pondering the subject in his mind. At length he said, "Could not Dick Prince be spared?"

"No; he is too useful here. The fact is, Frank, I think I must send you. It will do you good, my dear boy, and tend to distract your mind from a subject which is now hopeless."

Frank at first objected strongly to this plan, on the ground that it would prevent him from assisting in the forlorn search for Edith; but Stanley pointed out that he and the men could continue it, and that, on the other hand, his (Frank's) personal presence at headquarters would be of great importance to the interests of the Company. At length Frank was constrained to obey.

The route by which he purposed to travel was overland to Richmond Gulf on snow-shoes; and as the way was rough, he determined to take only a few days' provisions, and depend for subsistence on the hook and gun. Maximus, Oolibuck, and Ma-istequan were chosen to accompany him; and three better men he could not have had, for they were stalwart and brave, and accustomed from infancy to live by the chase, and traverse trackless wastes, guided solely by that power of observation or instinct with which savages are usually gifted.

With these men, a week's provisions, a large supply of ammunition, a small sledge, and three dogs, of whom Chimo was the leader, Frank one morning ascended the rocky platform behind the fort, and bidding adieu to Ungava, commenced his long journey over the interior of East Main.



Chapter Thirty.

An Old Friend Amid New Friends And Novelties -- A Desperate Battle And A Glorious Victory.

The scene of our story is now changed, and we request our patient reader to fly away with us deeper into the north, beyond the regions of Ungava, and far out upon the frozen sea.

Here is an island which for many long years has formed a refuge to the roedeer during the winter, at which season these animals, having forsaken the mainland in autumn, dwell upon the islands of the sea. At the time of which we write the island in question was occupied by a tribe of Esquimaux, who had built themselves as curious a village as one could wish to see. The island had little or no wood on it, and the few willow bushes that showed their heads above the deep snow were stunted and thin. Such as they were, however, they, along with a ledge of rock over which the snow had drifted in a huge mound, formed a sort of protection to the village of the Esquimaux, and sheltered it from the cold blasts that swept over the frozen sea from the regions of the far north. There were about twenty igloos in the village, all of which were built in the form of a dome, exactly similar to the hut constructed by Maximus on the lake. They were of various sizes, and while some stood apart with only a small igloo attached, others were congregated in groups and connected by low tunnels or passages. The doorways leading into most of them were so low that the natives were obliged to creep out and in on their hands and knees; but the huts themselves were high enough to permit the tallest man of the tribe to stand erect, and some of them so capacious that a family of six or eight persons could dwell in them easily. We may remark, however, that Esquimau ideas of roominess and comfort in their dwellings differ very considerably from ours. Their chief aim is to create heat, and for this end they cheerfully submit to what we would consider the discomfort of crowding and close air.

The village at a little distance bore a curious resemblance to a cluster of white beehives; and the round, soft, hairy natives, creeping out and in continually, and moving about amongst them, were not unlike (with the aid of a little imagination) to a swarm of monstrous black bees -- an idea which was further strengthened by the continuous hum that floated on the air over the busy settlement. Kayaks and oomiaks lay about in several places supported on blocks of ice, and seal-spears, paddles, dans, lances, coils of walrus-line, and other implements, were intermingled in rare confusion with sledges, sealskins, junks of raw meat and bones, on which latter the numerous dogs of the tribe were earnestly engaged.

In the midst of this village stood a hut which differed considerably from those around. It was built of clear ice instead of snow. There were one or two other igloos made of the same material, but none so large, clean, or elegant as this one. The walls, which were perpendicular, were composed of about thirty large square blocks, cemented together with snow, and arranged in the form of an octagon. The roof was a dome of snow. A small porch or passage, also of ice, stood in front of the low doorway, which had been made high enough to permit the owner of the mansion to enter by stooping slightly. In front and all around this hut the snow was carefully scraped, and all offensive objects -- such as seal and whale blubber -- removed, giving to it an appearance of cleanliness and comfort which the neighbouring igloos did not possess. Inside of this icy residence, on a couch of deerskin was seated Edith Stanley!

On that terrible night when the child lost her way in the dreary plain, she had wandered she knew not whither, until she was suddenly arrested by coming to the edge of the solid ice on the shores of Ungava Bay. Here the high winds had broken up the ice, and the black waters of the sea now rolled at her feet and checked her progress. Terrified at this unexpected sight, Edith endeavoured to retrace her steps; but she found to her horror that the ice on which she stood was floating, and that the wind, having shifted a point to the eastward, was driving it across to the west side of the bay. Here, in the course of the next day, it grounded, and the poor child, benumbed with cold and faint with hunger, crept as far as she could on to the firm land, and then lay down, as she thought, to die.

But it was otherwise ordained. In less than half an hour afterwards she was found by a party of Esquimaux. These wild creatures had come from the eastward in their dog-sledges, and having passed well out to the seaward in order to avoid the open water off the mouth of False River, had missed seeing their countrymen there, and therefore knew nothing of the establishment of Fort Chimo. In bending towards the land again after passing the bay they came upon Edith's tracks, and after a short search they found her lying on the snow.

Words cannot convey an adequate impression of the unutterable amazement of these poor creatures as they beheld the fair child, so unlike anything they had ever seen or imagined; but whatever may have been their thoughts regarding her, they had sense enough to see that she was composed of flesh and blood, and would infallibly freeze if allowed to lie there much longer. They therefore lifted her gently upon one of the large sleighs, and placed her on a pile of furs in the midst of a group of women and children, who covered her up and chafed her limbs vigorously. Meanwhile the drivers of the sledges, of which there were six, with twenty dogs attached to each, plied their long whips energetically; the dogs yelled in consternation, and, darting away with the sledges as if they had been feathers, the whole tribe went hooting, yelling, and howling away over the frozen sea.

The surprise of the savages when they found Edith was scarcely, if at all, superior to that of Edith when she opened her eyes and began to comprehend, somewhat confusedly, her peculiar position. The savages watched her movements, open-mouthed, with intense curiosity, and seemed overjoyed beyond expression when she at length recovered sufficiently to exclaim feebly, -- "Where am I? where are you taking me to?"

We need scarcely add that she received no reply to her questions, for the natives did not understand a word of her language, and with the exception of the names of one or two familiar objects, she did not understand a word of theirs. Of how far or how long they travelled Edith could form no idea, as she slept profoundly during the journey, and did not thoroughly recover her strength and faculties until after her arrival at the camp.

For many days after reaching the Esquimau village poor Edith did nothing but weep; for, besides the miserable circumstances in which she was now placed, she was much too considerate and unselfish in her nature to forget that her parents would experience all the misery of supposing her dead, and added to this was the terrible supposition that the natives into whose hands she had fallen might never hear of Fort Chimo. The distracted child did her utmost by means of signs to make them understand that such a place existed, but her efforts were of no avail. Either she was not eloquent in the language of signs, or the natives were obtuse. As time abated the first violence of her grief, she began to entertain a hope that ere long some wandering natives might convey intelligence of her to the fur-traders. As this hope strengthened she became more cheerful, and resolved to make a number of little ornaments with her name inscribed on them, which she meant to hang round the necks of the chief men of the tribe, so that should any of them ever chance to meet with the fur-traders, these ornaments might form a clue to her strange residence.

A small medal of whalebone seemed to her the most appropriate and tractable material, but it cost her many long and weary hours to cut a circular piece of this tough material with the help of an Esquimau knife. When she had done it, however, several active boys who had watched the operation with much curiosity and interest, no sooner understood what she wished to make than they set to work and cut several round pieces of ivory or walrus-tusk, which they presented to their little guest, who scratched the name EDITH on them and hung them round the necks of the chief men of the tribe. The Esquimaux smiled and patted the child's fair head kindly as they received this piece of attention, which they flattered themselves, no doubt, was entirely disinterested and complimentary.